Chapter II: Part 2

"School and business call us to town, Nan, but we shall come every summer, and spend Christmas here, too, I hope."

"This has been the best birthday I ever spent or ever expect to," said Ethelwyn with the air of having spent at least fifty. "It is such a good idea to give things away instead of always getting them, but if you can do both, as happened this time, it covers everything."

Then they were all quiet for a little while, until Mrs. Rayburn went to the piano, and touching the keys, sang softly:

"And does thy day seem dark,
All turned to rain?
Seek thou one out whose life
Is filled with pain.
Put out a hand to help
This greater need,
And lo! within thy life
The sun will shine indeed."

_CHAPTER X_ _Beth's Birthday_

The space between our birthdays seems to grow apace,
When we're young they loiter; when we're old they race.

It began with a bad time; and so did the next day, as things sometimes do, even though they turn out all right at the end, like a rainy morning that clears off into a blue and gold afternoon. Ethelwyn and Beth did not fall out very often, but then they didn't have a birthday very often, nor Christmas, nor any other of the days when the land flows with ice cream and candy, and is bounded on the next day by crossness and pitfalls.

That was one reason.

That day early they had decided never to be bad again, never; "because," said Ethelwyn, "it is very troublesome getting good again, and makes mother feel bad."

"Uh huh," said Beth.

They were not up yet, and the door leading into their mother's room was open.

This was their "present" birthday, but they had not yet begun on their presents. For fear you shouldn't understand this, I will tell you Beth's way of explaining it.

"Sister and me is twin children two years all but a month apart, and on the first birthday which comes in July, we have presents, and on the second, in August, we have a party, or a trip away, or something, and we have all the month to choose in."

They generally chose thirty different things. Their mother nearly always let them have the last one, but once or twice, as when they wanted to go up in an air ship, she compromised on a steam launch on the river, as safer, and nearer at hand.

This morning being "present" morning, they were glad to see the sunshine darting in at their window, and to hear the birds singing outside something like this--

"Wake up, children: the day is new.
It's full of joy for dears like you."

So they woke up laughing, at least Ethelwyn did, and told Beth what the birds sang; but Beth was sleepy and uttered her usual "Uh huh."

"You are a very lazy child," said Ethelwyn in a superior tone, "and are not thinking about your presents at all, nor the making of good revolutions."

"What's them?" asked Beth, still with her eyes shut.

"Something you need to make very much, for you are not too good a child, I'm sorry to say. Mother esplained about people making things like that at New Year's, and birthdays, and so I've been thinking of some specially for you--"

"I can make my own," said Beth, fully awake now, "and I can help make yours when it comes to that, I guess."

"Well," said Ethelwyn, "I have been thinking of a few for you to begin with. One is, never to be late for breakfast, and not to be selfish about getting the bath first, and never wanting to give up when your sister wants you to--"

"You can make your own, while I'm getting my bath first now," said Beth, sliding out of bed. "I'm anxious to see my presents."

Ethelwyn, speechless with rage, hastened her departure with a push, and then fell asleep until the breakfast bell rang. How mortified she felt after what she had said to Beth! Sierra Nevada hurried her through her bath and toilet as quickly as she could, but she would be late for breakfast anyway. When she came into the dining-room, her mother kissed her gravely, but she was not allowed to look at her presents until after she had eaten. She felt very miserable at the shrieks of delight from Beth, who was dancing around her doll house, with its two floors beautifully furnished, and dolls of every size, shape, and color living in it.

No wonder the oatmeal and the muffins lost their flavor!

But Ethelwyn effervesced quickly, and as quickly subsided. Presently she was glad again, for there were books, candy, games, a walking doll from Paris that could talk as well, and a camera from Aunty Stevens. The camera, she told her mother, she had been longing for for years and years.

Uncle Tom sent each of them some candy, and a five dollar gold piece, with a note intimating that they were to spend it as they liked. Then there were two bicycles from Uncle Bob, some more candy, a pony, and some home-made molasses candy from their grandmother. The pony was a real live pony, and Joe, a dear friend of theirs, from a near-by livery stable was to take care of it.

"I feel thankful that we are a large family of relatives," said Beth, after a long and speechless period of rapture.

Their mother, being a wise woman, put away some of the candy, all but grandmother's molasses, and a box or two for friends. Then came little Nora, the niece of their dressmaker, Mrs. O'Neal, with a quart of pecans, for the birthday. She went home with a box of candy, and told her little sister Katie about it.

"O I wanted to go too," wailed Katie.

"You were asleep, dear, when I went, but I told them the nuts were from you, too."

"But I wanted to hear them say, 'thank you!' Take me now."

"I have to go down town for auntie. But she'll let you go."

"Yes, indeed," said their busy aunt when asked.

So Katie went up-stairs to make herself tidy.

"It's mesilf wants to take a 'silvernear,'" she said as she scrubbed herself; and then in an evil moment, she beheld a small plate with a bunny on it, which Nora owned and loved.

"It's just the thing," thought Katie, "and kind of partly mine because it's in our room."

So she took it with her when she went, and it burned her little hand like fire.

Ethelwyn and Beth were preparing a tea party in the doll house.

"O Katie, how nice!" said Ethelwyn. "We'll put it in the tea party. We were coming over to get you and Nora to come; there are some beautiful iced cakes coming up in a minute."

"I can't stay," said Katie feebly, "I feel kind of sick inside."

So saying she rushed home, but it was no use; poor Katie's conscience grew worse all the time, and presently she came back.

"I--I--know you won't like me any more," she said, red and miserable, "but it's Nora's plate I gave you, and I'm no better than a thafe."

But Ethelwyn and Beth put their arms around her, and comforted her dear little sore heart.

"I know just how you feel," said Ethelwyn. "I took mother's gold dragon stick-pin for my dolly's blanket one day, because I was in a hurry, and lost it of course, and felt so mizzable, as if nothing could ever be nice again. Now take the plate and go and get Nora, dear, and we'll have the best tea party."

And they did, and the guests had each another box of candy for their "silvernears," besides, but Ethelwyn and Beth ate far too much, and that's the reason their next day good time began by being a bad time too.

_CHAPTER XI_ _The Day After_

In the lovely playtime, life seems always gay.
In the sober worktime, sometimes it grows gray.

Mother was superintending the strawberry jam in the kitchen, giving orders to the grocery boy, and paying Mrs. O'Neal for sewing, all at once.

You can't do this unless you are a mother, but mothers can do almost everything at once.

"It's a fortunate thing that the Bible says everybody mustn't work on Sunday. It says man-servant, maid-servant, cattle, stranger within thy gates, but nothing at all about mothers, though, because they positively have to," said Ethelwyn, after a profound season of thought in the hammock.

"When our mother rests, she darns stockings," said Beth, who was dressing her doll near by.

"Not on Sunday, child!" said Ethelwyn scandalized.

"Well nobody said she did, I guess. She tells us Bible stories then. I always think they sound so pretty, against her Sunday clothes," said Beth.

"Pooh!" said Ethelwyn who was cross. She was going down to the grocery presently on her wheel to get some eggs, but she was putting it off as long as she could.

She started after awhile, and unluckily had the groceryman tie the eggs on the wheel. She came along safely, until within view of Beth lying comfortably in the hammock; then with a desire to show off, she spurted, or tried to, and her wheel ran off the walk, and tipped her off upon the grass on top of two dozen eggs!

Her mother picked her up, and after stilling Beth's laughter, and her crying, washed her, and put her in the hammock, all in so short a time that only a yellow stain on the grass showed that a tragedy had happened.

Then mother went back to her jam.

Beth snickered at intervals, however, though Ethelwyn sternly bade her be quiet.

"You were so yellow and funny, sister," said Beth, giggling.

Ethelwyn opened her mouth for a reply that would do justice to the subject, when Bobby, their next door neighbor came along. "Hullo, Bobby," they cried.

"Hullo," said Bobby at once.

"Come in and see our birthday presents," said Ethelwyn, and Bobby at once trotted up the walk.

He was a round-faced little chap, with small freckles on his button of a nose.

His family had just moved into town from a farm.

"Where have you been, Bobby?" asked Ethelwyn as they went towards the house.

"I went down to the grocery for mother; I thought I knew the way but I got mixed up, and stopped under a lamp-post, to think. Pretty soon a woman came along and put a white letter in a box; so I thought I'd save trouble if I put mother's grocery list in, and I did. A man in gray clothes came along, and unlocked it, and took the letters all out. I told him 'bout my list, and he laughed, and gave it to me, and asked me if I didn't know 'bout letter boxes? I didn't, so he told me, and took me along with him down town."

"Sister--" began Beth, giggling, "went to the grocery--"

"Let's play in the house," said Ethelwyn frowning at Beth. "You can stay awhile, can't you, Bobby?"

"I guess I'd better ask, first," said Bobby. He trotted home and soon came back with his face shining from soap and water, and his hair brushed straight up so that it looked like a halo around the full moon.

Then Nan, the minister's daughter, came in. She had also come to live in their town and was the same funny, outspoken Nan, as always.

"It's a very convenient thing that I know you children," she had said, "for it's a great trouble to have to find out, and learn to know everybody in a town."

They were playing games in the nursery, when mother came up-stairs, having finished the jam, ordered the groceries, and paid Mrs. O'Neal.

She was going to combine resting and mending, as usual, so she came to the nursery, just as they were beginning a temperance lecture.

Bobby was selling tickets, and mother cheerfully paid a penny, and sat in her low rocker near the window.

Nan had chosen to be lecturer, so Ethelwyn, Beth, and Bobby made a somewhat reluctant and highly critical audience. Besides, there were the dolls in various uncomfortable attitudes, but very amiable nevertheless.

And to them all, Nan now came forward and made a profound bow.

"My subject is Temperance, ladies and gentlemen," she began, "and I hope you'll pay attention, because it's a true subject, as well as a useful one.

"I wish men wouldn't get drunk. It's dreadful smelly even going by a saloon, so I don't see how they can. I think it would be very nice if pleecemen would think once in a while about stopping such things as drunkers, but they probably like to have saloons around for themselves. A nice thing would be, to have ladies, like your mother and me, for pleecemen. Then we'd scrub things up, and pour things out, till you couldn't smell or taste a thing. But men are meaner than women"--Bobby looked dubious--"some men aren't though"--he looked relieved. "The reason we are so nice and 'spectable, is because my father is a minister, and doesn't dare do disgraceful things, and your mother doesn't get time. So we should be thankful, instead of wishing we had a candy store in the family, and being sorry we have to set examples for other kids. No! No! No! children, I mean. That's all, and I hope you won't forget all I've told you."

"Let's play church now," said Ethelwyn promptly, "and I choose to be preacher, because I know about Moses and Abiram. The choir will please sing Billy Boy."

So they put on nightgowns for surplices.

"What can I do?" said Beth, who was tired of always being an audience.

"Take up the collection," said Ethelwyn, "we need some more pennies."

"'The sermon, beloved," said Ethelwyn after the singing, and a little preliminary ritual, "is about Moses and Abiram, who both wanted to be boss of the temple.

"'I will be boss,' said Moses.

"'Not much,' said Abiram, standing on his tippest toes.

"Then they fit, and I've forgotten which one whipped, 'cause we haven't got that far yet; anyway it's lunch time, so do hurry and take up the collection."

_CHAPTER XII_ _Sunday_

No matter how bad we are through the week,
When Sunday comes 'round we grow very meek.

"I hope, Beth," said Ethelwyn, who always woke up first, "you will remember to-day is Sunday, and not quarrel with your sister," But Beth cuddled down in the pillows and refused to answer a word. After a while, Ethelwyn, watching the sunbeams dancing on the pink wall, went to sleep herself, and opened her eyes only when her mother kissed her awake.

Sierra Nevada, being a devout Roman Catholic, always went to early mass on Sunday mornings, and their mother gave them their baths, to their great delight and comfort. The bath was all ready for them now, crystal clear with the jolly sunbeams dancing on its silver disk.

"We'll get a sunshine bath," said Beth, trying to catch the golden drops.

"Inside and outside," said mother smiling.

"You look so pretty, motherdy," said Ethelwyn approvingly, "So much prettier than black, cross old 'Vada, who always rolls her eyes at me and says, 'Miss Effel, you is de troublesomest chile dat ebba was bown.' You have sense, and in that blue gown, white apron, and cap, you are pretty. You get prettier all the time you are getting old, mother. You'll be a beautiful angel when you are very old."

"Thank you," said her mother laughing. "Come on now, do you know your verse?"

"I did," said Ethelwyn, "but the verse hasn't any sense: it's about St. Peter's wife's mother being sick with the fever--"

"And St. Peter cut off the priest's right ear, and then he went out and crew bitterly," said Beth, jumping up and down to see how high she could splash.

"Elizabeth!" said her mother, going off into spasms of laughter. "You are a heathen! Can't you ever get things right? I will say, though, I think the verses they select for infant classes are anything but suitable, but for pity's sake don't say the one you told me, you will disgrace me. I will hear you after breakfast."

But Aunt Mandy the cook was sick with the toothache, which she called a "plum mizzery" in her face, and mother was so busy, that 'Vada, who had returned and was more solemn than ever, dressed them and took them to Sunday-school.

The infant class sat on seats that began close to the floor, and gradually rose to the top of the room. Ethelwyn and Nan sat high up, while Beth was a little way below. Bobby sat near her, and had grinned all over his round face when she came in.

"I've brought my white mouse in my pocket; I'm going to stay for church, and I get lonesome," he whispered.

"Uh huh," said Beth nodding, "I've brought my paper dolls." But sister punched her in the back with her parasol to be quiet, and just then the teacher asked her verse.

Beth thought hard. "Mother said I mustn't tell you about the priest crewing about his cut off ear," she said thoughtfully, "but I know another verse about St. Peter, it's easier to merember than the other one, 'cause it's poetry."

"Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her--"

"Next!" said the teacher with a face red, and then she coughed.

The next was Bobby, who cheerfully took up the refrain, where Beth left off.

"--Put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well,"

he concluded promptly.

The older pupils, with two scandalized exceptions,--Ethelwyn and Nan--laughed, and the younger ones turned around and looked interested. The teacher coughed again and changed the subject.

But the adventures of Bobby and Beth were by no means over, for when they came out into the large room where the hundreds of scholars sat, the infant class was marshaled up into the choir seats to sing "Precious Julias" as Beth still called it. The upright of the front seat was standing unfastened from the floor, waiting for repairs, but no one knew it, Beth and Bobby least of all. They, and six other infants pressed close up against it, and sang with all their might.

Unfortunately they pressed too hard on the loose back. All at once it went over, and eight unfortunate infants sprawled flat on their faces, hats rolling off, and books tumbling down.

Everybody stopped singing to laugh, but it changed to little shrieks of dismay, as a poor frightened white mouse, thrown out of Bobby's pocket by the shock, went running down the aisle.

Bobby ran after it in hot pursuit.

Beth followed loyally, for she had seen where it went.

They caught the trembling little creature at the door, and then they looked at each other.

"Let's go home," said Bobby.

"Uh huh, let's," said Beth.

They met Beth's mother on the way to church. "We'll stay at home to-day, mother," said Beth, "we've had just all we can stand."

So they went home and played church in the front yard, until Ethelwyn and Nan came home just before the sermon.

Those young ladies had fully intended solemnly to lecture the two at home, but it was very pleasant under the trees, with the birds, and Bobby and Beth singing lustily, so they joined in, and Ethelwyn then preached. "I choose to," she said, "because I went to an awfully dry lecture on art or clothes or something, with mother. I slept some, 'cause it was almost as hard to understand as a sermon, but when I was awake I heard a good deal that will do you good.

"Clothes," she went on after this introduction, "will ruin your health if you don't look out, and study statoos and things for some kind of line, clothes-line, I guess. So when you see a lot of white statoos--which aren't as interesting as the circus but more good for learning, which is always the way in this life--learnified things are likely to be dry--you'll learn something. But I went to sleep before I found out what or why statoos is the thing to study; but they are so cold-looking, from being undressed, that I think it would be a kind act to make pajamas for them, and trousers for our dolls so they will live longer--"

"_I_ will not," said Beth firmly, from the congregation. "It wouldn't be fun to have all boy dolls, and you know it, sister, and besides wasn't Billy Boy the first doll we broke after Christmas? and he's up-stairs now waiting for his funeral."

"O, let's have it now," said Nan, who didn't like sermons unless she preached them.

"No, here's mother and we'll have to have dinner now, so we will have the funeral to-morrow," said Ethelwyn.

_CHAPTER XIII_ _The Four Together_

Begins with a funeral and ends with a feast.
Sorrow is drowned for this time at least.

It fell out that there were _two_ doll funerals the next day.

Beth lost Ariminta, her composition doll, and she went down into the garden early to find her. She looked in Bose's kennel, but it wasn't there; then she saw a robin in the path digging worms, and he looked so wise that she followed him to the early harvest apple-tree, and sure enough! there was Ariminta on a lower branch where she had put her the night before. She was very wet, for it had rained, and her wig was quite soaked off. So, filled with remorse, Beth went after the glue-pot.

"I never knew such a mean mother as I am," she said, "I haven't any thinkery at all, worth mentioning. If your grandmother, my dear, should leave me out, till my hair soaked off--say, sister," she broke off suddenly to ask--"what keeps our hair on?"

Ethelwyn never at a loss for an answer, said promptly, "Dust, child"

"I haven't any," said Beth, feeling her short brown curls cautiously for fear they would come off.

"It's small in small persons, and big in big persons," said Ethelwyn, with a patient air of having given much thought to the subject.

"Ho!" said Beth. "Well if Ariminta's going to be dry for Billy Boy's funeral, I'll have to dry her in the oven."

But alas! for Beth's "thinkery not worth mentioning!" In her haste to get back to prepare herself and family for the funeral, she forgot to tell Aunt Mandy, who was going to make cake, and so started a fire in the stove. When she opened the oven door to put in the cake, she took out Ariminta's remains, and that is why there were two subjects for a funeral instead of one.

Beth was exceedingly sorry, and wept a few real tears over Ariminta.

"I'm a double widow, and a orphing to-day," she said, "and I don't reserve a single child to my name!"

Nan and Bobby came to the funeral, and Bobby chose to be undertaker, while Nan insisted on preaching the sermon.

"You preached yesterday," she said to Ethelwyn, who also wished to.

"And you did the day before--"

"I think I ought to," said Beth, "because it's my fam'ly."

"That's why you shouldn't, child," said Nan. "Would my father enjoy preaching my funeral sermon, do you think?" she asked triumphantly. And while they were doubtfully considering this, she began the service.

Beth attired in Aunt Mandy's large black shawl was very warm and mournful.

The family, especially Billy Boy's widow, were wrapped in black calico swaddling garments, and looked more stiff than ever, but still smiling.

The remains were in cigar boxes, all but Billy's wig and eyes which Beth had thoughtfully saved for another doll.

"I am sorry I have to preach this sad sermon," said Nan.

"Might have let me, then," said a voice from the congregation.

"The mourners will please keep quiet," said the preacher sternly, "and if the widow and orphans wouldn't grin so, I'd be glad. You'd better be thinking about how you'd feel to be buried, and you are likely to be in this family," she continued with an offensive accent on _this_.

"Let's hurry up, I'm hot," said the chief mourner.

So they went down and buried the boxes, singing "Billy Boy" as a requiem. Bose watched their departure with interest, and dug up both boxes without delay.

Bobby and Nan were invited to stay to lunch, and they accepted with cheerful alacrity.

"I asked mother, for fear you'd ask me if I could stay, and she said yes indeed I _could_, and she'd be glad to have me," said Nan. Bobby yelled his request over the fence, and was told he could stay too.

They had strawberry jam, hot biscuit, fried chicken, and little frosted spice cakes, for which Mandy was famous.

"Just supposing your mother and mine had said no, about this luncheon," said Nan to Bobby. "I never could have gotten over the loss of these cakes."

"You've eaten four. I'm glad Mandy made a good many," said Beth calmly.

"Why Beth!" said her mother horrified.

"Yessum, she has," continued Beth. "I've passed them four times, and she took one every time. I've had five!" she concluded.

In the afternoon the postman brought them a letter from their Cousin Gladys, who was in Paris with her father and mother. So they all gathered around mother to hear it.

"DEAR E. AND B.," it began.

"This is a silly city.

"They talk like babies. No one can understand them. I'd like them
better if they'd talk plain American.

"Their stoves look like granddaddy long legs; they are funny boxes,
and when you are cold, they wheel them into your room, and stick
the pipe in the hole, and by and by wheel them out. We live in an
artist's house on a street that means Asses street, and our front
room is a saloon but not a drinking one, and it runs right through
the up-stairs to the skylight. You have to pay for that. Think of
charging for daylight! We went to a bird show and I saw a cockatoo
sitting on a pole asleep. 'Scratch its back with your parasol,
Gladys,' said mother, so I did, and it opened one eye when I
stopped, and said, 'Encore,' I was put out to think even the birds
didn't talk American, but when I said so, mother laughed but I
don't see why.

"Write and tell me all the news. No more now from

"Your cousin,

"GLADYS."

"O, it's thundering!" said Bobby when the letter was finished.

Beth at once climbed into her mother's lap, as if for protection.

"Are you afraid of a shower, Beth?" asked Nan.

"No,--not--a shower," said Beth, "only I don't like it when it goes over such a bump!"

Mother kissed her and sent the others up-stairs to get ready for a show.

"Get up a good one and I'll pay five cents admission," she said.

"Oh I'll go too," said Beth, "p'raps when I am busy I won't notice the noise."

By and by they called Mrs. Rayburn, and she went up-stairs with her sewing, and dropped her nickel into a box, because the whole force was in the show. They were getting ready in the next room, from which was heard much giggling.

Presently the door opened, and in walked Ethelwyn draped in a green denim closet door curtain, and bobbing up and down at every step.

"What is this?" said mother.

"You have to guess, it's a guessing show."

Then came Beth in her Japanese costume, fanning vigorously.

Nan followed in a Turkey red calico wrapper, beloved of 'Vada's heart. She tumbled down every two or three steps, which might have been the fault of the wrapper, or part of the show.

Last of all was Bobby, very hot and sweaty, in a moth-ball smelling fur rug, and ringing a bell.

"It looks like the four seasons," said mother.

"O mother, but you are smart," said Ethelwyn; "we thought you couldn't possibly guess, so we were going to charge you another nickel!" she continued in a disappointed voice.

"I will pay it for guessing," said mother, laughing.

"I'm spring, all dressed in green, and I spring when I walk," said Ethelwyn beginning again.

"I'm summer," said Beth fanning.

"And I'm fall," said Nan, tumbling down, "that hurts the worst," she added with pride.

"I'm Christmas," said Bobby, "and I know now why it doesn't come in summer. My! I'm hot!" he continued, mopping his brow.

"I'm Fourth of July," said Beth.

"And I'm Thanksgiving and turkey--"

"There isn't a thing but April fool in spring, I do believe," said Ethelwyn, disgusted.

"Decoration Day, Arbor Day, and May Day," said mother. "It was a fine show, and the sun is out. You may go down now, and buy peanuts with your money."

_CHAPTER XIV_ _The Wedding and the Visit_

Out in the country, God's flowers bravely grow.
And all the dusty wayside is edged with golden glow;

They were up in the nursery the next morning, having a wedding. A doll had opportunely lost her wig, and that always meant a good deal of excitement for the wigless one, for she was at once put to bed, and given medicine through the opening on top of the head, or made into a boy doll.

This last happened now; poor cracked and dead Billy Boy's wig was jauntily glued on the wigless head, and the late Janet became Lord Jimmy, and was in the process of being wedded to Arabella, the walking, talking doll from Paris.

They were propped up in the doll house, and Beth was marrying them.

"Lord Jimmy," she said, "wilt thou marry Arabella and nobody else and be her quilt in time of trouble--?"

"A quilt!" said Ethelwyn. "What's that?"

"A comfort then," said Beth with dignity, "or something like that. Anyway I wish you wouldn't talk in the middle of the wedding--and give her clothes, and things to eat, eh? Make him nod 'yes,' sister." So Ethelwyn, reaching out an energetic hand, clutched the bridegroom by the waist and made him bow so low, that his freshly-glued wig came off.

"O, for goodness sake, sister," said Beth, in an exasperated tone, "I never knew any one that could upset things like you--"

But their mother was heard calling them, in a way that meant something nice, so the poor bald-headed bridegroom and his wig were left at the feet of the haughty Arabella, who stared rigidly at the landscape outside, and tried not to see him.

"We are going to drive out to Grandmother Van Stark's to spend the day, and perhaps a little longer," said mother.

"Oh won't that be the nicest thing!" they cried in a breath. "Who can go on the pony?"

"Ethelwyn may ride out, and Beth back," said mother.

"I've always been so thankful to think you weren't born a _no_ and _don't_ mother," said Ethelwyn, hugging her. "Are we going right away?"

"Right away."

Sure enough there was Joe leading Ninkum, their own pony. Mother and Beth were to go in the phaeton.

All the way out they played games with the trees and flowers. Ethelwyn rode alongside the phaeton.

They counted the spots they passed that were purple with thistles, and they were many. Others were pink and white with clover and daisies. Their mother told them the story of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, when they drove down the lane bordered with golden Spanish needles.

But they enjoyed the missing word game the most, because it was new.

"It's your turn to make up a game, mother," said Beth.

"I will give you lines that rhyme, only I will leave off the last word, after the first line," said mother, "and you must guess what that word is."

"There was a man rode to the mill.
The road ran steeply up the--"

"Hill," cried Beth.

"Yes; now let sister guess the next."

He stopped beside a flowing--"

"Rill?" asked Ethelwyn, after thinking awhile.

"Yes."

"This horse was dry, so drank his--"

"Fill."

"Along there came a girl named--"

"Jill."

"He wished that his was Jack, not--"

"Will."

"For people sometimes called him--"

"Bill."

"This really was a bitter--"

"Pill."

"And made him feel both vexed and--"

"Ill." Mother had to tell them that, because they both guessed sick.

"He brought his gun along to--"

"Kill."

"A bird to give to Jill a--"

"Quill?" Ethelwyn guessed after a long time.

"They lingered long, they lingered--"

"Till," and again mother had to tell them this.

"The sun went down and all was--"

"Still."

They had both missed one, so they each had to pay a forfeit or get up a game.

But they were now within sight of Grandmother Van Stark's fine old colonial house, and there on the porch stood grandmother herself, who had seen them coming, so had come out to meet them.

"Oh isn't our grandmother pretty though?" said Ethelwyn, as they turned in at the circular driveway. She had snow white hair, dark eyes and a very stately carriage.

She welcomed them warmly, and invited them into the grand old hall with its white staircase and mahogany rail.

Modern children seemed almost out of place in this old-time house.

"I always seem to think you need short-waisted frocks, and drooping hats like Sir Joshua Reynolds's, and the Gainsborough pictures," said their mother laughing.

"O may we go up to the attic and dress up?" begged Ethelwyn.

"After while," said grandmother. "It is luncheon time now. I am glad you came to-day, my daughter, for Nancy, the housemaid, has gone home for a week's rest, and there is a meeting of the women of the church this afternoon to arrange about a rummage sale, and a loan exhibition, and they are rather depending upon me to contribute to both; but as Nancy is away, I cannot well leave for I am a little overtired with more duties than usual. So I have made a list of things that I will lend, and give. I should like you to take it down."

"Yes, mother, I will, but what about the children--?"

"O mother, please let me stay," begged Beth. "I will take excellent care of grandmother, and I will take Nancy's place, so grandmother can lie down; I know how, I've watched Nancy lots of times. You can take sister."

This was the final arrangement, and soon after luncheon they drove away to town. Grandmother disappeared up the beautiful staircase after shutting the blind doors, and shading the hall from the afternoon sun.

Then Beth arrayed in a red sweeping cap, instead of Nancy's white one, which she and cook failed to find, and armed with a huge silver salver for cards, instead of Nancy's small one, took up her position in the hall, on the bottom stair, to await visitors: but the hall was full of slumberous shadows, with sunshine flecks dancing down from the blind doors to the polished floor. It is not strange, therefore, that by and by the red sweeping cap began to droop over the silver salver, until finally they all settled down together, and the new parlor maid was sound asleep, to the music of the tall old clock in the corner of the hall back under the stairway.

Then some one came up the walk, and rapped briskly with the end of his riding whip on the blind doors.

The parlor maid suddenly awoke, stumbled to the door, and fumbled with the fastenings, but it was no use, she couldn't open them; thereupon she turned the slats and looked through at the young clergyman standing there.

The red cap nodded affably.

"Could you climb in through the window, s'pose?" she asked.

This was such a new and startling novelty at the Van Stark homestead, that the visitor laughed, while the parlor maid patiently waited for his decision.

He had shone in athletics at his college, so when he stopped laughing, he put his hands on the stone window-sill leading into the library, and vaulted in so lightly and easily, that Beth was delighted to think she had thought of it.

She then went back to adjust her sweeping cap, which had dropped off, and to pick up the salver, which she had put down to free her hands.

"Put your card there," she instructed him, bobbing her head towards the exact centre of the salver, and thereby completely covering one eye with that abominably big and wobbly cap.

The reverend gentleman gravely complied, whereupon the maid swung herself around, but with caution, somewhat after the manner of a boat carrying too much sail.

After Mrs. Van Stark had come down, the parlor maid reappeared without her badges of office, and was duly presented to the rector of the church, who made no sign, save a twinkle of his eye, of having met her in another, and humbler capacity, but shook hands and talked to her without that insufferable air of patronage which elder people at times seem to delight to bestow upon their juniors.

As he was taking his leave, he explained that he was going down into the grove for a little while to read and to take pictures.

As he went out, they met, coming in, an old lady whom Grandmother Van Stark greeted with rare cordiality, kissing her on both cheeks and calling her Tildy Ann. She called grandmother Jane Somerset, and explained that her son, going to town, had brought her that far on his way, and would call for her on his return.

She had brought her knitting in a beautiful silk bag, and explained that she was making a long purse of black silk and steel beads, for the sale at the church.

Beth brought grandmother's bag down to her, and grandmother produced silk stockings that she was knitting for the same purpose.

They sat down for a comfortable chat, and Beth, feeling that it was too prehistoric an atmosphere for her, by and by stole up-stairs to the attic and went on a rummage for old clothes in which to dress up.

She found an old figured silk gown, with short sleeves. By much rolling up and pinning, she made the skirt the right length. Then she pulled out an old green silk calash and set it on her head. This she felt was a finishing touch, so she softly crept down the stairs and past the old ladies, who had entirely forgotten her, and out on the lawn; then she walked down the circular driveway and out into the road, where presently the clergyman, striding along to where his pony was tied, overtook her.

He looked with astonishment at the quaint little figure in the silk frock, but when the disguised parlor maid looked out from the depths of the great bonnet, he went off into peals of laughter again.

"You seem to laugh a great deal," said Beth.

He at once stopped and said:

"It is a weakness of mine, and now let me beg a favor of you. Will you come back to the porch, and sit in a Chippendale chair, and let me take your picture for the sale at the church?"

"Yes, I don't mind at all," said Beth promptly, turning around and putting her hand in his. "You see Mrs. Tildy Ann and grandmother were having such a long-way-back time, I had to dress up to match everything."

"I see," said the minister. "But she may presently miss you and be worried."

"O that's so," said Beth. "Let's hurry. I promised to take care of grandmother," she added, in a remorseful tone.

But nothing had happened, and the picture proved a great success, many of them being sold at the fair.

"I don't like it much," said Beth, when she saw one, "for it reminds me of how I forgot to take care of my Grandmother Van Stork."

"It will do you good, I trust," said her mother.

"It'll improve my thinkery, I hope," said Beth.

_CHAPTER XV_ _The Lost Invitation_

A heartache when the heart is young,
Seems quite too big to bear;
But when it ends in laughter,
Away goes every care.

When they started to return the next day, Beth in triumph mounted Ninkum. She had a little difficulty in turning around to wave a farewell to dear grandmother on the porch, because the pony took this opportune time to munch the grass at the road-side, and Beth nearly went over his head.

"Dear me, Ninkum, you are very rude," she said, much vexed. "You try to spill me off, besides making Grandmother Van Stark feel as though you didn't have enough to eat while you were visiting her!"

There was another disturbing feature also, and that was sister, whose countenance kept peering above the phaeton top, and who shouted exceedingly unwelcome advice, until silenced and firmly seated by the maternal command.

However, these were small things, compared with the bliss of galloping down the smooth road, bordered by flowers and green fields.

"I am very fond of wild flowers," said Ethelwyn by and by, "because they come right from God's garden, and they keep things so cheerful and bright out in the country."

"I remember some verses about wild flowers and woods that a friend of mine wrote," said mother, "and I intend sometime to put some of them to music."

"O say one, mother," said Ethelwyn, who loved verses. So Mrs. Rayburn began:

"I know a quiet place,
Where a spring comes gurgling out,
And the shadowed leaves like lace
Fall on the ground about.

"A tempting grapevine swing
Is swung from the near-by trees,
And life is a dreamful thing
Lulled by the birds and bees.

"Flowers at the great trees' feet
Are sheltered quite from harm;
For above the blossoms sweet,
The oak holds forth his arm.

"Perhaps if I lie quite still,
I may hear far down below,
The first and joyous thrill
Of things, when they start to grow."

"I've wondered if they do get out of the seed with a little cracky pop," said Ethelwyn.

"What, sister?" asked Beth, coming up on Ninkum.

"Flowers and things."

"I've wondered how things know how to make themselves flowers, and not potatoes, or something like that," said Beth; "but I suppose God tells them."

"And I've often thought what was it that makes part of them stalk and leaves, and then all at once end in a flower," said Ethelwyn. Then, after a moment's silence, she proposed, "Let's have another game."

"Yes, mother, you think of one."

"I was thinking of one this morning," said mother, "for I thought likely you would be asking me to make up one, though it isn't my turn."

"O, but motherdy, you are so much smarter than we are!" said Ethelwyn.

"That is one way to get out of it," said mother, laughing. "Well, I will tell you a story, and leave a blank occasionally, which you must fill up with the name of a tree.

"There were two little girls who dressed exactly alike, and, as they were very near the same age, it was difficult to tell which was the--"

"Elder?" said Ethelwyn, after a hard think.

"Yes."

"I didn't really know there was such a tree, but I had heard something like it, and thought there wasn't a younger tree."

"One of the little girls was named Louise and the other Minerva, and people grew to calling them by their initials, which together made--"

"Elm," said Beth.

"They were very good children, and people used to say what a nice--"

"Pear," they both said at once.

"They were. They had cheeks like a--"

"Peach."

"It was spring, and they were invited to a sugaring off party, and they saw the men tap the trees to make--"

"Maple sugar," cried Beth, who knew that, if she knew anything.

"So, when they went home, they tapped a tree in the front yard, and invited a party to come and eat maple sugar; but they tapped the wrong tree, and their father was vexed, saying, 'I ought to take a ---- to ----'"

But mother had to tell them these words for they had never heard of birch, or of yew. "'I wonder if you will be ----'"

"Evergreen," said Ethelwyn, after a little prompting.

"'All your life.' 'I thought,' said one, 'that maple sugar parties were very ----'"

"'Pop'lar? (mother had to tell them this also), 'at this time of year.'"

"---- laughed their father."

"Haw, haw," said Ethelwyn, who had been thinking of the tree under which they played at home.

"'I'll have to take you to the seashore to play on the ----'"

"Beech," said Beth in triumph.

"Then he lighted a cigar and knocked off the ----"

"Ash," said Ethelwyn.

"And walked down street, whistling a song from 'Mikado.' Tit ----"

"Willow," they both cried at once, for they knew that song as well as the tree.

"You have done well," said mother, "but you each have two fines to pay, and it really is your turn next time; so you must remember to think up a game. But here we are at home, and there is 'Vada coming out to meet us."

"O, 'Vada, what has happened since we went away?" said Ethelwyn, climbing out.

"Mista Bobby gwine to give a party this ebenin'; it's his birthday, and his uncle brought him some fiah works like those you all had las' yeah," said 'Vada.

"O goody! did he invite us?"

"Nome, not to say invite. But he's been in to see if you all was expected home."

"O, it won't matter," said Beth easily; "we'll go anyway. Of course he knew we would come."

When Nan came over, she brought her invitation with her. It was very formally enclosed in a small envelope, and informed his friend that Bobby would be at home on that very evening.

This struck Beth as very silly.

"Of course he'll be at home if he's going to give a party! Just as though he'd be anywhere else!" she remarked.

They wished to go over immediately and tell Bobby that they were home and all ready to be invited, but their mother would not allow this.

"He will come over by and by," she said. But the day went by and no invitation came, although great preparations were going on, as they could see, for they kept very near the window that looked out on Bobby's lawn. A slow drizzling rain was falling, or they would probably have been much nearer. But Bobby was evidently very busy getting ready. They caught only flying glimpses of him, and their hearts grew heavy within their breasts.

"O dear! I shall never, never get over this, never!" said Beth, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"I wouldn't have thought Bobby could have done it," said Ethelwyn, also swallowing.

After their bath, they begged for their best slippers, silk stockings, and embroidered petticoats, and on having their hair done in their dress-up-and-go-away-from-home style. "Because," said Ethelwyn, "something may happen yet to make him think of us."

So mother let them have on what they liked, for she was very sorry for them.

In the evening, after dinner, when the electric lights came flashing out, it was worse, because, still standing forlornly by the window, they saw the orchestra come, with their instruments, and presently the sounds of music came floating up to them. Then the ice cream man came, and Beth, who had almost melted to tears at the sight of the orchestra, shed them openly when the ice cream went around the side of the house. Having no handkerchief, she wiped her eyes on Soosana, her big rag doll. She always loved Soosana when she was unhappy, for she was so squeezy and felt so comfortable.

"I hope Bobby will be sorry when he has time to think about it," she remarked in a subdued tone.

"Look at that!" said Ethelwyn in such a hopeful voice that Beth at once emerged from her eclipse behind Soosana, and looked with all her eyes.

There was Bobby, resplendent in a new suit and slippers with shining buckles, running across the lawn.

Ethelwyn and Beth at once pushed up the window, in order to meet him half-way.

"Do you want us, Bobby?" called Beth encouragingly.

"Yes; why on earth don't you come?" cried Bobby. "We are all ready to dance and Nan and everybody but you, are there, and I wouldn't let 'em begin till you came, so hurry up."

"We will," they cried in a breath, "and we would have come a long time ago if you only hadn't forgotten to invite us till so late. What made you, Bobby?"

"Why I didn't!" said Bobby in a surprised tone. "I took your invitation over to your front door and--and--your bell is pretty high up--"

"Yes, I can't reach it at all," said Beth breathlessly; "go on."

"So I shoved it under the door--"

Ethelwyn disappeared like a flash, and, sure enough, under the carpet's edge she could see sticking out the little white corner of the envelope. She knelt down and pulled it out, then ran back.

"We'll come right over in a minute, Bobby," she called happily. "We're pretty nearly all dressed for fear you'd remember you had forgotten--"

"All right, hurry up," called up Bobby.

Down on the floor went Soosana, all damp with tears, but she still smiled broadly at the ceiling in the dark. She probably did not, if the truth were known, quite enjoy being used as a handkerchief, but she felt it was her mission in this life to act as comforter, and so she bore it with cheerfulness. The next morning she was told by happy, though sleepy, Beth that it was a "beyewtiful party, with fireworks, and ice cream, and dancing, and games, and souvenirs. I should never have been so happy again, Soosana, if I had missed going, I know," she concluded, kissing Soosana with such fervor, that she put a dent in that portion of her doll's head where she had been kissed; but this time Soosana was sure she did not care.

_CHAPTER XVI_ _The Mail and Ethelwyn's Visit_

Good-bye, speed by
Days till we meet again.
Hearts' ease, ne'er cease,
Keep free from fret or pain.

There had come an interesting mail that morning, for it began with another letter from Cousin Gladys, who was in London now for the winter, and there was also one from Aunty Stevens and from Grandmother Van Stark. While the two children ate their oatmeal and cream, they read their cousin's letter. This was it:

"DEAR COUSINS:

"We have seen the Coronation, and my eyes ached, there was so much
to see and do. It was worse than a circus with six rings.

"The King is not pretty, but I suppose that won't hinder him from
being good, and nurse is always saying, 'Pretty is that pretty
does, Miss Gladys.' I think she thinks that the two hardly ever go
together. The dear Queen is pretty, however, and so young-looking
and sweet that even nurse has to give in about her.

"I will tell you all about it when we come home, but it tires me
now even to think about it. One morning I begged to go back to the
hotel and rest, and nurse was so disappointed that I told her she
could go out and I would stay alone. I dug around in my trunk and
got rather homesick, looking at the things I had at home. I found
some jacks but no ball, so I thought I would go down to a near-by
shop, and buy one. I slipped down and out, before I had time to
think about mother making me promise not to go anywhere alone. I
turned a corner or two, but didn't find the right kind of a shop.
It was cloudy, and sort of foggy, and crowds and crowds of people
were pushing along. I knew all at once that I was lost, and I began
to feel a lump in my throat, bigger than any ball you ever saw, and
just then I saw a tall man coming towards me. I saw only his legs,
but they looked so Americanish that I rushed up, and said, 'Please
take me to the L---- Hotel,' He stopped at once and said, 'Well, I
certainly will; I am going there myself.' He was a minister from
New York. He laughed when I told him about the jacks, and then he
talked to me in such a nice way about going out alone, that it made
a great impression on me. I found mother and nurse in such a state
when I got back. I was kissed and then put to bed to eat my supper,
but the minister came to call in the evening, and when I had
promised never to do such a thing again, they let me get up. He was
so nice, and brought me a ball. I play jacks every day now, and
think of America and nice 'things like that. I shall be glad to get
there again.

"Yours truly,

"GLADYS.

"P.S.--I can probably beat you at jacks when I get back, I practice
so much."