Peggy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

"A sheeted figure at the door welcomed each comer with extended hand"

"The rapidity with which the ice cream disappeared was startling, to say

the least"

"Staring with surprise at her brother’s crestfallen figure"

"’Why not ask Peggy?’"

"Luncheon was served shortly after their arrival"

*The Girls of Friendly Terrace*

*CHAPTER I*

*THE RETURN OF PEGGY*

The naming of the Terrace was a happy accident. It must have been an

accident, for Jenkins Avenue crossed it at right angles, and just to the

north ran Sixtieth Street. No one could have guessed when the Terrace

was laid out that the name would prove so appropriate, and that the

comfortable cottages would have such a cordial, neighborly look, as if

nodding greetings to one another across their neat strips of lawn. When

the name Friendly Terrace appeared on the street lamps at the corner

there were no smiling faces visible at the front windows of the houses,

no plump babies rolling over the lawns, no girls gathering on one

another’s porches, like robins in the boughs of a cherry tree, or

strolling along the sidewalk, two by two, with their arms about each

other’s waists. The naming of the Terrace must have been a happy

accident, or else an inspiration.

There was usually a girl in evidence on Friendly Terrace at any hour of

the day, and this morning there were three of them. They ranged from

tall Priscilla, who was five feet seven, and mortally afraid of growing

taller, down to Amy, who was almost as broad as she was long, and who

was in a chronic state of announcing her determination to leave off

eating candy next week. Ruth, who on this occasion served as the

connecting link between the two extremes, was a slender girl, whose

alert air told plainly that she was on the watch for something or

somebody.

"Once when my Aunt Fanny was coming to make us a visit," Amy observed

reminiscently, "her train was six hours late. Just think if Peggy’s

train--"

"Don’t!" exclaimed Priscilla rather fretfully, and Ruth said with

decision, "O Peggy’s train couldn’t be late, she’s coming such a tiny

bit of a way."

"It might be if there was a wreck," Amy insisted triumphantly. "That

was the matter when Aunt Fanny came. A freight train was wrecked just

ahead of them, and they had to stand on the track for hours and hours.

We waited luncheon for her till I was almost starved."

The other girls exchanged amused smiles. The thought of Amy, undergoing

the pangs of starvation, was likely to present itself in a humorous

light. Amy saw the look and understood it, but was far from being

offended. In point of disposition, Amy was as sweet as the confections

she was always on the point of denying herself. An appreciative giggle

showed that she understood her friends’ point of view.

"That’s always the way," she said, with unimpaired cheerfulness. "Fat

people never get any sympathy." She stopped abruptly, for Ruth had

uttered a stifled scream and was pinching her arm.

"The hack!" cried Ruth. "The hack’s coming. Peggy’s here."

The non-committal vehicle, rapidly approaching from the direction of the

Avenue, was mud-stained and shabby, but the appearance of Cinderella’s

golden coach would hardly have been the occasion for greater excitement.

Ruth clasped her hands, her color coming and going. Tall Priscilla

forgot her dignity and capered like a five year old, while Amy went

tripping down the street to meet the hack, which, of course, passed her,

reducing her to the necessity of following in pursuit, panting and very

red in the face. All along the Terrace people came to the windows at

the sound of wheels, for from the mothers down to the babies, everyone

knew that Peggy Raymond was coming home that morning. Even Taffy,

Peggy’s dog, bounded out to add his mite to the general welcome.

"Talk of the intelligence of animals," gasped Priscilla, as Taffy shot

between Ruth and herself, narrowly avoiding upsetting both. "That dog

knows it’s Peggy just as well as we do. O why don’t the man stop in the

right place?"

The mud-splashed vehicle came to a standstill midway between Peggy’s

home and the vacant cottage next door. Before it had fairly halted the

girls were abreast of it.

"Here we are, honey!"

"Hurry up! We’re dying for a sight of you."

"O, don’t be such a slow-poke. Even Taffy is losing patience." This

last comment was unnecessary, as Taffy was speaking for himself, barking

uproariously, and leaping about with an air of the keenest anticipation.

The door of the hack opened, and very deliberately a girl stepped out.

She was a tall girl, dressed in black, which added to her apparent

slenderness. Her lips, which suggested a degree of self-repression,

unusual in a girl of her age, were tightly set. She did not look in the

direction of the crestfallen trio ranged along the sidewalk.

"Why!" cried Amy, who had an odd fashion of announcing discoveries which

had been apparent to everyone for some time, "It isn’t Peggy after all."

"We--you--I mean we thought you were somebody else," explained

Priscilla, with considerably less than her usual self-confidence.

The newcomer took as little notice of the stammered apology as she had

of her boisterous welcome. Silently she assisted a lady draped in

mourning to alight, and together they made their way to the empty

cottage, which displayed in the front window the sign, "To Rent." The

hack driver grinned, fully appreciating the little comedy, while the

girls exchanged glances of mingled wrath and humiliation.

Amy was the first to see the humorous side. She shut her eyes and

staggered to the fence for support. Her peals of laughter must have

been plainly audible to the girl who was trying the key in the front

door of the vacant cottage, but the latter only tightened her lips and

did not turn her head. Ruth and Priscilla, after staring blankly at Amy

for a moment, joined in her laughter, though in a rather half-hearted

fashion.

"She looked so out of temper," gasped Amy breathlessly. "And we’d been

calling her ’honey’ and telling her we were dying to see her. O dear!"

She wiped her eyes, and started on another burst of merriment which

almost immediately died away in a gurgle of astonishment.

"Peggy!" Three voices pronounced the name at once, with varied

intonations of surprise and pleasure. So engrossed had they been that

they had not noticed the arrival of a second hack, which with magical

suddenness had spilled out upon the sidewalk a large girl and a small

one, to say nothing of a motley collection of suit-cases, hand-bags,

bundles and umbrellas. Settling with the hackman delayed Peggy a

half-minute, and the girls arrived at the gate as soon as she, but she

waved them aside.

"First kiss for mother," Peggy cried, and shot straight as an arrow into

the arms of the lady who stood waiting on the steps. There was a long

clasp and more kisses than one, and none of Peggy’s friends thought the

less of her for that loyal rush for the one who loved her best.

It was no wonder that Peggy Raymond’s return was an event on Friendly

Terrace. She was the sort of girl you could not see without wishing you

knew her, and could not know without beginning to love her. From her

reddish-brown top-knot down to the tips of her toes she was bubbling

over with life and joyous energy. It was a nice world, Peggy thought,

full of nice people. Every to-morrow was stored for her with wonderful

possibilities, as the yesterdays were full of sweet recollections.

Complaining, discontented people wakened in her the same sorrowful

wonder she felt when she saw a blind man feeling his uncertain way along

the street. Indeed, to Peggy discontent seemed another and more

dreadful form of blindness.

"Come into the house, all of you." Peggy was making up for the brief

delay by kissing everybody twice around. "Hasn’t Dorothy grown, girls?

Wouldn’t you think she was more than four years old? What are you

doing, Dorothy darling?"

"I’m wipin’ off kisses," Dorothy replied with great distinctness,

scrubbing violently at her rosebud of a mouth. "’Cause I don’t like

kisses to stick on, ’cept my mamma’s."

"She says that because she’s forgotten you since last year," Peggy

explained excusingly.

"She’ll be real friendly after a day or two. O Amy, dear, you mustn’t

try to lift that heavy suit-case. It weighs as much as you do."

"I’m afraid not. I’ve gained three pounds since you went away," Amy

replied dolefully. "Next week I’m going to stop eating candy, and begin

to walk ten miles a day."

Everybody laughed, for, when hearts are light, old jokes serve as well

as new ones. They streamed into the house, a laden procession, and

piled Peggy’s belongings in the middle of the living-room. Then they

pulled her down on the window-seat, chafing under the undeniable

difficulty of evenly dividing one girl among three.

"I’m so glad to see you, I could just eat you up," Amy declared, seating

herself on Peggy’s knee, as each of the others had preempted a side.

"And to think of your staying six weeks, when you said you’d only be

gone a month."

"I hated to leave Alice," Peggy’s face clouded for a moment, as she

spoke her sister’s name. "She isn’t a bit well. You know we are going

to keep Dorothy with us for a while. She’s so full of life that she’s a

tax on her mother."

"I stood on a tacks once," observed Dorothy, suddenly becoming

interested. "It sticked into me, and I hollered." She frowned

meditatively as she added, "I don’t like you to call me a tacks,

either."

"It’s another kind, darling. O girls, you don’t know how good it seems

to get back to the Terrace, where people know each other and are real

neighbors. I don’t see how Alice stands it."

"Is it so bad living in a very big city?" Priscilla asked, rather

doubtfully. "I believe I’d love it. I like crowds and noise and

something happening every moment."

Peggy shook her head with decision. "Just wait till I tell you. Alice

lives in a flat, and there’s only one woman in the building whom she’d

know if she met her on the street. One morning while I was there we

heard the greatest commotion in the flat just over ours. Somebody

screamed, and then we could hear somebody else hurrying around right

over our heads, and then there was the sound of dreadful crying. The

windows were open, you know, and we heard everything as plainly as you

hear me."

"Well, what had happened?" Amy demanded, as Peggy paused dramatically.

"That’s what we couldn’t imagine. I wanted to rush right up first

thing, but Alice said people didn’t do that way in big cities, and that

she didn’t know the woman at all, though she thought the name on the

letter box was Flemming. Well, the crying kept up till I couldn’t stand

it any longer. I just walked upstairs and knocked, and when the girl

came to the door, I said I lived on the next floor and I was afraid that

somebody was in trouble and could I do anything to help.

"O girls!" Peggy’s voice grew pensive at the remembrance of that

sorrowful scene. "I never imagined anything so dreadful. The poor

woman--her name was Fletcher instead of Flemming--had just had word that

her little boy had been hurt by an automobile, and taken to a hospital.

And she was so upset that she didn’t know how to get ready to go to him,

and the girl was so stupid that she didn’t know how to help her. And I

rushed around and found her hat and coat and put on her shoes for

her--she was wearing slippers--and did everything, just as if I’d known

her all my life. And then she wouldn’t let me go, and I went along with

her to the hospital. She told me afterward that she had only lived in

the city a few years and hadn’t made many friends. A few years!"

repeated Peggy with fine scorn.

"Why, if anybody on this Terrace was in trouble, even if she hadn’t

lived here more than six weeks, we’d all be flocking in to see what we

could do for her."

"Did the boy die?" asked Amy, missing the moral Peggy was trying to

point, in her interest in the story.

"No, indeed. He wasn’t hurt as badly as they thought at first. He was

home again before I left, such a nice boy, not far from Dick’s age. O

here’s Dick now."

Peggy’s younger brother, Dick Raymond, coming in at that moment, said,

"Hello, Peggy," in the most matter-of-fact manner imaginable and

submitted with apparent resignation to his sister’s kiss. But no one

was deceived. Dick’s admiration of Peggy was an open secret in Friendly

Terrace. The boy was hot and perspiring. He had run all the way home

from his music teacher’s, so impatient was he for a glimpse of the

dearest as well as the most remarkable girl in the world, as he firmly

believed, and yet at the sight of her, he had only a "hello Peggy," and

a shame-faced kiss. Luckily Peggy was not the sort of girl who needed

to be told certain things. She understood without any explanation.

"Guess we’re going to have some new neighbors," Dick observed, looking

out of the window, apparently glad of an opportunity to change the topic

of the conversation.

"Who? Where? The next house?" Peggy stood looking over her brother’s

shoulder, as two people came from the vacant cottage and moved toward

the waiting hack. Her eyes dwelt approvingly on the slender figure of a

black-gowned girl, carefully assisting the older lady into the carriage.

"Girls!" Peggy’s voice fairly tinkled, as she made the pleasant

announcement. "It looks as if we might be going to have another girl on

the Terrace. Won’t that be fine?"

The others exchanged dubious glances. "Always room for one more, I

suppose," Priscilla said at last.

"And she looks like such a sweet girl, too," Peggy continued, as the

shabby hack rumbled off. "She had such a nice way of helping her

mother--that is, I suppose it’s her mother."

Amy coughed in an embarrassed fashion, and Ruth said hastily, "We took

her for you at first, Peggy. We were watching for your hack, you know,

and hers came first."

"I imagine she must have thought us very cordial to strangers,"

Priscilla added, choking down a laugh, as she remembered the

contemptuous indifference of the girl who had received a welcome

intended for somebody else.

"I’m glad of that," said the innocent Peggy. "Because that may help them

in making up their minds to come here. And I don’t like to have a

vacant house on the Terrace. It reminds me of a child shedding its

first teeth. The more smiling and pleasant it looks, the more you notice

that something is missing."

From across the street somebody whistled, a rather peculiar whistle,

long and piercing. Ruth jumped to her feet.

"It’s Graham," she said. "What is he doing home at this time in the

morning? O, I wonder if luncheon really can be ready?"

"Of course it can," Amy cried tragically. "I’m nearly starved. I

couldn’t eat any breakfast this morning, I was so excited because Peggy

was coming."

"You’ll be over this afternoon, won’t you, Peggy?" Priscilla asked as

she rose to go, and her face fell slightly as Peggy answered, "Why, of

course. I’ll run in to see all of you." It was just a little hard for

Priscilla to remember that her claim on Peggy was in no sense superior

to that of the other girls. She was one of the people who liked to be

first, and, though generous enough with her other possessions, she found

it hard to share her friend. Yet there were moments when Priscilla

acknowledged to herself that a fraction of Peggy’s affection was worth

more than the undivided devotion other girls had given her in the fervid

friendships which, in a few weeks or months at the outside, had burned

themselves out.

Peggy was as good as her word. But when she crossed the street that

afternoon, on her way to Priscilla’s, she noticed that the sign "To

Rent" had disappeared from the window of the house next door. "That

means new neighbors, certain sure," thought Peggy hopefully. Nor did

she guess what a new element her prospective neighbors were to introduce

into the cheerful atmosphere of Friendly Terrace.

*CHAPTER II*

*THE GIRL NEXT DOOR*

A delicious odor was gradually pervading the Raymond cottage, a spicy

fragrance which of itself was suggestive of Peggy’s return. For Peggy’s

accomplishments were of a practical sort. The crayon which adorned the

wall of her mother’s bed-room, and which represented Peggy’s supreme

achievement in the field of art, had been the subject of considerable

discussion in the family. Dick insisted that a prominent object in the

foreground was a Newfoundland dog, while his mother accepted Peggy’s

assurance that it was a sheep grazing, and refused to listen to the

arguments by which Dick supported his position. As a musician, too,

Peggy had her obvious limitations, but when it came to transforming the

cold potatoes, and the unpromising ends of the roast left from dinner,

into an appetizing luncheon, it would be hard to find Peggy’s equal;

while the fame of her sponge cake and her gingerbread had spread far

beyond the confines of the Terrace. And since this is a practical

world, with very commonplace needs, there is much to be said in favor of

such accomplishments as Peggy cultivated.

She moved about the spotless kitchen with a quick, light step, humming

under her breath something which, if not exactly a tune, was,

nevertheless, like the chirp of a cricket, or the purring of a

tea-kettle, very pleasant to hear. In her blue gingham apron, with her

sleeves rolled to the elbow, she looked decidedly businesslike, though

the costume was far from being unbecoming. Indeed Dick, sitting on the

window-sill, gravely observant of Peggy’s occupation, noticed how the

heat from the range had deepened the pink on his sister’s cheeks, and

told himself that Peggy was growing pretty. Not for worlds would he have

said as much to Peggy herself, but, for all that, the discovery gave him

the greatest satisfaction.

"Put on plenty of sugar and cinnamon now," Dick advised from his

precarious perch on the window-sill. "You’d ought to have tasted the

cinnamon rolls Sally made while you were gone. She scrimped on the sugar

and the cinnamon, you see, and you wouldn’t have known what you were

eating. What’s the good of making cinnamon rolls at all, if you’re

going to scrimp?"

"That’s right, Dick," Peggy agreed. "If you’re going to do anything,

put enough into it so that it will amount to something when it’s done."

Peggy was not given to lecturing her younger brother after the fashion

of some girls, but she had a habit of hanging little sentence sermons on

pegs which chanced to be available--cinnamon rolls, in this instance.

And Dick, who would have turned sulky in a moment if he had suspected

Peggy of "preaching," looked thoughtful, and stowed the suggestion away

for further reference.

Peggy went on rolling, cutting, sifting on cinnamon with lavish hand and

adding little dabs of butter until the second pan of rolls was ready for

the oven. Then Dorothy, standing by the open door, made a startling

announcement. "House is a-fire! House is a-fire!"

"O Dorothy!" Peggy flew to the door, and turned in the direction in

which the chubby finger was pointing. As she looked, the kitchen window

in the next house was lowered and a cloud of black smoke escaped,

accompanied by an odor which caused Dorothy to wrinkle her nose and say

disgustedly, "Glad I don’t live in that house."

"They let something on the stove burn; beans, I guess," said Peggy,

sniffing wisely. "It’s dreadful trying to cook while you are getting

settled after moving." She looked thoughtfully toward the house next

door, which presented the forlorn appearance to be expected considering

that the tenants had moved in only the day before. Through the

uncurtained windows Peggy caught glimpses of incongruous groups of

furniture, of step-ladders standing aimlessly in the midst of the

confusion, of pictures leaning precariously against the wall. To Peggy

the sight was like an audible appeal for help.

"I might take them some of my cinnamon rolls," she exclaimed, turning to

Dick.

"Take who?" As long as Dick made his meaning clear, he was never

troubled as to grammatical correctness.

"Why, the next door people. It would make them feel as though they

really had neighbors and, of course, I can’t go over to see the girl

till the house is settled."

"If you’d been going to do that," Dick said rather reprovingly, "you

ought to have baked more than two pans. But then," he added with an

evident effort to be generous, "I guess they need them more than we do.

Go ahead."

The rolls came out of the oven just the golden-brown that Peggy wanted.

Peggy might draw a sheep that looked like an own cousin to a

Newfoundland dog, but she had the joy of a real artist in her cookery.

With shining eyes she gazed upon the work of her hand. "They’re

perfect," she announced, with an unsuccessful effort at a judicial air.

"They do look good enough to eat," Dick agreed. "Say, give me one. I’m

hungry."

"And I’m hungry, too," cried Dorothy, edging close.

"When the next pan comes out," Peggy promised. "I’ll run over with

these so our neighbors will know what they’ve got to depend on for

luncheon." She set her rolls on a plate, threw a napkin over them, and

without stopping to remove her apron, crossed the yard to the next

house. The kitchen window was still open, and as Peggy stood upon the

steps she heard the sharp tinkle of broken glass.

"There’s something gone to smash. Dear me, what a time they’re having,"

thought Peggy, wishing her acquaintance with the new arrivals was

sufficiently advanced so that she could offer to lend her aid, for her

capable fingers fairly itched to assist in bringing order out of the

chaos within. She knocked, and, after waiting for some minutes, knocked

again, this time a little louder.

"Elaine!" a voice cried. "Elaine! Somebody’s at the back door."

"O dear!" someone else said distinctly, and Peggy’s color heightened,

even though she felt confident that the speaker’s mood would change as

soon as she knew her caller’s errand. "So her name is Elaine," Peggy

thought, as footsteps slow, and seemingly reluctant, sounded on the bare

floors. "Such a pretty name."

The door opened violently and a girl looked out. It was the same

black-gowned girl Peggy had watched from her window a few days earlier,

but, on this occasion, her appearance was decidedly less prepossessing.

Apparently she had neglected to comb her hair that morning, or else her

forenoon’s occupation had been strenuous enough to obliterate all traces

of that ceremony. Her apron was soiled. She wore an expression of

weary discouragement, which seemed as incongruous with her girlish face

as white hair would have done. The eyes she turned upon Peggy were

anything but friendly, and yet at the sight of her, Peggy’s heart

swelled with a sympathy that was almost tender.

"Good morning!" Peggy extended her offering with a cordial smile. "I

know how busy you must be getting settled, and I brought you over a

plate of rolls. I live--"

"We don’t care to buy anything this morning," said the girl, and made a

movement as if to close the door. Peggy’s face flamed to the roots of

her hair.

"O, you don’t understand," she cried. "I’m a neighbor of yours. I’ve

brought you over a plate of cinnamon rolls, I’ve just finished baking.

They’re not for sale."

Elaine was a rather pale girl. But as Peggy finished her little speech,

two spots of red showed in the other’s thin cheeks.

"We’re not objects of charity, thank you," she said. The door shut with

a slam. Peggy, her rejected offering in her hand, stood bewildered on

the step. For a moment she battled with the temptation to push open the

door and force the girl inside to listen to reason. With a choked laugh,

that covered not a little humiliation, she realized the folly of such a

proceeding and turned away.

Peggy’s eyes were absent as she entered the house. She took the second

pan of rolls from the oven without feeling any disposition to gloat over

their yellow-brown perfection. Then, remembering her promise to Dick

and Dorothy, she put some of the rolls on a plate and carried them into

the next room. Her thoughts were still full of the rebuff she had

received from her new neighbor, and when she had set the plate of rolls

on the table she stood with clasped hands, looking hard at nothing in

particular, and frowning over her reflections.

"How glad she is to see us!"

"Yes, just notice her smile."

"Probably those are city manners, girls. We’ll have to get used to it."

A volley of mocking laughter followed these observations, and Peggy

started guiltily.

"I didn’t see you," she apologized, as three girls popped up from the

window-seat and approached her.

"Don’t try to get out of it, Peggy," teased Priscilla, slipping her arm

about Peggy’s waist. "You know you can’t be glad to see us with such a

face."

"O, Peggy! What delicious rolls!" Amy hung over the plate with an

ecstatic gasp. "Don’t they look as if they’d melt in your mouth."

"Help yourself," Peggy cried. "All of you."

"They’ll make you fat, Amy," warned Ruth, extending a slim hand.

"Priscilla and I can eat all we want, but you’ll have to refuse. You

know you’re going to leave off eating candy."

"Well, they’re not candy, and, besides, I’d rather gain a few ounces

than turn down such darlings," Amy replied recklessly. Suiting the

action to the word she set her teeth in the golden-brown crust.

"They’re as good as they look," she announced indistinctly. "Say,

Peggy, are these the kind you took over to the house next door? Dick

said that was what you went out for."

Peggy nodded, her face betraying the peculiarly guilty expression that

sensitive people wear when fearing that they will be forced to betray

the wrongdoing of someone else. Priscilla eyed her suspiciously.

"Well, I don’t see that there could have been a nicer introduction," Amy

remarked with her mouth full. "How lovely it would be if all callers

brought cinnamon rolls instead of visiting cards."

"What happened, Peggy?" demanded Priscilla, reading her friend’s

tell-tale face as if it had been an open book. "Weren’t they nice to

you?"

"Nice!" cried Ruth, flaring up at the mere suggestion of ill-treating

Peggy. "Why shouldn’t they be nice?"

"Peggy’s blushing," exclaimed Amy, announcing a discovery sufficiently

obvious to the least discerning. "She’s blushing as red as fire. Peggy

Raymond, what has happened?"

"It really wasn’t anything," said poor Peggy, fairly cornered. "Only--"

"Well?"

"Only she didn’t quite understand."

"Who didn’t? That snippy, disagreeable girl, who puts on such

ridiculous airs of being better than other people?"

Peggy’s eyes widened over the vivid description whose appropriateness

she was forced to admit. "I saw the girl," she replied hastily. "Her

name’s Elaine, I think."

"We don’t care about her name, Peggy. What did she do?"

"At first she thought I’d come to sell the rolls, and she said they

didn’t care to buy anything."

"Peggy a pedler! I never heard anything so funny!" Amy sat down on the

floor to laugh, but her amusement did not communicate itself to the

others. Ruth’s face still wore a protesting frown, and Priscilla’s eyes

were flashing.

"A pedler!" Priscilla repeated disdainfully. "She must be very

observing. Well, Peggy. After you explained--"

"That seemed to make it all the worse," admitted Peggy, finding a little

relief, it must be acknowledged, in the sympathy called out by her

confession. "She can’t have been used to neighbors, that’s sure. She

said they weren’t objects of charity, and shut the door in my face."

An indignant explosion followed, when everybody talked at once. Then

Dorothy bobbing up as expectedly as a Jack in a box, poured oil on the

troubled waters by offering a suggestion. "Maybe they fought the

currants was flies. I did till I bited ’em."

"O, Dorothy, what a killing child you are!" cried Amy, giving way to

helpless laughter, and this time she had plenty of company. Peggy was

the only one of the quartet who made any effort to conceal her

merriment, Peggy having a singular theory that children should be

treated just as courteously as older people. She looked regretfully at

the small, erect figure marching out of the room with an air of stately

displeasure. "O dear!" she sighed. "I’m afraid we’ve hurt her

feelings. Dorothy does hate to be laughed at."

"Then she’d better give up making such speeches," remarked Amy, wiping

her eyes. "But to go back to Peggy’s new friend--Elaine--"

"Yes, just to think of her slamming the door in Peggy’s face," cried

Ruth, whose customary gentleness had quite disappeared in resentment

over Peggy’s snubbing. "If she doesn’t want neighbors she needn’t have

any. I move that we let her alone, just as much as if she lived down

town somewhere."

"We didn’t tell you, Peggy," Priscilla exclaimed, taking up the tale.

"But we found out the sort of girl she was the day you came. We thought

it was your hack, you know, and we rushed to grab you the minute you

stepped out, and we were all screaming for you to hurry, and when this

girl got out we felt cheap enough to go right through the sidewalk."

"Yes, we did," interrupted Amy. "If there had been an open coal-hole

handy it would have taken me about five seconds to disappear."

"The way she took it showed the sort of girl she is," insisted

Priscilla. "Instead of smiling, or saying that it didn’t matter, she

acted as if we’d been so many hitching-posts standing in a row. Didn’t

see us or hear us, either. I knew in a minute that I’d never have any

use for her if she lived here a thousand years."

"That’s just the way I feel," said Ruth.

"Me, too," exclaimed Amy from the rug, and absent-mindedly she reached

for another cinnamon roll.

It was Peggy’s turn. "O, girls," she pleaded, in tones of distress.

"Let’s not be in such a hurry to make up our minds. You see, we’ve

hardly seen anything of her."

"Quite enough," observed Priscilla.

"And things were rather against her both times," continued Peggy,

disregarding the interruption. "When we come to know her we may like

her awfully well."

A depressing silence implied that no one but Peggy herself thought such

a result at all probable.

"And, anyway," concluded Peggy, falling back on the supreme argument,

"she hasn’t tried living in Friendly Terrace yet. We don’t know what

that will do for her. Instead of letting her alone, I think we’d better

show her what it means to have neighbors of the neighborly kind."

It did not appear that a continuation of the discussion was likely to

bring them into agreement. Amy tried changing the subject. "Do you

know what this roll reminds me of?" she asked, looking thoughtfully at

the fragments in her hand.

No one could imagine.

"The first time I ever tasted one of Peggy’s rolls," Amy explained, "it

was on a picnic at the Park. It was the time that Ruth fell into the

lake, feeding the swans."

"I’d forgotten the rolls, but I remember that picnic," Ruth said. "The

picnics this year didn’t seem like the real thing," she added

disconsolately, "with Peggy gone."

"’Tisn’t too late for another," Priscilla cried. "Why not go to-morrow?"

If the quartet had failed to agree on the subject of Peggy’s next-door

neighbor there was no lack of unanimity as far as the picnic was

concerned. In five minutes it was arranged that Ruth was to bring the

sandwiches and Amy the fudge, while Peggy had agreed to get up early and

make some little sponge cakes.

"You won’t mind if I bring Dorothy, will you, girls?" Peggy inquired

anxiously. "You see, she really does make a lot of extra work, she’s

such a mischief, and I don’t want to leave too much for mother to do."

It was the general opinion that Dorothy’s presence would add to the

gaiety of the picnic, and, after completing their plans, the friends

parted with looks expressive of cheerful anticipation. But Peggy’s

bright face clouded over as she glanced a little later toward the next

house, and saw, perched upon the top of a step-ladder, a slender,

girlish figure, with an indefinable air of dejection and helplessness.

"O dear! I shall be glad when she’s lived in the Terrace long enough to

be one of us," Peggy thought. "All the trouble is that we don’t

understand one another. As soon as we’re acquainted everything will be

all right, and nobody’ll have to be left out."

*CHAPTER III*

*MAKING FRIENDS*

It was just as well, as things turned out, that Peggy had resolved on an

early start the following morning. Dimly through the grey dawn she

became aware of an elfish, white-gowned figure perched on the foot of

the bed. Her sleepy questionings as to its identity were dispelled by a

sweet, high-pitched voice.

"Now this is down to the sea shore, Aunt Peggy, and that’s the water

where you are. Bime-by I’m going to dive and make a big splash."

Before Peggy could protest, Dorothy had carried out her intention,

descending on her shrinking relative like an avalanche. "Kick, Aunt

Peggy! Kick hard!" she shouted, disappointed at Peggy’s failure to

enter into the sport, with the spirit due its dramatic possibilities.

"That’s what makes the waves."

But Peggy was beyond kicking. When she had succeeded in dislodging

Dorothy from a commanding position on her chest, she indulged herself in

several deep breaths before saying plaintively, "O, Dorothy, why did you

wake so early? It isn’t time to get up yet."

"It’s time to get up for a picnic day," insisted Dorothy. "And you’ve

got to cook luncheon, Aunt Peggy, and can I wear my rubber boots and

take my dolly and my blue celluloid comb?"

Further sleep was out of the question. Making a virtue of necessity,

Peggy jumped out of bed, reflecting that this early start would give the

frosting on her cakes a chance to harden. Getting Dorothy dressed was a

process requiring time and patience, for the child was so excited by the

festivities in prospect that she could hardly stand still long enough to

allow a button to be popped into its rightful button-hole. Inventors

interested in perpetual motion should have made a study of Dorothy. She

interrupted the process of getting her fat little legs into their black

stockings by so many fantastic capers that Peggy forgot the loss of her

morning nap in helpless laughter, and the day began cheerfully after

all.

By breakfast time the comfortable odor of sponge cake diffused through

the house, told that Peggy had made good use of her time. It penetrated

Dick’s bed-room, and that young man, under the mistaken impression that

he was sniffing the fragrance of waffles, rose in haste and reached the

breakfast table on time, an unusual feat for Dick, who dearly loved the

last minutes in bed, and, as a rule, needed to be called three times

before responding.

Dorothy was too excited to eat. She had made a collection of cherished

belongings to take with her to the Park, and tact, as well as logic, was

needed to convince her that the occasion did not call for a pink parasol

or a tooth brush. A compromise was finally reached by virtue of which

Dorothy agreed to leave all her belongings at home, with the exception

of her "shut-eye doll," on the understanding that she was to be allowed

to help in packing the lunch basket. This ordinarily prosaic task

proved quite exciting that morning, owing to Dorothy’s propensity to

smuggle in such articles from the sideboard as appealed to her as

attractive and desirable.

A little after nine the girls began to arrive. Priscilla and Ruth came

up the walk at almost the same minute, and they all settled themselves

to wait for Amy. It was understood that they must always wait for Amy,

though, singularly enough, Amy always had a brand-new reason for her

invariable delays. Either her shoe-string broke at the last minute or

someone called her up on the telephone, or her hat pins had disappeared,

or some other unforeseen event interfered with her innate propensity to

promptness. Amy’s friends listened with cheerful disrespect to her

latest excuses, and Amy was the only one of them all who accepted them

at their face value, and honestly believed herself the soul of

punctuality.

At quarter of ten Amy appeared, puffing a little, to show how she had

hurried, and explaining that the fudge had refused to harden. The other

baskets were grouped upon the porch and the girls sat in a row on the

steps, discussing some of the interesting events which had taken place

along the Terrace during Peggy’s absence. At Amy’s approach Peggy

jumped briskly to her feet.

"We’re all ready now," she said. "Where’s Dorothy disappeared to? O,

Dorothy! We’re going to start now."

There was no answer. "Dorothy!" Peggy called again, "Come quick. The

picnic’s going to begin."

This assurance was effective. At the end of the hall appeared a

mysterious figure which moved toward the door with hesitating and

uncertain steps. A weird, white drapery concealed its face, and fell in

flowing folds to its shoulders. Amy was the first to perceive its

appearance and she let fall her basket and squealed.

"What is it?" she cried wildly, as Peggy, at the other end of the porch,

turned upon her a startled countenance, "O, what is it?"

"What’s what?" Peggy flew to answer her own question. At the sight

which had alarmed Amy she stood as if petrified, her lips apart, and

broken fragments of sentences escaping at intervals.

Meanwhile the slow-moving figure had reached the door. From beneath the

mysterious drapery came the sound of a stifled wail. Peggy came to

herself with a start.

"Dorothy!" she cried. "What have you got over yourself?" She touched

the drapery with shrinking fingers. It was sticky, clinging. The

fragment she touched fell off at her feet.

"I smell--yeast," exclaimed Peggy sniffing. "Yeast!" She looked about

her wildly. "Girls, it’s bread-sponge."

"She’ll smother," exclaimed the practical Priscilla, and forthwith

clawed an opening in the sticky mass, through which Dorothy’s face

looked out. It was a solemn face at that moment. A suspicious

trembling of the lips told that the tears were not far away.

"I--I don’t like Sally," faltered Dorothy. "She put somefing in a pan,

up high. And when I pulled, it covered me all up."

"That’s the end of the picnic, girls." Peggy spoke with forced calm.

"The end, as far as I’m concerned. Bread-sponge all the way from here

to the kitchen. Bread-sponge in her hair and her eyebrows."

"_I_ don’t care, Aunt Peggy," cried poor little Dorothy. "I’d just as

soon go to the picnic all sticky."

It was a melancholy ending for so many cheerful plans. The girls

protested that the picnic without Peggy would only be an aggravation.

They suggested putting it off till another day. But Peggy, usually

distinguished for her sweet reasonableness, was not in a mood to make

the best of things.

"She’d only get into something else, girls," she insisted. "The glue

pot or the molasses jug. Even if the fudge would be just as good

to-morrow, you can’t say as much for the sandwiches. Go along and enjoy

yourselves."

While three girls wended their disconsolate way toward the Park car, a

still more dejected procession of two climbed the stairs to the Raymond

bathroom. Mrs. Raymond, hearing the sound of Dorothy’s stifled crying,

came out to inquire the cause of the trouble, and uttered a horrified

exclamation at the sight of her small granddaughter. Although divested

of the greater part of the mass of bread-sponge, enough adhered to

Dorothy’s plump person, to give her a most unique appearance. Mrs.

Raymond patted the round, tear-stained cheek, and cast a comprehending

glance at Peggy’s overcast face.

"I wish you had gone with the girls, dear," she said. "I could have

attended to this little mischief, and it’s hardly fair that you should

lose your fun."

"Just as fair as that you should spend your morning scrubbing Dorothy,"

Peggy returned. "You ought to know I wouldn’t leave it for you." Then

with the honesty which was one of Peggy Raymond’s charms, she added, "I

suppose I might better have gone than stay at home and act like a

martyr. Never mind, mother. There’ll be more picnics some day."

The process of repairing damages was a slow and tedious one. At

intervals Dorothy wept copiously into the bath tub, and uttered broken

promises to the effect that next time she would stand in a corner and

not move till the hour of starting arrived, "And I sha’n’t like Sally

never any more," sobbed Dorothy, who had a habit, not unknown among

older girls, of holding other people responsible for her escapades,

"’cause she put that up high where it could fall all over me."

The last traces of glutinous matter were at last removed from Peggy’s

charge. Arrayed in a clean gingham, with a bath towel over her

shoulders, Dorothy was set out on the porch, where the sun could dry her

golden hair. Peggy gave her attention to repairing damages elsewhere,

and when she returned after twenty minutes’ absence, Dorothy’s hair was

curling all over her head, in a flossy yellow snarl, while in her hand

she held a typewritten sheet of paper.

"What’s that, Dorothy?" Peggy asked, feeling the curly head for signs of

dampness.

Dorothy reflected. "It’s a letter, I fink," she replied, obviously

giving the explanation which seemed most plausible, but speaking

doubtfully.

"Let me see!" Peggy took the sheet in her hand, and began its perusal,

her eyes opening wide and wider as she read.

"’honor is at stake,’ replied the earl, his hand seeking his sword. The

Lady Vivian uttered a cry of anguish, and sank fainting into the arms of

her attendant."

"Why, how funny," Peggy broke off in the midst of the thrilling

narrative to ask a practical question. "Where did this come from?"

"I guess a angel brought it," replied Dorothy, after due reflection.

"O, you goosie!" Peggy’s laughter rang out blithely, and Mrs. Raymond

upstairs, overheard and drew a relieved sigh. For to have Peggy

low-spirited produced much the same effect as when the sun goes under a

cloud.

"Where did you find the paper, dearie?" coaxed Peggy. "The wind blew it

from somewhere, didn’t it?"

Dorothy shook her head with vehemence, causing extreme agitation among

her frizzled locks. "No, it didn’t blow from anywhere. It just camed."

It was evident that little information could be extracted from this

source and Peggy fell back upon her own wits.

"It’s typewritten. There isn’t anybody around here who has a

typewriter, except Harry Rind, and he wouldn’t be writing about earls

and swords and things. I wonder--"

Peggy broke off, and stared at the next house. The windows upstairs were

open. It would be an easy matter for a sheet of paper, more

enterprising than its associates, to take a little excursion into the

outer world. At the same time, Peggy disliked the idea of facing Elaine

again, to inquire if the typewritten sheet was her property. If it

happened to belong to someone else, the chances were that Elaine would

be as uncompromisingly disagreeable as she had been the day before. And

to be snubbed twice in two days was too much, even for Peggy.

"I don’t believe it’s worth anything anyway," thought Peggy, glancing at

the sheet in her hand. Lurid sentences caught her eye. The ladies in

the narrative seemed given to shrieking and fainting, while the

gentlemen had a propensity for deadly combat. A sturdy strain of common

sense in Peggy’s make-up caused her lips to twitch over this cheap

tragedy.

"It sounds silly," was Peggy’s final verdict. "I don’t believe it’s

worth anything, but, after all, it belongs to somebody, and whoever

wrote it thinks it’s nice, I suppose. And--well, at the worst, she

can’t do more than shut the door in my face."

She marched down the yard, head up and shoulders back, in soldier

fashion. Indeed Peggy felt very much as if she were leading a charge.

Like most popular people, Peggy shrank from discourtesy. She was so

accustomed to being liked that any indication of unfriendliness came

with a sense of shock. The girl who had refused one neighborly kindness

in so unpleasant a fashion was not likely to have undergone a change of

heart in a little over twenty-four hours.

With a sense of bracing herself to face the worst, Peggy knocked at the

kitchen door and stood waiting. Elaine herself answered the summons.

The look which crossed her face seemed to say, "What, you here again?"

but Peggy did not wait for her to put the ungracious sentiment into

words.

"I don’t know whether this belongs to you or not," she said hastily,

"but I thought perhaps it did, because hardly anybody on the Terrace has

a typewriter." She handed the sheet to Elaine and prepared to back

away.

But Elaine’s formality had vanished with the understanding of Peggy’s

errand. "Page six," she exclaimed in tones of dismay, "O, I wonder

where the rest are."

"I didn’t see but this one, but then, I didn’t really look. When I came

out on the porch my little niece had it in her hand. She said an angel

brought it."

"An angel?" Elaine forgot her anxiety for a moment and laughed

outright; a little bubbling laugh which did wonders in advancing the

acquaintance of the two. Then her thoughts reverted to the paper, which

in Peggy’s opinion she prized unduly. "They must have blown out of one

of the upstairs windows," she exclaimed.

"Perhaps only that one blew out. You look upstairs, and I’ll see if

there are any more scattered over the grass," Peggy suggested

obligingly. As it happened, the search of both girls was successful.

Elaine came downstairs, her hands full of sheets she had gathered from

the floor, and out of the number only one proved to be missing. This

one, numbered four, Peggy had found winding itself about the trunk of a

spindling young peach tree in the front yard.

"Now let’s count them again and be sure they’re all here," Elaine said

eagerly. "One, two, three, four."

"Five, six, seven, eight," concluded Peggy. "That’s all, isn’t it?"

"Yes, that’s all. O, how lucky I am to find them."

"O, isn’t it splendid."

The door opened and a tall lady looked in. A white veil was tied over

her grey hair, and she wore black gloves. In one hand she carried a

feather duster, and the helpless air with which she handled this

domestic implement, caught Peggy’s attention at once. The sight of

Elaine and Peggy, beaming at each other across the typewritten sheets,

seemed to startle the new-comer. She made a movement as if to draw

back, halted irresolutely, and murmured something unintelligible.

Elaine came to the rescue, blushing vividly, quite as if, Peggy said to

herself, she had been caught doing something out of the way.

"Mamma, this is a neighbor of ours, Miss--I don’t know your name, do I?"

She looked a little surprised at the discovery.

"Peggy Raymond," said the owner of the name with promptness.

"And this is my mother, Mrs. Marshall." The introduction completed,

Elaine hastened to explain Peggy’s presence, and the other girl could

not free herself of the feeling that she found it necessary to excuse as

well as to explain.

"Just think, mamma! One of the sheets of my--I mean one of these sheets

flew out of the window, and she brought it back to me. Wasn’t I

fortunate? And wasn’t she kind?"

"We certainly are much indebted to Miss Raymond," Mrs. Marshall remarked

with a stateliness which took Peggy’s breath away. "I regret that it is

necessary," she continued impressively, "to apologize for my appearance.

After being accustomed to the supervision of a house full of servants

throughout married life it is extremely humiliating to me to be

discovered engaged in the work of a parlor maid."

Peggy could think of no suitable reply to this speech. She perceived

that Mrs. Marshall was one of the people who, having "come down in the

world," persist in flaunting in the face of their acquaintances

recollections of their past grandeur. She said hastily that nobody ever

called her Miss Raymond, and she wanted to be Peggy to her new neighbors

as well as to the rest of the Terrace. Then she excused herself, on the

ground that she must look after Dorothy, while Elaine followed her to

the door to say again, "I’m so much obliged. I can’t tell you how much I

thank you."

Dorothy was sitting on the porch steps, a subdued little figure. Her

hair, crinkling tightly after its recent washing, stood out in all

directions, giving it the appearance of a tuft of thistle-down just

ready to fly away.

Peggy felt the fluffy golden crown thoughtfully. "Dry as the Desert of

Sahara, isn’t it?"

Dorothy compressed her lips and blinked. She strongly objected to being

addressed in language beyond her comprehension, perhaps because she

always suspected the people who used these terms of trying to make fun

of her.

"And as long as your hair is dry, and your dress is clean, I’ve an idea,

Dorothy darling. How would you like to go to the Park and hunt up the

girls? They’ll have had luncheon before we get there, but there’ll be

a-plenty left. There always is."

"Aunt Peggy!" screamed Dorothy, climbing to her feet with undignified

haste. "I like you better’n butter-scotch, and better’n pink

tooth-powder. Let’s hurry."

And hurry they did. And which of the two enjoyed the gaieties of the

picnic more, the big girl or the little one, it would be hard to say.

But underneath Peggy’s lightness of heart, and whole-souled

participation in the afternoon’s fun, a pleasant undercurrent of thought

ran like a hidden stream, the consciousness that at last she had

succeeded in establishing friendly relations with the girl next door.

*CHAPTER IV*

*A BUSY AFTERNOON*

The breeze which had lingered by the honeysuckle, climbing over the back

porch of the Raymond cottage, did not carry to the next-door neighbors

any whiffs of refreshing fragrance. For before it crossed the hedge,

which marked the boundary line between the two places, it had picked up

an odor very different. And Peggy Raymond’s paint-pot was responsible.

Peggy was arrayed in what she called her regimentals. They consisted of

an old shirtwaist, the sleeves cut off at the elbows, a calico skirt,

and a pair of shabby shoes, all of which articles were splashed with

paint of different colors. The landscape which hung in Peggy’s mother’s

room, and which had been the cause of so much discussion in the family,

was not responsible for any part of this rainbow effect. When Peggy

donned her "regimentals," her artistic instincts took an entirely

different turn.

Standing upon several newspapers, spread out for the protection of the

grass in the Raymond back yard, was a chair. It was a rather

dilapidated chair, judged from the standpoint of an unbiassed spectator.

Its cane seat had long ceased to be practical for purposes of support,

and its battered, scarred appearance suggested that it had been used as

a target for missiles singularly effective. But Peggy regarded it with

a look of pleased anticipation, not unmixed with pride.

The can of paint, which, lending its odor to the breeze, had quite

submerged the fragrance of the honeysuckle, stood conveniently near the

chair, and Peggy was absorbed in transferring the contents of the one to

the battered surface of the other. The first results of the

transference did not impress the beholder as successful, for the chair

had been painted black in the first place, and the original hue, showing

distinctly through the coat of paint, suggested a brown cheek veiled in

white. But, undisturbed by her failure to produce the effect she

wanted, without any irritating delays, Peggy worked away cheerily,

humming a tune under her breath, and so absorbed was she in her task

that she did not hear a light step coming across the grass. Her first

intimation that she was not alone was when a somewhat hesitating voice

said, "I beg your pardon."

With a start Peggy looked up. At the sight of Elaine her face crinkled

into a smile of such unmistakable pleasure that only a very peculiar

person could have felt indifferent to being its exciting cause.

"Why, it’s you, isn’t it?" exclaimed Peggy radiantly, springing from her

knees with a haste which came near to overturning the can of paint. "I

can’t ask you to take a chair, because the only chair there is is pretty

well covered with paint by now. But I’ll pull out the wheelbarrow--"

"O, I can’t stay long enough to sit down," Elaine said hastily. She was

on the point of saying more, but quite unconscious that she was

interrupting, Peggy broke in.

"I suppose you wondered what I was doing. You see one of the chairs in

my bed-room went to pieces the other day. Amy was sitting on it at the

time, and she was quite mortified. Amy is plump, and she decided right

away that she wouldn’t eat any more candy for six months, if she was

getting so big that ordinary furniture wouldn’t bear her weight." Peggy

interrupted herself by an infectious laugh and chattered on, "And so

I’ve got to have a new chair--"

"A _new_ chair," repeated Elaine, surprise causing her to give a rather

impolite emphasis to the adjective.

Peggy laughed again. "The new things for my room are a good deal like

some folks’ new dresses, the made-over, new kind, you know. But I almost

think I like them all the better. Take this chair, for instance." Peggy

indicated the article in question by a sweeping gesture of her paint

brush. "It isn’t much to look at just now."

"No!" Elaine acknowledged, apparently glad to find a point on which she

could agree with Peggy. "It isn’t."

"It’ll have to have quite a number of coats," Peggy explained. "And

when the paint is thick enough, so that the black doesn’t show through,

I’ll tack a square of blue denim over the seat. If you put it on with

braid and gilt-headed tacks, it is quite effective."

Elaine’s start was not due to admiration for the glowing picture Peggy’s

words had conjured up, but rather to consternation over her own

negligence. "O, I forgot!" she exclaimed, and hesitated. She was so

plainly embarrassed that Peggy felt vaguely uncomfortable herself. But

she did not have time to wonder why, before Elaine was launched on an

explanation.

"Mamma sent me over to say that she objects to the smell of paint, and

to ask if you would mind--"

Elaine hesitated again. Her air of confusion did not seem consistent

with the impression Peggy had formed of her. As for Peggy herself, she

was equally divided between sympathy for the bearer of the message, and

regret over her interrupted task.

"I suppose I should have stopped to think which way the wind was

blowing," she said quickly. "But somehow I never can remember that some

people dislike the smell of paint. It seems so clean, and it always

makes me think how nice things are going to look when you are done."

She studied the unfinished chair, and suppressed a sigh. "I’ll just dab

a little more paint on this round, and then I’ll set it in the woodshed

and wait till the wind is from the east."

Peggy gave her attention to a particularly battered portion of the

chair’s anatomy, till she was aroused from her absorption by a question.

The voice which asked it was intense, almost tragically so, in striking

contrast to the serenity of the afternoon.

"Don’t you hate, hate, _hate_ to be poor?"

A big spot of white paint added itself to the decoration of the calico

skirt, as Peggy stared up at her interrogator. "Why, I don’t know," she

acknowledged, "I guess I never thought about it."

"Not thought about it? Why, how can you help it when you have to do

things like this?" Elaine made a scornful gesture, in the direction of

the woe-begone chair. "Just suppose that all you had to do when you

wanted something new was to go and buy it."

Peggy laughed a little. "I’m afraid my imagination isn’t equal to

that," she replied cheerily. "And, anyway, this sort of thing is such

fun!"

"Fun!" echoed Elaine, with an incredulous gasp.

"Why, yes! To take something like this chair and fix it up so that it

is useful and pretty is real fun. And so are lots of things about

housework. There’s cooking, now."

"I don’t know a thing about cooking." Elaine had moved a little nearer

Peggy, as if afraid of losing something. Her air of interest was

unmistakable.

"Well, I love it all, but the nicest part, I think, is taking the

left-overs, you know, the cold potatoes, and the ends of the steak, and

fixing them up into real nice appetizing dishes."

"I tried getting luncheon to-day," Elaine acknowledged. "I was going to

make an omelette because I thought that would be easy. It burned to

start with, and then instead of puffing up light, it flattened out till

it was just like india-rubber. And Mamma can’t cook any better. I

don’t know what we are going to do."

Peggy looked sympathetically at the troubled face beside her. "Why, if

you’d like," she began, then hesitated, remembering her past experience.

But having started the sentence there seemed no way out of finishing it.

"I’ll be glad to show you all I know," she ended with a gulp.

Apparently the present Elaine, staring moodily at Peggy’s handiwork,

bore little resemblance to the Elaine who had frigidly declined the

cinnamon rolls. She drew a long, sighing breath, "I’d like to learn,"

she replied. "But I’m afraid I’d be dreadfully stupid about it."

It was Peggy’s habit to strike while the iron was hot. "It’s Sally’s

day out," she said. "I’m going to get supper. Wouldn’t you like a

lesson this afternoon?"

"Are you sure it wouldn’t be a bother?"

Peggy’s ears had not deceived her. The friendly offer had not been

declined. With a face as radiant as if she had just received

notification of a legacy, she hurried to make arrangements with her

prospective pupil.

"Come over about four. That’ll give us lots of time for experiments."

She carried the half-painted chair into the woodshed in a jubilant mood,

which was rather remarkable considering that she had been prevented from

finishing the task on which she had started. Like all energetic people

Peggy detested interruptions. But this was too much of a red-letter day

for her to allow herself to be depressed by trifles.

Promptly at four Elaine presented herself, wearing over her black serge

dress a little embroidered apron, about the size of a

pocket-handkerchief. Peggy regarded the lace-edged affair with an

amazement which Elaine mistook for admiration.

"Pretty, isn’t it?" she said, glancing down at it complacently. "It was

a Christmas present."

"It would be fine for a chafing-dish supper," Peggy returned, feeling

that if she were to act as Elaine’s instructor she must begin with the

fundamentals. "Chafing dishes and the aprons that go with them are all

right for fun, but, when it comes to real business, there’s nothing like

a good range and a big apron. I’ll lend you one of mine."

Elaine, enveloped in a long apron which fell to the bottom of her skirt,

was soon being initiated into some of the preliminary mysteries of

household economy. "There are five of us Raymonds to get supper for,"

Peggy said counting them off on her fingers. "And Dick’s always so

hungry that he counts for two. You’ll stay, won’t you?"

"O, I’d better not. I don’t know anybody but you."

"That’ll be the best way to get acquainted. And, besides, if you help

with the cooking, you ought to help eat the things. That’s half the

fun. I don’t know how anybody can be a good cook who hasn’t got a good

appetite. I simply adore the things I make."

After a careful examination of the refrigerator the supper was planned.

There had been baked fish for dinner, and the remnants, Peggy explained

to the respectfully attentive Elaine, arranged in a baking dish, with

cream sauce between the layers and crumbs on top, would be even more

delicious than the fish in its original state. Peggy also decided on

baking powder biscuits. "They’re such handy things," she said. "And

you can stir them up so quickly and keep on baking as long as anybody is

hungry; so they’re one of the very first things you should learn to

make."

Working with Peggy, Elaine began to understand why she found everything

"fun." The neat, pleasant kitchen had a charm of its own. There was an

agreeable excitement about the business of evolving a palatable supper

from materials which the eye of inexperience had found unpromising.

Elaine asked a great many questions, helped a little, in an awkward

fashion, which unkind critics would have pronounced a hindrance rather

than an aid, and was conscious of a steadily increasing respect for this

deft-handed girl who knew so well what she wanted to do and how to do

it.

The telephone bell rang while Peggy was sifting out the flour for the

biscuits. She dusted her hands, and went to answer it. "Very well,

father," Elaine heard her say, and she was smiling when she came running

back.

"We’re going to have company," she announced to Elaine as if the news

were pleasant. "A Mr. White, one of father’s friends." She reflected a

moment, frowning thoughtfully. "I guess we’ll put some potatoes in the

oven to bake. There’ll be time enough if we pick out small ones, and

there’s plenty of the fruit cake."

The potatoes were washed hastily and consigned to the oven, and Peggy

sifted out a little more flour. Then the door bell rang and there was a

sound of voices in the hall. A moment later Peggy’s mother slipped into

the kitchen and shut the door behind her.

"Peggy, old Mr. and Mrs. Andrews have just come. I suppose they’ll stay

for supper. Have you got enough for two more?"

"O, yes. We’ll have enough," Peggy answered blithely.

"Don’t you want me to help you?"

"O, I’m getting on finely with my neighbor’s assistance. You can go

back and entertain the company." As her mother slipped away, looking

relieved, Peggy added to Elaine, "I didn’t know what I was getting you

into when I asked you over this afternoon."

"Will there really be enough for so many?" demanded Elaine, feeling

rather oppressed by the weight of these unusual responsibilities.

"I’ve had a brilliant idea; I’m going to heat some maple syrup. People

like it with hot biscuit, and, besides, it takes off the edge of their

appetite," Peggy explained shamelessly. "But we shall have to put an

extra leaf in the table, I’m afraid."

At six o’clock everything was ready. A pleasant mixture of odors

pervaded the house, the fragrance of coffee being most in evidence.

Peggy had just taken a pan of biscuit from the oven, and was calling

Elaine’s attention to their flaky lightness, when Dick put his head

through the door.

"Say, Peg--"

"O, is that you, Dick? This is our new neighbor, Elaine Marshall."

Dick gave a shy little bob of his head in Elaine’s direction. "Say,

Peg," he repeated.

"Yes, dear."

"Looney Batezell’s mother has gone somewhere to supper, and his father,

too, and the hired girl won’t fuss to fix him anything decent, and so I

just told him to come over here to supper."

Elaine waited for the explosion that did not come. "Very well," Peggy

said resignedly. As the door closed and Dick’s footsteps echoed along

the hall, she flung a twinkle in Elaine’s direction. "It never rains

but it pours," she quoted.

"Why, I don’t see--" Elaine checked herself, reflecting that it was not

necessary for the matter to be explained to her satisfaction. But Peggy

took it on herself to reply to the unspoken remonstrance.

"I suppose I might have told Dick he couldn’t have Looney to-night. But

it’s only one more and it doesn’t really make much difference. Besides

we like to have Dick feel that his friends are welcome. When you are

bringing up a boy," concluded Peggy, laughing, and still very much in

earnest, "you have to think of so many things."

Peggy did not eat her supper that evening till the others had finished.

She waited on the table, and baked biscuit, and if there was anything

more remarkable than the celerity with which the biscuit plates were

cleared, it was the promptness with which they were refilled, each time

with flaky, smoking-hot biscuits, which fairly melted in one’s mouth.

Only in one respect had Peggy miscalculated, and that was when she

remarked that the maple syrup would take off the edge of her guests’

appetites. To all appearances it only whetted them to a more razor-like

keenness.

But everybody was satisfied at last, and Peggy ate her own supper, her

cheerfulness unimpaired by the fact that the baking dish had been

scraped clean before her turn came, and that her baked potato was

overdone. She protested against Elaine’s determination to stay and help

her with the dishes, but Elaine was firm.

"It’s only fair, as part payment for my lesson. And, besides, I dare say

I need to learn things about washing dishes as well as cooking."

As a matter of fact, Elaine had learned several things that afternoon,

and the secret of making baking-powder biscuits was not perhaps the most

important. She had seen a girl not far from her own age equal to an

emergency which older housekeepers would have found trying, keeping her

head clear and temper unruffled. Elaine was beginning to understand

that it was not what Peggy did, so much as her way of doing it, that set

her apart.

"I feel real selfish keeping you so long," Peggy declared, when the last

dish was in its place. "Your poor mother will have been awfully

lonely."

"O, no, she--" Elaine paused with an air of checking herself on the

verge of an admission. "Mamma doesn’t mind being alone," she ended, but

Peggy was quite sure that this was not what she had intended to say.

Peggy stood in the doorway while her new friend and pupil crossed the

yard, passed through the opening in the hedge and tried her own door.

It was locked, and Elaine knocked and waited till her mother came to let

her in. As the door opened Elaine turned and waved a good night to the

figure framed in light, watching to be sure that she was safely home.

As Peggy returned the greeting, something odd happened. In the room

above a shade was lowered. All that Peggy saw was an extended arm and a

white hand pulling down the shade, but she stood staring as if this had

been a most out-of-the-way proceeding.

"Queer thing," mused Peggy. "Elaine and her mother are downstairs at

the door, and they haven’t any servant, and I’m sure I thought Mrs.

Marshall was alone this evening."

She looked blankly at the non-committal shade, then remembered her

morning’s lessons, and, closing the door, ran upstairs to her school

books. By bed-time she had forgotten to wonder whose hand had lowered

the shade in that upstairs room.

*CHAPTER V*

*A HALLOWE’EN PARTY*

While Peggy’s acquaintance with Elaine had been steadily progressing,

the other girls were little farther along than on the memorable morning

when they welcomed the wrong hack. Priscilla had begun to speak of

"Peggy’s friend" with an intonation which showed resentment.

"It’s because we live next to each other, I suppose," said Peggy, who

never imagined that her own sunniness of disposition could prove a

magnet to attract friends and was always devising explanations for their

abundance. "You haven’t had a fair chance. I believe I’ll give a

Hallowe’en party, so that Elaine can get acquainted with the rest of

you."

The suggestion awakened an enthusiasm that had little connection with

Elaine. Peggy’s parties were simple affairs, old-fashioned, one might

call them. There was no orchestra playing behind a screen of palms, no

elaborate refreshments, no display of pretty frocks. Indeed Peggy very

often said, "Don’t put on your good clothes; you might hurt them." Many

a girl of Peggy’s age who regards herself as a young lady would turn up

her nose at one of Peggy’s parties, where everybody came at eight

o’clock and went home correspondingly early, and where nobody made an

effort to appear grown up. But since Peggy’s guests invariably had a

good time, "the best time ever," they were likely to declare, Peggy was

entirely satisfied.

Elaine, being new to the traditions of the Terrace, opened her eyes when

Peggy tendered her an invitation across the hedge. "A Hallowe’en

party," she repeated, a question in her voice. "Isn’t that rather--"

"Rather what?" inquired Peggy with such good-natured curiosity that

Elaine almost regretted her beginning.

"O, nothing. Only a Hallowe’en party seems rather childish, don’t you

think?"

"I didn’t think anything about it, except that it was fun," Peggy

answered tranquilly. And then she added the warning so likely to

accompany Peggy’s invitations, "Don’t wear your good clothes."

"What!"

"I mean don’t wear anything good enough to hurt."

"I haven’t anything particularly nice," said Elaine with dignity, "but

if I’m going to a party where I’ll meet a lot of strangers I naturally

shall wear my best." She looked at Peggy half resentfully, half

perplexedly, reflecting as she did so that Peggy was the sort of girl

who could wear an old dress to a party and have a good time in spite of

it. But, then, Peggy wasn’t like other people. A very short residence

on the Terrace had been long enough to bring Elaine to this conclusion.

Peggy was very busy the next ten days. She had never been accustomed to

much spending money, and she had early learned that for the drawback of

a slender purse there is abundant compensation in cleverness and

ingenuity. Whatever pleasure Peggy’s parties gave her friends, she

enjoyed them doubly, for she had the pleasure of preparation along with

the other. If a bubbling laugh escaped over the transom of Peggy’s

room, when she was supposed to be abed and asleep, some member of the

household was sure to say, "Peggy’s got a new idea," and to smile in

sympathy.

That some busy brain had been evolving ideas, and that busy hands had

been carrying them out, was evident enough on the night of the

thirty-first. The light was turned low in the hall, and a sheeted

figure at the door welcomed each comer with extended hand. The ceremony

of hand-shaking was generally followed by little shrill squeals on the

part of the arrivals, and voluble exclamations.

[Illustration: "A SHEETED FIGURE AT THE DOOR WELCOMED EACH COMER WITH

EXTENDED HAND."]

Elaine, coming in alone, and holding her head very high, distinguished

herself by not screaming when the clammy hand touched hers, though she

jumped, without any question. There was an unearthly chill about that

hand, which, coupled with the sepulchral white garments and the dark

eyes showing through holes edged with red, produced a singular shivery

feeling along Elaine’s spine.

"It’s Dick, I guess," said the girl who had entered just ahead of

Elaine, plunging into conversation without waiting for an introduction.

"He’s got on gloves, wet chamois-skin gloves, but who would imagine that

it would feel so ghastly? Don’t you love to have your blood run cold?"

Fortunately Elaine was spared the necessity of answering that question

by encountering Peggy, who gave both arrivals a rapturous squeeze and

bore them off to her room to remove their wraps.

The Raymond living-room had been transformed in honor of Peggy’s party.

Jack-o’-lanterns grinned from the mantel and the book-cases. A tub of

water, Elaine noticed with disapproval, occupied the centre of the room.

Hung over the grate was an old iron kettle, in whose depths something

silvery bubbled responsive to the heat below. The chairs set back

against the wall were filled with laughing girls; for, in spite of

Peggy’s repeated warnings that Elaine was not to be late, she was the

last arrival.

"We’ll start with the lead, that’s boiling so nicely, and perhaps lead

boils away, just as water does." Peggy brought out a long-handled tin

spoon, and a basin filled with water. "Come, Ruth," she commanded.

"O, let somebody else take her turn first," pleaded Ruth, but half a

dozen hands pushed her forward. Cautiously she ladled a little of the

melted lead into the water. Hissing it fell to the bottom of the basin,

taking shape as it cooled. The girls crowded about to read the augury.

"Ruth!" Peggy’s voice was preternaturally solemn. "It’s awful, but it

looks to me like three balls. Do you suppose you are going to marry a

pawn-broker?"

"O, horrors!" cried Ruth, aghast. Milly Weston patted her shoulder

comfortingly.

"Don’t you believe it. I can see leaves and branches, too. Those three

balls are fruit; oranges probably. That means you’re going to have an

orange ranch in California or Florida, and make lots of money."

The rest of the fortune telling proved equally cheerful. The fantastic

shapes assumed by the lead in cooling could be interpreted in a variety

of ways. While Priscilla insisted that fate had moulded the lead she

let fall into the shape of the horn of plenty, which, of course, would

signify prosperity, Peggy was positive that the lead had taken the form

of a ship, and signified a voyage, while some of the girls saw a fish in

the curved shape, and advanced ingenious theories as to its meaning.

There was no disagreement as to Elaine’s fortune. The lead took the

form of a violin, and Peggy triumphantly prophesied that her new friend

would make a success in music. Elaine smiled with a sense of

superiority, as one who has outgrown childish things, but she could not

help being glad of the violin, in place of the rolling-pin Peggy had

claimed for herself, and which she considered argued skill in the

domestic arts. Though Elaine was trying hard to put Peggy’s lessons

into execution she had not got beyond the point of regarding housework

as drudgery.

By the time the supply of lead was exhausted the company was ready for

something else. Into the tub filled with water Peggy dropped three

apples, which bobbed against one another sociably and then went sailing

off in different directions.

"O, dear me, Peggy," Amy cried reproachfully, "I’ve got the loveliest

wave in my hair, and it would have lasted a week if it wasn’t for you.

I always get down to the bottom of the tub when I bob for apples and

look like a wet kitten for the rest of the evening."

"I’ve had pity on your hair, honey," Peggy laughed, with an approving

pat of Amy’s fair locks. "It looks much too nice to spoil." She

brought a bow and arrow from the adjoining room. "Instead of bobbing

for apples," she explained, "you try to hit them with the arrow. The

yellow apple stands for wealth, the red one for health, and the green

for happiness. See! Dick fixed something sharp in the end of the arrow

so it would stick."

The girls gathered around to admire, then drew off, while Amy made her

first attempt in archery. The cord twanged as the arrow sped on its

way. There was a shriek from the girls on Amy’s right.

"Oh! Oh!" screamed Blanche Estabrook cowering and clutching frantically

at the girl who stood next her. "She’s hit me."

It was only too true, and considerable argument was needed to convince

Blanche that the injury was not serious. As a matter of fact, the arrow

had pierced the bow of blue ribbon surmounting her knot of yellow curls,

and hung dangling. What with the agonized exclamations of Amy,

horrified over the thought of what might have happened, and the chatter

of the other girls, trying to explain to Blanche that she couldn’t

possibly be hurt, Peggy had some difficulty in restoring order.

"The trouble was just here, Amy," she explained to her friend. "You

took aim as carefully as could be, and then, just at the last, you shut

your eyes. Now, it stands to reason you can’t hit a mark with your eyes

shut."

"You can hit a mark," corrected Priscilla, "but not the right one."

Poor Amy submitted to her friend’s mild reproof without attempting to

defend herself, and withdrew to the corner in a very subdued mood. The

following archers were more successful. Many times, it is true, the

arrow fell splashing into the water, or stuck quivering in the sides of

the tub, but, occasionally, it pierced one of the three lucky targets,

and on such occasions the whole company shouted joyfully. Elaine was

one of the fortunate archers. When her arrow pierced the apple which

stood for happiness her lips curled a trifle; yet down in her heart she

was conscious of an inconsistent wish that the green apple might be a

true prophet. Happiness! With a little ungirlish sigh Elaine wondered

if she was to find it on Friendly Terrace.

It was Amy’s unlucky night. A little later, twelve colored candles,

each standing upright in its own tiny candle-stick, were ranged the

length of the long hall, at intervals of two or three feet, burning away

like so many miniature light-houses. "These stand for the months,"

explained Peggy; "the first one is November, and then December, and so

on around the year. If you jump over them without putting them out,

you’ll have good luck all the year."

"And if you put them out?" inquired Amy anxiously.

"Every candle that goes out means bad luck for that particular month.

Come, Priscilla. You try it first."

In spite of her height, Priscilla was as light on her feet as a fairy.

Drawing her skirts around her, she went hopping down the hall so lightly

that she left the whole twelve candles burning behind her. The applause

this feat called forth was less enthusiastic than it would have been a

little later, when the other girls had learned by experience the

difficulties in the way of duplicating Priscilla’s performance.

While Blanche was lamenting over the fact that the three candles which

stood for the summer months had been extinguished, which she interpreted

to mean that she was to be disappointed in certain cherished vacation

plans, Amy came forward to try her fate. Clutching her skirts

frantically, she jumped over the first candle, coming down with a thump

which fairly shook the house, while the cheery little flame which stood

for November blinked in astonishment and promptly went out. Ten times

did Amy repeat this feat. When she reached the end of the hall only one

of the twelve candles remained lighted, and the girls were in peals of

laughter.

"’’Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone,’" Peggy quoted

tragically, but Amy was in no mood to see the humor of the situation.

"Did you ever hear of anything so dreadful?" she moaned. "What a year!

Only one lucky month in it."

The girls laughed again at her horrified tone, and Peggy crossed the

room and shook her playfully.

"You’re actually pale, you ridiculous, superstitious creature," she said

severely. "As if it wasn’t all a joke. I guess we’ll have some

refreshments now to revive you."

The refreshments were of the simplest sort; nuts and apples, with plates

of home-made candy, but they added vastly to the evening’s

entertainment. The chestnuts were placed in pairs on the coals of the

grate fire, and when they bounded apart, as the most of them did, great

excitement developed in the little company. From the English walnuts,

tiny vessels were constructed and launched in couples on the troubled

waters of the tub. If the little craft stuck together in their voyage

across, the omen was counted a good one, while their parting company was

hailed with lamentation.

All this gaiety had taken time. The hands of the clock were pointing to

half past eleven. "The question is," said Peggy solemnly, "who’s to be

the one to go down the cellar-stairs."

Several of the girls shuddered, but no one volunteered. "It won’t be

me," cried Amy, excitement rendering her defiant of grammar. "I wouldn’t

do it for the world; would you?" she added, finding Elaine’s eyes fixed

on her curiously.

"Do what? I don’t understand."

"Why, just as the clock is striking twelve, you go down the

cellar-stairs, with a candle in one hand and a mirror in the other."

"You go down backward," Ruth reminded her.

"O, yes. You must walk backward. And when you get to the bottom of the

stairs you set the mirror down somewhere and the candle in front of it,

and begin to eat an apple."

Apparently the solemnity of the proceeding was failing to make due

impression on Elaine. Amy’s voice became thrillingly mysterious.

"You must look and look into the mirror as hard as you can, all the time

that you’re eating the apple. And, before you’ve finished, a face will

be looking over your shoulder. O my!" Amy indulged in a prolonged

shiver.

"I wouldn’t do it for worlds," she repeated.

"How odd! I shouldn’t mind it at all," said Elaine.

"Why, then you can do it," Peggy cried. "You’re just the one. Light

that red candle, Priscilla. No, not that. The largest one. Here’s your

mirror and your apple, and you must be ready to start down the stairs

the minute the clock begins to strike twelve."

"It’s a pretty big apple, considering what I’ve had already," laughed

Elaine. "Is it necessary to eat it all?"

Peggy assured her that this was very necessary, that even the core must

be disposed of, but Amy cast upon the daring stranger a glance of

unfeigned admiration. "Isn’t she brave?" she said to Blanche, in an

undertone, and a little assenting murmur went the rounds. Few people

are displeased by earning a reputation for heroism cheaply, and Elaine

was smiling good-humoredly as she took her stand in front of the cellar

door, the mirror in one hand, and the lighted candle in the other, while

she held the apple in her teeth, Peggy assuring her gravely that this

was indispensable to the success of the charm.

The grandfather’s clock in the hall began to strike in its usual

deliberate fashion. Peggy swung the door open and closed it again as

Elaine began her hesitating descent into the darkness. At the bottom of

the stairs she found two boxes placed in evident preparation for the

ceremony, the taller against the wall, the lower just in front of it.

Elaine set down the mirror, placed the candle beside it, and, seating

herself on the smaller box, began to eat her apple.

It was very still upstairs. Elaine wondered smilingly how it was

possible for so many chatterboxes to preserve so protracted a silence.

The Friendly Terrace girls were a jolly crowd, that was certain,

especially Peggy. Elaine’s heart warmed as she thought of the stranger

who had bidden her welcome as if she were already a friend. If there

were more people in the world like Peggy--

The trend of her thought broke off sharply. The candle must have

flickered. That was the explanation of the odd appearance in the

mirror. She leaned forward and the apple dropped from her hand, and

bumped to the cellar floor. From the dimly lighted disk, two eyes

looked back at her.

In the momentary confusion of her ideas, Elaine was conscious only of a

deep-rooted resentment against Amy. It was her foolish talk and her

shivers which had got on her nerves and was responsible for this wild

fancy. And while her common sense struggled to keep its supremacy over

her growing panic, the eyes rolled in the mirror, as if a head had

turned, and something brushed her cheek.

Elaine’s shrieks were answered by a chorus of screams from the room

above. There was a wild rush of feet and the cellar door was flung

open. Elaine could hear Amy’s uplifted voice declaring, "She’s seen

something! I tell you she’s seen something!" As Peggy rushed madly

down the stairs to the rescue of her guest, a big tawny shape bounded to

meet her.

"Get out of the way, Taffy. Get out!" Peggy commanded impatiently, and

the dog whined his disappointment at such a greeting. But Elaine, when

Peggy reached her, was laughing and crying together.

"You poor darling!" Peggy flung her arms about her friend and glared

defiantly into the darkness. "What happened? Did you see anything?"

"It must have been the--the dog," sobbed Elaine. "He came up be-behind

me so softly, I didn’t hear him, and I saw his eyes in the mirror. I

d-didn’t know he was down here."

By the time the two had got upstairs, merriment had replaced

consternation among Peggy’s guests. The appearance of Taffy, waving a

triumphant yellow tail, suggested the explanation of the mystery, rather

to the disappointment of some whose expectations had been so highly

keyed that the truth seemed really commonplace. The appearance of

Elaine, her lashes moist, and her lips still trembling, was the signal

for friendly advances on the part of all. The girls gathered about the

crestfallen heroine, patted her, petted her, praised her courage in

attempting such an adventure, and assured her that none of them would

have been brave enough to try it. Occasionally a hint of patronage

peeped through the comfort, and Elaine was made aware that she had

forfeited her reputation for courage almost as soon as she had made it.

But, on the whole, the kindliness was comforting to a girl who carried a

sore spot in her inmost heart, and in spite of the untoward ending

Elaine carried home a very pleasant impression of her first party on

Friendly Terrace.

*CHAPTER VI*

*ELAINE HAS VISITORS*

It was Priscilla who, on the way home from school the next day,

suggested stopping to see if Elaine had quite recovered from the effects

of the Hallowe’en party. She made the remark to Peggy, but Amy, who

with Ruth was walking just behind the others, took it on herself to

answer.

"Yes, that was just what I was thinking. It wouldn’t be any more than

neighborly after her fright, and all the rest of it."

Priscilla choked down an exasperated sigh. She said to herself it was

strange Amy couldn’t realize that there might be occasions when one

wanted Peggy to one’s self. At the same time it was not altogether

Amy’s obtuseness which was responsible for the difficulty of

monopolizing Peggy’s society. Peggy herself, with her trick of liking

everybody, and expecting all her friends to like one another, made

monopoly difficult, if not impossible.

Accordingly four girls, instead of two, turned in at the Marshall

cottage. The chatter of voices on the porch told Elaine that she had

visitors and she came to the door in something of a flutter, for, with

all her air of self-sufficiency, Elaine was shy at heart, as is often

the case with people who hold their acquaintances at arms’ length. She

was uncertain, as she admitted the quartet, whether or not to ask them

into the parlor, but Peggy, who had caught sight of Mrs. Marshall seated

in great state in the living-room, and apparently absorbed in the

contemplation of a steel-engraving over the mantel, settled the question

by bearing down upon the engrossed lady and giving her a hearty

greeting.

Mrs. Marshall welcomed her daughter’s visitors with an air nicely

balanced between cordiality and condescension. Nearly everything that

Mrs. Marshall said and did conveyed the impression that she had seen

better days, and that she would not submit to being judged by her

present environment. Peggy, who had a perfect mania for cheering

people, found Mrs. Marshall’s air of melancholy a perpetual challenge,

and, when Mrs. Marshall gave her a chance, she occasionally succeeded in

bringing a smile to that lady’s severe countenance, much to her own

delight, and to Mrs. Marshall’s astonishment.

She dropped into a chair next to Elaine’s mother, and addressed her as

soon as the introductions were over. "I hope you weren’t lonely last

evening, Mrs. Marshall, with Elaine away."

"I am used to loneliness, Miss Margaret," Mrs. Marshall returned

pensively. "It is one of the many hard things to which I am now forced

to accustom myself. When I was Elaine’s age--"

Peggy resigned herself to listen to a story of past glories while the

other girls plunged into a discussion of the party. "What a fright we

all had when you screamed!" Amy laughed. "But, of course, it was worse

for you than for anybody else. Did you feel all right this morning?"

"I felt a little cheap," Elaine acknowledged with a smile, while her

color rose, "That was all."

"You’re not the only one to feel that way," Priscilla comforted her.

"There were some sheepish boys at school this morning. My father is the

high-school principal, you know."

"Yes, Peggy spoke of it."

"Well, in the middle of the night father thought he heard a little noise

around the house and he dressed and went out to the stable. Everything

seemed quiet, and he was just starting to go in again when he heard

steps outside. He slipped into the carriage, just to see what would

happen, and then the door opened and five or six boys came creeping in.

They took hold of the shafts of the carriage and started off at a good

trot, with father sitting perfectly quiet, not saying a word."

Priscilla stopped to laugh, and her audience, especially the girls who

knew the actors in the little comedy, joined her heartily. Peggy, who

was hearing of the splendors of Mrs. Marshall’s coming-out party, to

which festivity two hundred guests had been invited, cast a wistful

glance in the direction of the laughing group, and then, with a twinge

of conscience, gave redoubled attention to the tale of by-gone grandeur.

"They carried him out to the new part of town," said Priscilla,

continuing her story, "and pulled the carriage over to a vacant lot. And

they were feeling so well satisfied with themselves, when father spoke

out from behind the curtains, in his very deepest voice. ’Thank you for

the ride, boys,’ he said. ’It has been very enjoyable! But I think you

may take me home now.’ Of course there wasn’t anything else for them to

do, and father rode home in state. He made them pull the carriage into

the stable, and then he got out and locked the door and thanked them

again, very politely. Father can keep as grave as a judge even when he

is dying to laugh. But as soon as he got into the house he woke mother

up to enjoy the joke. He just couldn’t wait till morning."

"I guess you had your share of Hallowe’en pranks, didn’t you?" asked

Amy, turning to Elaine.

"Why, no. What made you think so?"

"When that carriage passed the house I woke up. It was a sort of

uncanny noise, you know, wheels and footsteps, instead of horses’ hoofs.

I suspected that something queer happening and I jumped up and looked

out of my window, but the carriage had gone before I could get there.

But I saw somebody on your porch."

"The boys in this neighborhood were certainly on the rampage last

night," observed Ruth.

"But this wasn’t a boy," explained Amy. "It was a woman, or a girl,

dressed in a long, loose dress, like a light wrapper."

"How mysterious that sounds," cried Priscilla, and Peggy, who, to her

great relief, had reached the end of the coming-out party, put in her

word. "It’s something new for the girls of the Terrace to go out

playing Hallowe’en tricks."

"But it wasn’t a Hallowe’en trick. There wasn’t anything out of order

this morning," Elaine insisted sharply.

"It was something, anyway. I was as wide awake as I am now. It walked

back and forth half a dozen times, while I stood looking, and then it

seemed to disappear. O, girls, you don’t suppose--"

Amy’s eyes were opened in a half-frightened stare. A girl of good sense

in many respects, she had a vein of superstition in her make-up which

was one of her greatest weaknesses. Peggy broke into a ringing laugh.

"The Spook on the Porch," she cried, "or the Mystery of Friendly

Terrace. O, Amy, what an imagination you have!"