The hay was all baled by the next morning, and the balers, atop the lumbering machine, caroled loudly if not musically as the fat horses dragged them slowly up the lane. Neat bales of hay were piled high on the barn floor, to be carted over to Hagar's Corners and loaded on a freight car. That would be Ethan's job, and he grumbled at the prospect of doing it without Bob's help.
Betty, coming in from the garden, stumbled over something in the narrow entry. It was a man's coat—Mr. Peabody's, she recognized when she picked it up and shook it slightly to free it from dust. A letter fell from the pocket as she replaced it on the hook where it usually hung, and, stopping to pick it up, she saw to her surprise that it was addressed to her.
"From Washington!" she said aloud, deciphering the postmark. "And mailed five days ago! He's carried it in his pocket ever since it came!"
At first she feared it had been read, but evidently Mr. Peabody had not troubled to open it; so hastily tearing the envelope, she read the brief note. A check was enclosed for her, and Mr. Gordon suggested that she go to Pineville and visit old friends there for a week or two until his plans were definitely shaped.
"I know the Arnolds are in California," he wrote; "but the Bensingers will be glad to have you, or any of your mother's old friends. You do not have to stay one minute where you are unhappy."
Betty looked up as a shadow fell across the sunny floor. It was Mr. Peabody, and he had the grace to show confusion when he saw the letter in her hand.
Betty sprang to her feet.
"Why did you keep my letter?" she demanded hotly. "How did you dare to hold back mail? This must have been in your coat pocket three or four days. It was mailed five days ago!"
"Been rummaging in my coat pocket, have you?" sneered the farmer.
"I have not! The coat was on the floor, and I fell over it. The letter fell out while I was trying to hang it up. No one has a right to hold back another person's mail!"
"Now hold your horses," advised Peabody pacifically. "Who's been holding back mail? If a body takes the mail out of the box and carries it around in his coat a day or two, because he doesn't remember it, that ain't such a crime that I ever knew. I just forgot there was a letter for you."
Betty turned away in disgust and went out to her favorite apple tree to think things over. She did not believe for one moment that Mr. Peabody had forgotten her letter. Indeed, absent-mindedness was far from being one of his traits. However, there was absolutely nothing to be gained by arguing, and the way was now clear for her to leave Bramble Farm. Surely the worst of her troubles were over.
"I might go to Pineville," she thought meditatively. "I'd love to see the Bensingers again and the dear little house where we lived. I'll pack this afternoon."
Betty was an orderly little person, and at her work that afternoon she stopped frequently to sew on a button here, to mend a rip in this garment or to whip a frayed edge that might mar an otherwise dainty belonging. Singing softly over her task, a timid knock at her door wakened the girl from a happy reverie.
"Come in, Mrs. Peabody," she called cheerfully. "Do sit down and give me advice about where things should go. I thought I hadn't bought anything this summer, but I seem to have a great deal more stuff than I brought with me."
"You're packing then?" asked Mrs. Peabody, taking a chair near the bed and regarding Betty oddly. "Are you really going, Betty?"
"Oh, yes," Betty answered matter-of-factly, "Uncle Dick wants me to stop in Pineville and visit old friends for a bit. And there's no use in pretending, Mrs. Peabody, that—that—"
"No, I suppose not," sighed the woman, understanding only too well. "Land knows, if I could get away I'd have no misgivings about the right of it. I'll miss you, though. You've been a sight of company this summer, and no one could have been sweeter to me, Betty."
"Agatha!" came a stentorian shout from the front hall. "Are you going to stay up there all day?"
"My stars, I forgot what I came up for!" Mrs. Peabody rose hurriedly. "Joseph sent me up to tell you he wanted to ask you something, Betty. And here I sit right down and him waiting there all this time!"
Betty was far from concerned over Mr. Peabody's wasted time, but she wondered uneasily what he could wish to ask her. Something connected with Bob, doubtless. She followed Mrs. Peabody downstairs and found the master of Bramble Farm striding up and down impatiently.
"Never saw the beat of women," he muttered. "Gabble, gabble, and an hour right out of a day's work means nothing to 'em. Oh, here you are, Miss. You know that gray alpaca coat of mine you took the letter from this morning?"
"The coat the letter fell out of?" corrected Betty, knowing that such quibbling was foolish On her part and might provoke serious irritation in her questioner, yet unable to refrain. "Of course I remember it; what about it?"
Peabody accepted her description of the coat. He was plainly excited and nervous, and betrayed a curious disposition to conciliate Betty, instantly detected in his change of tone.
"Did you pick up any other papers?" he asked quite politely. "Any folded sheets, I mean, or a long envelope? I thought you might have put them back of the clock or somewhere for safe keeping and forgotten to mention them to me."
Betty looked her astonishment. Automatically her eyes traveled to the clock which was pulled out of its place against the wall. So the man had actually looked there, believing that out of chagrin she might have concealed his papers from him!
"Nothing fell out of your pocket except my letter," she said earnestly and with a quietness that carried conviction. "I saw absolutely nothing else on the floor. If I had picked up other papers, I should have returned them to you, of course."
Mrs. Peabody cleared her throat, usually a sign of coming speech on the rare occasions when she did open her mouth in her husband's presence.
"What you lost, Joseph?" she asked eagerly. "Something missing out o' your pocket?"
"Yes, something out of my pocket!" said her husband savagely. "You wouldn't know if I told you, but it's an unrecorded deed and worth a good deal of money. And I'll bet I know who took it—that measly runaway, Bob Henderson! By gum, he carried the coat up to the house for me from the barn the day before he lit out. That's where it's gone. I see his game! He'll try to get money out of me. But I won't pay him a cent. No sir, I'll go to Washington first and choke the deed out of his dirty pocket."
"Did Bob go to Washington?" quavered Mrs. Peabody, her mind seizing on this concrete fact, the one statement she could understand in her husband's monologue. "How'd you find out, Joseph?"
"Not through Betty," returned Peabody grimly. "She's willing to take the scoundrel's part against honest folks any time. Jim Turner told me. Leastways he told me of some old duffer who runs a crazy shop down there, and he thinks Bob's gone looking him up to find out about his parents. Just let him try blackmailing me, and he'll learn a thing or two."
Betty had kept still as long as she could.
"Bob is no thief!" she said bravely. "You ought to be ashamed to say such a thing about him. I know he didn't take your old deed. What earthly use would it be to him? Besides, Bob would never touch a thing that wasn't his!"
"I don't believe he would take anything, Joseph," urged Mrs. Peabody with perfectly amazing temerity. As a rule she took neither side in a controversy. "Besides, as the child says, what good would an unrecorded deed do him? Unless—Joseph, have you bought the Warren lots?"
"You tend to your housework, and I'll manage my own affairs," snapped Peabody, turning a dull brick red, however. "I meant to put the thing in the safety deposit box over to the bank, and then that sick cow took my mind completely off it. If Betty didn't take it, Bob did. It's gone, and they're the only two that could have put hands on it."
"I tell you that I haven't seen the deed," said Betty firmly. "And I am equally certain that Bob never took it. He's the soul of honor, whatever you may think, and he would no more take what wasn't his than he would lie to you about it."
Peabody caught hold of her right hand suddenly.
"What you carrying?" he demanded suspiciously. "A trunk key? Looks mighty funny, doesn't it, to be packing up with something pretty valuable missing? The law would likely give me the right to search your trunk."
"What a dreadful old man you are!" cried Betty, involuntarily, shrinking from the sinister face that grinned malevolently into hers. "You have no right to touch my trunk."
"Well, no call to look like that," muttered Peabody, turning toward the door. "I knew that other young one took it, and I aim to make it hot for him."
"Bob didn't take any deed!" stormed Betty to Mrs. Peabody, her packing forgotten for the moment. "Why does he keep insisting Bob stole it? And why, oh, why did that poorhouse man have to tell where Bob had gone?"
Mrs. Peabody's natural curiosity had to be satisfied, and as it was no longer a secret Betty told her of Lockwood Hale and Bob's determination to find out more about himself.
"He doesn't want any deed," she finished scornfully. "Can't you make Mr. Peabody see how foolish such an accusation is?"
Mrs. Peabody leaned against the kitchen table wearily.
"I know what he's thinking," she said dully. "I know more than I want to know, Betty. Joseph has bought the Warren lots, and that means he's got 'em for his own price. Old man Warren is in his dotage and these lots have been surveyed and cut up into building plots on the stone road over t'other side of Laurel Grove where the trolley's coming through this spring. Joseph will probably sell 'em for three times what he's paid for 'em. That's why he doesn't have the deed recorded; Warren's children will get hold of it, and I doubt if the sale would hold in court. Everybody knows the old father isn't competent to handle his property. There was talk of having one of the sons made his guardian some months ago. Joseph has just talked him into selling. If he wasn't my husband, I should say the sale was a plain swindle."
Betty was still mystified.
"What has Bob to do with it?" she urged. "I don't see how the deed would be of any use to him; he couldn't claim the lots."
"No, he couldn't claim the lots," admitted Joseph Peabody's wife. "But he could hold the deed and threaten to notify George Warren, if Joseph didn't pay him a good round sum of money. Mind you, I'm not saying he would do that, Betty, but he could. That's what Joseph thinks he means to do."
"Well, I call that very silly," said Betty briskly. "Bob Henderson isn't a thief or a blackmailer, whatever Mr. Peabody chooses to think. That deed is probably in another coat pocket this minute, or else he's lost it over in Glenside."
"I expect that worries him some, too," confided Mrs. Peabody. "He would hate to have it known that he's bought the Warren lots. But I guess it would have been better to have had the deed recorded than to run the risk of losing it and the whole town likely to pick it up on the street."
Before supper that night Betty had her trunk packed and her simple belongings gathered up. She knew that Peabody was fully aware of her intention to leave, but, as her board was paid for nearly a week in advance, he could make no possible objection. It was sheer perversity, she decided, that kept him from mentioning the subject to her.
"I'm going to-morrow, Mr. Peabody," she said pleasantly at the supper table, having waited till Ethan had gone to the barn to milk. "What time would be most convenient to take my trunk over to Glenside or to Hagar's Corners?"
"I'm not going to either place to-morrow," was the composed answer. "Don't know exactly when I shall be going over again, either. Ethan and me's got our hands full right here with the late-season cultivating."
"But I have to get to the station," protested Betty. "I can walk, of course, but some one will have to take my trunk. You met me at the station when I came, or rather Bob did, you know. Why aren't you willing to help me go now that the summer is nearly over?"
"You haven't done me so many favors that I should put myself out for you," retorted Peabody sourly. "I don't care how you get to the station, but none of my rigs go off this place to-morrow, that's flat. And you haven't got that thieving nimble-fingers to plot and plan with you now. You'll have to manage by yourself."
"What are you going to do, Betty?" asked Mrs. Peabody anxiously, following the girl to the door after the meal was over. "You're not going to walk to Glenside to-night to try to get a team to come after you?"
"No, I'm only going over to Kepplers," replied Betty capably. "I'm sure one of the boys will drive me over, if not to Glenside, to Hagar's Corners, where I can get some kind of train for the Junction. All the through trains stop at Hagar's Corners, don't they? I came that way. Perhaps that station is better than Glenside, after all."
The walk across the fields tranquillized her, and she was able to enlist the aid of the Keppler's oldest boy without entering into too detailed an account of Mr. Peabody's shortcomings. Indeed, the Kepplers, father and sons, having been the nearest neighbors to Bramble Farm for eleven years, had a very fair idea of what went on there.
"Sure, I'll take you, and the trunk, too," promised Fred Keppler heartily. "Any time you say, Betty. There's a good train for Pineville, not too many stops, at twelve-three. How about that?"
It was settled that he should come for her about half past ten, and Betty walked home filled with thoughts of the little home town to which she would be speeding on the morrow.
"If Uncle Dick knew the things I've had to endure, I'm sure he'd say that I haven't lost my temper often, considering," she mused. "Is that something sticking out of the mail box? Why. it is, and a newspaper. I guess Mr. Peabody forgot to come down to the box to-day."
She opened the box and found the paper was addressed to her. The familiar wrapper and type told her it was the _Pineville Post_, to which she had subscribed when she left the town, and, tucking it under her arm, she went on to the house, intending to read an hour or so before going to bed.
Lighting the lamp in her room, Betty glanced toward her trunk mechanically. She had left it locked, but the lid was now ajar. Had some one been tampering with the lock?
"He's opened it!" she cried to herself, making a hasty examination. "How did he dare! And look at the mess everything's in!"
Alas for Betty's hour of neat and careful packing! Dainty garments were tossed about recklessly, her shoes rested on her clean handkerchiefs, and it was plain that no attempt had been made to conceal the fact that a heavy hand had thoroughly explored the contents of the trunk.
"I'm only thankful he didn't break the lock," said Betty, trying to find a ray of brightness. "Whatever he opened it with, nothing is broken. I suppose the only thing to do is to take everything out and do it all over. And to-morrow morning I'll sit on the top till Fred Keppler comes."
Taking out her clothes and repacking was a tiresome job, and all thoughts of reading well gone from Betty's mind when the task was completed and the trunk locked for a second time. With the feeling that, in view of what the next day might bring, she ought to go to bed early, she began at once to prepare for bed. Brushing her thick, dark hair, her eyes fell on the unopened paper.
"I suppose I'll be there to-morrow night," she thought, picking it up and slitting the wrapper with a convenient nail file.
She opened and smoothed out the first page. The first words that caught her attention, in large black headlines across four columns, were:
GYPSY BAND STRICKEN WITH SMALL-POX:WHOLE TOWN QUARANTINED!
Then followed the account of the discovery of illness among a band of gypsies camped on the outskirts of Pineville, of the diagnosis of smallpox, and of the strict quarantine immediately put in force. The issue of the _Post_ was only two days old.
"Well, I never!" gasped Betty, doing some rapid thinking. "I'm glad it didn't happen after I got there. I might be held up for weeks. I can't stay here, that's certain. There's nothing to do but drive to Glenside and take the train for Washington. I guess Fred will be willing to change his plans."
She decided that she would say nothing to the Peabodys about the alteration of her traveling schedule, fearing that if Mr. Peabody heard she was going to Washington he might accuse her of a conspiracy with Bob in connection with the lost deed.
Bright and early the next morning she was up, her pretty traveling bag, the gift of her uncle, packed, her room in perfect order. There was really no one or nothing to say good-by to, for she felt more pity than affection for Mrs. Peabody, and the Bramble Farm animals had been too unused to petting to respond readily to her overtures. Betty, at the breakfast table, had a swift conviction that she would be leaving with far different feelings if Bob had been there to stay behind.
Mr. Peabody asked her no questions about her plans and stalked off as usual to the barn with Ethan when he had finished the meal.
"I declare I'm going to miss you, Betty," said Mrs. Peabody once, in the middle of the dishwashing, with which Betty insisted on helping.
That was a good deal for her to say, and the girl, who had a natural longing to be missed, was grateful. And when Fred Keppler drove into the yard, promptly at half-past ten, and went upstairs for her trunk—for neither Peabody nor his hired man was in sight—Mrs. Peabody kissed her warmly and with tears in her eyes.
"Hop right in, Betty," said Fred cordially. "Got a nice day for your trip, haven't you? All fixed? All right, then."
He gathered up the reins and had turned the horse's head when, apparently from the clouds, Mr. Peabody appeared on the scene.
"Long as you're going over to Hagar's Corners you won't mind giving me a lift, will you?" he drawled. "I have an errand over at the station, and it won't take me a minute. I can come right back with you. Go on, Fred; I'll sit in here with the trunk and you and Betty needn't mind me."
Without waiting for an invitation, he swung himself up on top of the trunk, and smiled pleasantly. He was saving his own horse a long drive and getting a necessary errand done at the expense of a neighbor, always a desirable consummation in the Peabody mind.
Fred opened his mouth and closed it wordlessly. His father would have known what to do, but fifteen-year-old Fred did not know how to deal with such a display of assurance. There seemed nothing to do but to take this unwelcome passenger to Hagar's Corners and back.
Betty, for her part, could have cried with vexation. Gone was her chance of asking Fred to take her to Glenside, and with it the hope of getting to Washington. She knew that after the noon train at Hagar's Corners there were no more till four o'clock. She wanted to say good-by to the Guerins and to cash her uncle's check. No wonder she was assailed by a strong desire to tumble the satisfied Mr. Peabody out head over heels.
The drive was taken almost in silence, each of the three busy with his own thoughts. At the station Betty and her trunk were put down, and then she had a few minutes to speak to Fred while Mr. Peabody was talking to the freight agent, who was also the passenger agent, the telegraph clerk and the janitor.
"Don't you want some money?" whispered Fred hurriedly. "Mother told me to ask you. And she sent you this."
He thrust into her hands a box of lunch.
"I have a check I want to cash," said Betty nervously. "Will the station agent do it, do you suppose? It's for fifty dollars. And, Fred, Pineville is quarantined for smallpox and I want to go to Washington, but I didn't want Mr. Peabody to know. Hush! Here he comes now!"
Fred Keppler had what his fond mother called a "good head," and as Peabody and the agent stopped in the station doorway to continue their discussion he proceeded to bear out her theory by thrusting a wad of bills into Betty's hand.
"Money for the calves," he explained. "Just fifty there. Haven't seen Dad to turn it over to him. Give me the check and it will be all right. And you ask Dan Gowdy, the agent, about trains. I guess he can dope out a way to get you to Washington. You still have ten minutes."
"Good-by, and thank you heaps!" cried Betty warmly, shaking his hand. "I don't know what I should have done without you, Fred!"
Her hands filled with the bank bills Fred had thrust into them, her bag under one arm and the lunch box under the other, Betty stood forlornly on the platform and watched the horse and wagon out of sight. Mr. Peabody had merely nodded to her by way of farewell, and Betty felt that if she never saw him again there would be little to regret. As a matter of fact, she was to meet him again and not under much more favorable aspects. But of that she was happily ignorant.
The whistling of the lanky young station agent, who was covertly staring at her under pretense of sweeping up the already neat boards before the door, roused her. She remembered that she did not want to go to Pineville.
"Why, I guess I can fix it up for you," said Dan Gowdy cheerfully, when she had stated her predicament, withholding only the reason for not telling Mr. Peabody. "Let me see—twelve-three stops at Centertown. But you don't want to spend the night on the train. Going from Centertown, you'd get to Washington about ten in the morning."
"I'd rather not sleep on the train," answered Betty timidly, hoping that she was not unreasonable. Aside from the expense, she was not used to traveling, and the idea of a night alone on the train for the first time rather daunted her.
"Well, then—Wait a minute, I've got it!" shouted the agent enthusiastically. "You buy a ticket up the line to Halperin. That's quite a town, and the through trains all stop. My brother-in-law's telegraph operator there, and I'll send him a message to look out for you, and he and my sister will keep you over night. They've got a pretty place right in the country—trolley takes you to the door—and a baby that's named for me and some kid if I do say it. Then in the morning you can take the seven-forty-five for Washington and get there at five-fifty-two if it isn't late. How's that?"
"But your sister!" stammered Betty. "She doesn't know me. What will she say?"
"She'll say you have eyes just like Juliet, the little sister who died when she was about your age," declared Dan Gowdy gently. "Don't you fret, Sister, she'll be glad to have you. Now here's your ticket, and I'll talk to Steve as soon as you're on board the train. That's her smoke now."
Betty was conscious that there was something else on her mind, but it was not until she was seated in the train and had had her ticket punched that she remembered. She had thanked kind Dan Gowdy rather incoherently, though as warmly as she could, and had only half heard his explanation that she was taking the 12:01 train up the line instead of the 12:03 down, and it was no wonder that in the bustle of boarding the train she had forgotten her intention of telegraphing to her Uncle Dick. He had given her his address as the Willard Hotel, and the letter was already six days old.
"But I really think in the morning will be better," decided Betty, watching the flying landscape. "He wouldn't have given me the address if he didn't expect to be there for some time. Before I take the Washington train I'll telegraph him and let him know when to meet me."
The train made three stops before Halperin was reached, and Betty stepped down to find herself before a pretty, up-to-date station built of cream-colored brick, with a crowd of stylish summer folk mingling on the platform with farmers and townspeople. Several automobiles were backed up waiting for passengers, and there were one or two old-fashioned hacks. A trolley car was rounding the street corner, the motorman sounding his bell noisily.
"Betty Gordon, isn't it?" asked a pleasant voice.
A round-faced man was smiling down at her, a young man, Betty decided, in spite of the white hair. His keen dark eyes were pleasant, and he held out his hand cordially.
"Dan told me you had cornflowers on your hat," he said quizzically, "and I, knowing that Dan calls all blue flowers cornflowers, picked you out right away. Only they are forget-me-nots, aren't they?"
"They're supposed to be larkspur," answered Betty, laughing and feeling at ease at once. "Perhaps the milliner didn't have a garden."
"Well, anyway, they're blue," said the brother-in-law comfortably. "Don't suppose Dan told you my name?"
He was guiding her around the station toward the trolley tracks as he spoke.
"He said the baby was named for him, but he didn't say what your name was," admitted Betty dimpling.
"Just like him!" grinned her companion. "Dan's so all-fired proud of that youngster he never lets a chance slip to tell we named him Daniel Gowdy Brill. Though Dan senior usually forgets to add the Brill."
"Does—does Mrs. Brill know I'm coming?" ventured Betty.
"She sure does! I telephoned her the minute I heard from Dan, and I suspect she and the baby are sitting out on the fence now watching for you to come along. Sorry I can't go with you, but I've just come on duty. You tell the conductor to let you off at Brill's, and I'll see you at supper to-night."
He helped her on the car, tipped his hat, and ran back to the station, leaving Betty with the comfortable feeling that the Brills were used to company and rather liked it.
She repeated her instructions to the conductor, who nodded silently, and, after a quarter of an hour's ride, signaled to her that her destination was reached. They had passed the town limits, and were in the open country. Betty had noticed several farmhouses, of the artistic remodeled type, evidently summer homes of the well-to-do, as the car rattled along.
She saw one of these as she stepped from the trolley car, and also, under a tree, a young woman holding a beautiful, rosy baby. These two immediately swooped down upon her.
"I'm so glad you've come!" Mrs. Brill kissed her unaffectedly. "Kiss Danny, too! Isn't he a nice baby? We waited lunch for you, and if you're half as starved as we are—"
Still chattering, she led the way into the house. Mrs. Brill was an elder sister of the Hagar's Corner's agent and very like him in face, manner, and bright, cheery way of speaking. The house was tastefully furnished, and a white-capped maid could be seen hovering over the table as they went upstairs. Betty learned long afterward that Mr. Brill's father was wealthy and idolized his son's wife, who had given the younger man the ambition and spur his career had lacked until he met and married her. It was lovely Rose Gowdy who persuaded Steve Brill to take the job of telegraph operator, forgetting his prematurely white hair, and she who encouraged him to work his way to the top of the railroad business. Rose, and Rose's son, were given all the credit of that ultimate success by the older Brill.
"I had a little sister once who looked just like you," said Mrs. Brill, as she watched Betty smooth her hair at the mirror in the chintz-hung guest room. "Her name was Juliet. Poor old Dan nearly broke his heart when she died."
"He said something about her," replied Betty shyly. "Oh, look at that cunning baby! He thinks he can eat his own foot!"
"He will, too, if he doesn't get his bottle soon," said the baby's mother, rising. "Come, dear, we'll go down. Danny has his bottle in his wheeler right in the dining-room."
The little maid served them a dainty meal, and the round-eyed baby fell asleep as they ate and talked, lying in blissful content in a white-enameled contrivance that was like a crib on four wheels, and sucking quietly on his bottle.
"Now if you want to lie down, you may," said Mrs. Brill when they had finished. "I'll be busy for the next couple of hours with two of my neighbors who are planning a minstrel show for the country club. They had already planned to come when Steve telephoned. If you're not tired, perhaps you'll enjoy looking over our farm. Even if you've spent your summer on one, you may find things to interest you."
Betty was not tired, and she had been longing to explore the belt of green fields that encircled the old farmhouse. Hatless, but carrying her sweater over her arm, she went happily out.
There was a small but well-kept poultry yard with some handsome white leghorns lazily sunning themselves; a gentle-eyed Jersey cow stood close to the first pair of bars; and a fat, lazy collie snoozed under a cherry tree but declined to accompany Betty on her explorations, though she petted and flattered and coaxed him with all her powers of persuasion. He wagged his tail cordially and beamed upon her good-naturedly, but as to getting up and walking about so soon after dinner—well, he begged to be excused.
"You're a lazy thing!" said the girl indignantly, finally giving up the task as hopeless and climbing the fence into a larger pasture.
Over in one corner of the field she spied something that quickened her steps with pleasure. A baby colt, long-legged, sleek of head and altogether "adorable" as Betty would have said, ambled more or less ungracefully about enjoying the shade of a clump of trees and sampling the grass at intervals.
"Oh, I do hope you're tame!" whispered Betty softly.
She was fond of animals, and Bramble Farm, with the exception of a few lambs, had had no young life in its pastures and stables. The little calves were always sold as early as possible that there might be more milk for butter, and Betty was fairly aching to pet something.
She walked cautiously up to the colt, who sniffed at her suspiciously, but stood his ground. He pricked his ears forward and looked at her inquiringly.
"You dear!" said the girl quietly. "You little beauty! You wouldn't mind if I patted you, would you?"
She put out one hand and touched the rough side of the little animal. He stood perfectly still, and she stroked him for a minute or two, speaking gently to him. Presently he nuzzled her playfully.
"Oh, you darling!" she cried delighted. "Wouldn't I love to take you with me and have you for a pet! If you wouldn't grow any larger than you are now, I'd take you everywhere just like a dog."
She had both arms around the colt's neck now, and he seemed to enjoy being petted. All at once Betty thought she heard hoof-beats on the ground, and at the same time the colt raised his head and whinnied.
Betty looked up and across the field toward the house. She stood back from the colt and stared in dismay and astonishment at what she saw.
Tearing across the ground, headed directly for her, was a fierce animal with flashing red nostrils, huge mouth open wide and showing two great rows of strong yellow teeth bared to the gums. Sparks seemed to fly from the hoofs and a coarse black tail streamed in the wind.
"Good gracious!" gasped Betty weakly. "That must be the colt's mother!"
The colt whinnied again in welcome and delight, but Betty felt rooted to the earth.
It is sometimes said that in moments of danger one's whole life passes swiftly in review through the mind, but Betty always declared that she had just a single thought when it seemed that in another moment she would be trampled under the mare's hoofs; she had not telegraphed to her uncle and he would not know where she had gone.
The horse continued to cover the ground rapidly, and then, when it had almost reached the terrified girl, fear lent sudden wings to Betty's leaden feet. She turned and ran.
Speeding over the field toward the fence at the other end, she could hear the steady pounding of the mare's hoofs, though she did not dare to glance over her shoulder. Her thoughts worked busily, trying to figure out a way to climb over or under the fence, and she had a lively fear of those terrible teeth nipping her as she tried to climb. As the fence seemed to her strained vision to rise suddenly from the ground and come to meet her, a way to safety opened.
Before she began to run she had unconsciously stooped to gather her sweater from the ground where she had dropped it, and now she turned and waved the garment frantically in the furious animal's face. Bewildered and confused, the mare stopped, and, as Betty continued to flap the sweater, she turned and dashed back to her colt. Weakly the girl tumbled over the fence and the adventure was over.
"She thought you were going to hurt Pinto," said Mrs. Brill, when she heard the story. "Goodness, I certainly am glad you had the presence of mind to shake your sweater at old Phyllis. Wouldn't it have been dreadful if she had bitten you!"
The next morning, Betty said good-by to the hospitable family who had been so wonderfully kind to her, and, much refreshed after a luxurious hot bath and a night's sleep in the pretty guest room, took the trolley car into town with Mr. Brill, who at the station door bade her farewell in his capacity of host and two minutes later as telegraph operator sent her message to Uncle Dick in Washington.
The 7:45 was on time to the minute, and as the long train pulled in and the porter helped her on, Betty drew a long breath of relief. Surely there could be no more delays and in a comparatively few hours she might hope to be with her uncle and know the comfort of telling him her experiences instead of trusting their recital to letters.
The train had been made up late the night before and many of the passengers were still sleepy-eyed after restless hours in their berths. A good many of them were at breakfast in the dining car, and as there was no parlor car Betty had to take half a section already occupied by a rather frowsy young woman with two small children.
"We take on a parlor car at Willowvale," the porter assured Betty, only too sympathetically, for he had been waiting on the woman and her children since the afternoon before. "I'll see that you get a chair then, Miss."
Betty settled herself as comfortably as she could and opened her magazine.
"Read to me?" suggested a little voice, and a sticky hand caressed her skirt timidly.
"Now don't bother the lady," said the mother, trying to pull the child away. "My land, if I ever live to get you children to your grandmother's I'll be thankful! Lottie, stop making scratches on that window sill!"
Lottie pursed her pretty mouth in a pout and drummed her small heels discontentedly against the green plush of the seat.
Betty smiled into the rebellious blue eyes and was rewarded by a sudden, radiant smile. She closed her magazine and found the mother gazing at her with a look almost as childlike in its friendly curiosity as her little daughter's.
"You've got a way with children, haven't you?" said the woman wistfully. "I guess everybody on this train will be glad when we get off. The children have been perfect torments, and Lottie cried half the night. We're none of us used to traveling, and they're so mussed up and dirty I could cry. At home I keep 'em looking as neat as wax. We're going to see my husband's mother, and I know she'll think I started with 'em looking like this."
Betty was far older than many girls her age in some things. She was self-reliant and used to observing for herself, and she had a rich fund of warm and ready sympathy that was essentially practical. She saw that the mother of these lively, untidy children was very young, hardly more than a girl, and worn-out and nervous as a result of taking a long journey with no help and little traveling experience. She was probably, and naturally, anxious that her children should impress their father's mother favorably, and it took little imagination to understand that in her home the young mother had been used to praise for her excellent management. Betty, added to her qualities of leadership and sound judgment, had a decided "knack" with children. In Pineville she had been a general favorite with the little ones, and many a mother had secretly marveled at the girl's ability to control the most headstrong youngster. Now she seized the opportunity presented to help a fellow-passenger.
"Have you had your breakfast?" she asked. "No? I thought not. Well, I had mine before I got on the train. If you are willing to trust the children with me, I'll amuse them while you go into the diner and have a quiet meal. You'll feel much better then."
"Oh, it's been a nightmare!" confided the young mother with a sudden rush of feeling. "Nobody ever told me what it would be like to travel with two children. Lottie upset her milk and Baby spilled her supper on the floor. And people just glare at me and never offer to help. It will be heavenly to eat my breakfast without them, but I feel that I'm imposing on you."
Betty managed to send her off convinced that everything was as it should be, and to the mother's surprise the children snuggled down like little mice to listen to the honorable and ancient story of the Three Bears. By the time a rested and radiant mother came back to them, for she had stolen a little time in the dressing room and rearranged her fair hair and adjusted her trim frock, something she had found it impossible to accomplish with two restless children clinging to her skirts, Lottie and Baby were firm friends with Miss Betty.
"I never knew any one as lovely as you are!" The gratitude of the woman was touching. "I was just about crazy. My husband tipped the porter, and he did try to look after me, but he didn't know what to do. Usually there is a maid on this train, they told us, but she was taken sick, and there wasn't time to get any one to fill her place. Now don't let the children bother you. They had their breakfast early, and I can read to them till we get to Willowvale where their grandmother will meet us."
But Betty had not finished. She loved the feel of soft little arms about her neck and there was not much connected with a baby's welfare she did not know about. Many a Pineville baby she had washed and dressed and fed as correctly as a model baby should be.
"Let me take them one at a time and tidy them up?" she suggested. "They'll take to it kindly, because I am new and that will lend to the washing a novelty. If we go in relays, we can't upset the whole car."
So first with Lottie, and then with Baby, who seemed to be without other name, Betty went into the dressing-room and there washed pink and white faces and hands till they shone, and brushed silk locks till they lay straight and shining. Clean frocks were forthcoming, and two spick and span babies emerged to beam upon a transformed world no longer seen through a veil of tears. This new friend could tell the most wonderful stories, invent delightful games, and sing dozens of foolish little rhymes in a low sweet voice that disturbed no one and yet allowed every word to be distinctly understood.
Both children went to sleep during the morning, and then Betty heard that Mrs. Clenning, as the mother introduced herself, lived in the West and that this journey to Willowvale was the first she had taken since the birth of the babies.
"My husband's mother is crazy to see them because they are her only grandchildren," she explained. "I didn't want to come without Mr. Clenning, but he couldn't get away for a couple of months. He is to come after us and take us home. If he didn't, I'm sure I'd live East the rest of my days, or at least till the children are grown up. I'll never have the courage to try a long train trip with them again."
Before Willowvale was reached Betty helped Mrs. Clenning get her wraps and bags together and tied the babies into bewitching white bonnets with long fluted strings. The porter came for the bags, but Betty carried the younger child to the car door and handed her down to the mother, who had gone first with Lottie. She saw a tall, stately, white-haired woman, dressed all in white from her shoes to her hat, gather all three into her arms, and then went back to her seat satisfied that the mother's troubles were over.
"Parlor car's ready, Miss," announced the porter, coming up to her. "Shall I take you on in?"
Betty followed him, to be established comfortably on the shady side of the car, with the window adjusted at the most comfortable height. She did not hear the porter's comment to the conductor when he passed him in the vestibule of the parlor car.
"That girl in seat fourteen, she's one perfect little lady," said the dusky porter earnestly. "You jest observe her when you takes her ticket. 'Member that lady with the two children what racketed all day and all night? Well, she done fix those two kids up till you wouldn't know 'em, and cheered their mother up, too. And all jest as pretty and like a lady. That mighty fine lady in the red hat (I give her a seat on the sunny side of the car a-purpose) wouldn't do nothing yesterday when I axted her to hold a glass of milk while I went to get a extra pillow. Said she wasn't going to be nursemaid to no stranger's brats!"
So Betty was zealously looked after by the whole train crew, for the story had spread, and the siege of Clenning had been a protracted one with a corresponding fervency of gratitude for release; and at six o'clock that night the attentive porter handed her down the steps to the platform of the beautiful Union Station in Washington.
She had only her light traveling bag to carry, so she followed the crowd through the gates, walking slowly and scanning the faces anxiously in order that she might not pass her uncle. She did not wish to go through the station out on the plaza, lest she make it more difficult for him to find her, and she was keenly disappointed that he had not been at the gate, for the train was half an hour late and she had confidently expected him to be waiting. She took up her stand near the door of the waiting room and scanned the eddying circles of travelers that passed and repassed her.
"Something must have delayed him," she thought uneasily. "He couldn't miss me even in a crowd, because he is so careful. I hope he got the telegram."
She had turned to compare her wrist-watch with the station clock when a voice at her back said half-doubtfully, "Betty?"
"You are Betty, aren't you?" the girlish voice insisted, and this time Betty identified it as belonging to a girl a year or two older than herself who stood smiling uncertainly at her.
"Yes, of course I'm Betty," said Betty Gordon smiling.
The face of her questioner cleared.
"All right, girls," she called, beckoning to two others who stood a little way off. "She's Betty. I was sure I hadn't make a mistake."
Betty found herself surrounded by three laughing faces, beaming with good-will and cordiality.
"We must introduce ourselves," said the girl who had first spoken to her. "This is Louise," pointing to a gray-eyed miss apparently about Betty's age. "This is Esther." A girl with long yellow braids and pretty even white teeth bobbed a shy acknowledgment. "And of course I'm Roberta, Bobby for short."
"And if we don't hurry, we'll be late for dinner," suggested the girl who had been called Louise. "You know Carter isn't as patient as he once was; he hates to have to wait."
Bobby thrust her arm through Betty's protectingly.
"Come on, Betty," she said comfortably. "Never mind about your trunk check. Carter will drive down after it early in the morning."
Betty's bewildered mind was vaguely appreciative of the wide sweep of open plaza which lay before them as they came out on the other side of the station, but before she could say a word she was gently bundled into a handsome automobile, a girl on either side of her and one opposite, and the grim-faced, silver-haired old chauffeur, evidently slightly intolerant of the laughter and high spirits of his young passengers, had started to thread his way through the lane of taxicabs and private cars.
Betty was intensely puzzled, to put it mildly. Her uncle had mentioned no girls in his letters to her, and even supposing that she had missed some letters, it was hardly possible that he should not have let fall an explanatory word or two from time to time.
"I thought Uncle Dick would come down to meet me," she said, voicing her surprise at last.
"Oh, poor dear, his heart is almost broken to think he has to stay cooped up in the house," answered Bobby, who seemed to be the general spokesman. "But how stupid of us—of course you don't know that he hurt his foot!"
"Is he hurt?" Betty half rose from her seat in alarm. "Is he badly injured? When did it happen?"
Bobby pulled the excited girl down beside her.
"You see it happened only yesterday," explained Louise, finding her voice with a rush. "You'd better believe we were frightened when they brought him to the house in the ambulance. His foot has some little bones broken in it, the doctor says, but he'll be all right in a month or so. He has to hobble around on crutches till the bones knit."
"But it isn't serious, so don't look like that," urged Bobby. "Why, Betty, your lips are positively white. We're so thankful it was his foot and not his head—that would have been something to worry about."
"How—how did it happen?" gasped Betty, anxious and worried in spite of these assurances. "Was he in an accident?"
"He was the whole accident," announced Bobby cheerfully. "You see he's completely wrapped up in these new buildings they're putting up on the outskirts. We'll take you out to see 'em while you're here and perhaps you'll understand the construction, which is more than I do. Anyway, the whole firm and every workman is absorbed in the experiment, and they're burnt as red as the bricks from working outdoors all day."
"Uncle Dick does love to be outdoors," murmured Betty.
"He sure does," agreed Bobby. "Well, nothing would do yesterday but that he must climb up on the roof of one they've just started and take a peek at the chimney. I guess it needed looking after, for the whole thing tumbled over on him, coming down full-weight on his right foot. Forcet, the foreman, had an awful time getting him down from the roof, and instead of telephoning for the car, some nervous person sent for the ambulance and scared us all into fits."
Betty blinked again. No mention of building houses had been made in Uncle Dick's letters to her.
"Did he get my telegram?" she asked, leaning forward to look at a monument they were passing.
"A little before noon," replied Bobby. "Louise and Esther and I had such a violent argument as to which of us should come to meet you that we didn't even dare draw lots; it seemed safer for us all to come along."
Esther, who sat opposite Betty, had noticed her interest in the Washington Monument.
"We're going to take you sightseeing to-morrow," she promised. "Aren't we, Bobby? And I don't see why we don't go home by way of Fort Myer. It doesn't take any longer, and dinner isn't till seven, you know."
"All right." Bobby leaned forward and spoke to the chauffeur. "Take us round by Fort Myer, please, Carter," she directed.
The car turned sharply, and in a few minutes they were rattling over an old bridge.
"We live out in the country, Betty, I warn you," said the voluble Bobby. "But it has its compensations. You'll like it."
Betty, a stranger to Washington, decided that the Willard must be a country hotel. It would be like Uncle Dick, she knew, to shun the heart of the city and establish himself somewhere where he could see green fields the first thing every morning.
"What is Fort Myer?" she asked with lively curiosity, as the car began to climb a steep grade. "Is that where they had training camps during the war?"
"Right," said Bobby. "It's an army post, you know. See, here are some of the officers' houses. I only hope we live here when Louise and I are eighteen—they give the most heavenly dances and parties."
Betty looked with interest at the neat houses they were passing. The names of the officers were conspicuously tacked on the doorsteps, and there was a general air of orderliness and military spic and spanness about the very gravel roads. Occasionally a dust-colored car shot past them filled with men in uniform.
"Do you ride?" asked Betty suddenly. "Uncle Dick has always wanted me to learn, but I've never had a good chance."
"Well, you can begin to-morrow morning," Bobby informed her. "We've three ponies that are fine under the saddle. Betty, I do wish you'd make up your mind to live in Washington this winter. There's no reason in the world why you shouldn't, and we were talking it over last night, making plans for you."
"Why! that's entirely as Uncle Dick says," returned Betty, surprised. "I haven't any say in the matter."
Bobby shot a triumphant glance toward the other girls.
"He said he hadn't much right to dictate, but I told him I knew better," she said with satisfaction. "He wants you as much as we do, and that's considerable, you know."
Again a wave of doubt swept over Betty. Uncle Dick had said he had not much right to dictate! When he was her only living relative!
"Uncle hasn't a fever or anything, has he?" she asked apprehensively. "I mean the injury to his foot hasn't, it didn't—" she floundered.
"Oh, that old hurt to his head never amounted to anything," declared Bobby with convincing carelessness. "No, indeed, he's perfectly well except for the crutches, and the doctor says keeping him indoors for a few days will give him a much-needed rest."
Betty recalled the accident in which her uncle had been stunned when he had slipped down a bank into an excavation made along a road on which they had been driving. Bobby evidently referred to that old injury.
"Now you can begin to watch for the house," said the silent Esther, as Carter swung the car around another curve in the beautiful road. "I don't see why I couldn't have been named Virginia!"
"Esther has a personal grievance because she's the only one of us born in the South, and she had to be named for an aunt like the rest of us," laughed Bobby. "Every tenth girl you meet down here seems to be named Virginia."
"But was she born in Virginia?" asked Betty. "Where did you live then?"
Bobby stared. Then she laughed.
"Oh, I see," she said. "We lived at Fairfields. Of course you know that. But, like so many friends, you have always thought of us as living in Washington. We're in Virginia, Betty, didn't you know that?"
"No." Betty's puzzlement was plainly written on her face.
"When we crossed the bridge, we left the District of Columbia," explained Bobby. "Of course we're very close to the line, but still we are not in Washington."
"There's the house!" exclaimed Louise. "I wonder if mother got back from shopping. I don't see her on the porch."
Betty saw a beautiful white house, dazzlingly white against a background of dark trees, with a broad lawn in front circled by a wide white driveway. A terraced garden at the side with a red brick walk was arranged with wicker chairs and tables and a couple of swings protected with gay striped awnings. It was a typical Southern mansion in perfect order, and Betty reveled in its architectural perfections even while she told herself that it did not look in the slightest like a hotel. What was it Bobby had called her home? "Fairfields"—that was it; and she, Betty, wanted to go to the Willard. Had they made a mistake and brought her to the wrong place?
There was no time to ask for explanations, however. The girls swept her out of the car and up the low steps through the beautiful doorway. A well-trained man servant closed the door noiselessly, and the three bore Betty across the wide hall into a room lined with books and boasting three or four built-in window seats, in one of which a gentleman was reading.
"We found her! Here she is!" shouted the irrepressible Bobby. "Don't tell us we can't pick a girl named Betty out of a crowd!"
The gentleman closed his book, and, steadying himself with a cane lying near by, rose slowly. There was no recognition in the gaze he fastened on Betty, and she for her part hung back, staring wildly.
"You're not Uncle Dick!" she gasped accusingly.
Betty's speech was shock number one. Another quickly followed.
The gentleman tugged quizzically at his short gray mustache.
"And you," he announced quietly, "are not my niece, Betty Littell!"
Esther and Louise stared, round-eyed, while Bobby collapsed dramatically on a convenient couch.
"Have we kidnapped anybody?" she asked, a bit hysterically. "Good gracious, Dad, don't tell me I've forcibly run off with a girl? Haven't you made a mistake? She must be Betty—she said so."
"My darlings, I'm sorry to be late," said a new voice, a rich, sweet contralto, and a stout woman with a kindly, florid face swept through the doorway. "Why, what is the matter?" she demanded hurriedly, confronting the tense group.
"Momsie!" exclaimed Bobby, hurling herself upon the newcomer. "Oh, Momsie, isn't this Betty Littell? We went to meet her and she said her name was Betty, and all the way home she talked about Uncle Dick, and now she says dad isn't her uncle! I'm afraid I've made a mess of things."
"Yes, I think you have," said Betty, with blazing cheeks. "I came to Washington to meet my uncle, Mr. Richard Gordon, who is stopping at the Willard. Of course my name is Betty. I'm Betty Gordon, and he's my Uncle Dick. And goodness only knows what he is doing now—he'll be about crazy if he came to meet me."
Bobby began to laugh uncontrollably.
"I never heard of such a thing in my life!" she giggled, wiping her eyes. "Dad's name is Richard Littell, and we've been expecting our cousin Betty Littell to arrive to-day from Vermont for a long visit. We haven't seen her since she was six years old, but I took a chance on recognizing her. And then there was the name! How could I guess there would be two Bettys looking for two Uncle Dicks! Don't be mad, Betty; you can see a mix-up like that wouldn't happen twice in a life time."
"She isn't mad," interposed Mr. Littell, lowering himself carefully to the window seat, for he had been standing all this time and his foot began to pain again. "After she knows you a little better, Bobby, she will expect this sort of denouement to follow whatever you undertake. I say we ought to have some dinner, Mother, and then talk at the table."
"Of course, of course," agreed motherly Mrs. Littell. "The poor child must be famished. Take Betty—you don't mind if I call you Betty, do you, dear?—up to your room, Bobby, and when you come down dinner will be served."
"But my uncle!" urged Betty. "He will be so worried. And the other girl—where do you suppose she is?"
"By George, the child has more sense than I have," said Mr. Littell energetically. "I'd give a fortune if Bobby had half as level a head. Our Betty is probably having hysterics in the station if she hasn't taken the next train back to Vermont."
His keen eyes twinkled appreciatively at Betty, and she knew that she liked him and also sensed instinctively that his eldest daughter was very like him.
"Why, Father, how you do talk!" reproved Mrs. Littell comfortably. "I'll call up the station while the girls are upstairs and then Betty shall call the Willard, or you do it for her, and then perhaps we can eat dinner before the souffle is quite ruined."
The girls took Betty upstairs to a luxurious suite of rooms they shared, and when she had bathed her face and hands and brushed her hair, they came down to find that Mr. Littell had called up the Union Station and discovered that because of a freight wreck the Vermont express had been delayed and would not be in before nine o'clock that night.
"So our Betty is probably having a comfortable dinner on the train," he announced. "Now just a minute, and I'll have the Willard for the other Betty. We'll tell your uncle you are safe and that we'll bring you into Washington to-night."
In a few minutes he had the connection, and they heard him ask for Mr. Richard Gordon. His mobile face changed as the clerk answered, and Betty, watching, knew that he had disconcerting news. He turned to them, covering the mouthpiece with his hand.
"Mr. Gordon left early this morning for Oklahoma," he said. "He left an address for mail, and there's a telegram which came after he left. It was sent from Halperin and was received at eleven-thirty this morning."
"That's the one I sent!" answered Betty. "And Uncle Dick's gone to Oklahoma! What on earth shall I do?"
"Do!" repeated Mr. and Mrs. Littell in concert. "Why, stay right here with us, of course! Do you suppose we'd let a young girl like you knock around alone in a city? We'll be glad to have you stay as long as you will, and you mustn't be uncomfortable another second. When you hear from your uncle there'll be plenty of time to make other plans."
Betty did not try to express her gratitude to these new kind friends, for she knew that she could never say one-half the thanks she felt toward them. They were cordiality itself, and did everything in their power to make her feel at home. An excellent dinner was served in the charming dining-room with a mixture of formality and simple home courtesy that was as unusual as it was delightful, and in this atmosphere of good breeding and tact, Betty bloomed like a little rose.
"A charming girl, whoever she is," said Mr. Littell to his wife, as he smoked his cigar after dinner and the girls drew Betty to the piano. "She has plenty of spirit, but lacks Bobby's boisterousness. It will be a good thing for the girls to have some one like her, self-reliant and quiet and yet with decided snap, to chum with."
"I like the idea of five girls in the house," beamed Mrs. Littell, who was the soul of hospitality and fairly idolized her three daughters. Whatever discipline they had came from their father. "And now I think I had better go to the station, after our Betty, don't you?"
"Oh, Mother!" came in concert from the piano, where Bobby was rattling off a lively waltz. "We all want to go. Please? There's plenty of room in the car."
Mrs. Littell looked undecided.
"One of you may go with your mother," said Mr. Littell decisively. "I think it had better be Louise. Now, there is no use in arguing. One girl is enough. Betty will be tired after traveling all night and all day, and she will be in no mood for talking and carrying on. I'll tell Carter to bring the car around, Mother."
Bobby pouted for a few moments after her mother and sister had gone, but her good-nature was easily restored and she and Betty and Esther were deep in an exchange of confidences when Mrs. Littell returned bringing the missing Betty with her.
"Now stand up for a minute, you two Bettys," commanded Bobby, when greetings had been exchanged and explanations made. "I want to see if I made such a dreadful mistake in taking Betty Gordon for Betty Littell."
The two girls stood side by side, and though they both had dark eyes and hair, there the resemblance ceased. Betty Littell was a dumpling of a girl with curly hair, a snub nose and round face. She looked the picture of good-nature, and her plumpness suggested a fondness for sweets that subsequent acquaintance with her fully sustained.
Betty Gordon had grown tall through the summer, and she was of a slender, wiry build that hinted of a fondness for outdoor life. Her heavy straight hair was wrapped around her well-shaped little head in braids, and her exquisite little hands and feet, so far her one claim to beauty, though later promises lay in her glowing face, gave her, as Louise afterward confided to her mother, "an air like an Indian princess."
"No, you don't look much alike," conceded Bobby, after a prolonged scrutiny. "But Betty Gordon looks the way I thought Betty Littell would look, so I don't see that I am to blame."
"Trust Bobby to excuse herself from a scrape," chuckled her father. "By the way, how are you going to arrange about names? Two Bettys in the family will involve complications."
"I think we'll have to call Betty Littell, 'Libbie'" suggested Mrs. Littell, smiling. "That was your mother's name at home, always, Betty."
"Yes, I know it; and that's why they called me Betty," replied the Littell girl. "Two names, the same names, I mean, do make confusion. I'm willing to be called Libbie, Aunt Rachel, if you let me have a little time to get used to it. If I don't answer right away, you'll understand that I'm listening for 'Betty.'"
"Well, Mother, I think at least two of these girls need sleep," announced Mr. Littell. "Betty Gordon looks as if she couldn't keep her eyes open another moment, and Betty Littell has yawned twice. I should say we all might retire—it's after eleven."
"Goodness, so it is," said his wife hastily. "Time does fly so when you're talking. Come, girls, if you are going sightseeing to-morrow, you'll need a good night's rest."
There were three bedrooms and a private bath at the disposal of the girls, and separate beds in all the rooms. Betty Gordon shared a room with Bobby, Louise and Betty Littell had the one adjoining, and Esther slept alone in the third room, which was also connected with the others.
Long after the other girls were asleep Betty lay awake, thinking over the happenings of the day. Finally she worked around to the suggested change in names.
"They must expect me to stay if they plan to avoid confusion of names," she thought. "I must talk to Mr. Littell in the morning and ask him if it's really all right. I feel as if it were an imposition for me, a perfect stranger, to accept their hospitality like this."
In the morning she was up and dressed before the rest, fortunately having a fresh blouse in her bag so that, although she had nothing but her suit skirt, she looked well-groomed and dainty. Betty Littell was also without her trunk, though Bobby promised that both trunks should be brought from the station that morning.
"I'd like to speak to your father a minute," said Betty, when she was dressed.
Bobby, on the floor tying her shoes, blew her a kiss.
"You'll find him on the terrace probably," she said confidently. "Go ahead, dear, but it won't do you any good. We're determined to keep you to play with us."
So the astute Bobby had guessed what she wanted to say! Nevertheless, Betty was determined to carry out her resolution. She went slowly down the wide staircase and stepped out through double screen doors on to the bricked terrace. Sure enough, there sat Mr. Littell, smoking comfortably and reading his morning paper.
"You're up early!" the gentleman greeted Betty cordially. "Guess you're ahead of even Esther, who usually leads the van. Sleep well? That's good," as she nodded. "No troubles this bright morning?"
Betty gave him a grateful glance.
"I can't help it," she said bravely. "You know how I feel, coming here like this—you don't know me—"
"No-o," drawled Mr. Littell, pulling forward a gay-cushioned chair and motioning for her to sit down. ("Can't have any manners when your foot is smashed," he explained in an aside.) "No, Betty, it's true we don't know you. But mother and I think we know a nice girl when we see her, and we're glad to have you stay with us just as long as you can feel comfortable and at home. If I were you, I'd just bury these uneasy feelings you speak of. Fact is, I'll give you two good reasons why you should make us a little visit. One is that if we had had the pleasure of your acquaintance you would have had a regular letter from mother weeks ago, asking you to come and spend the summer with us. The second is that I know how your uncle would feel to think of you alone in the city or the country. Guess how I'd take it if one of my own daughters was waiting for word from me and no one made things pleasant for her. Won't you shake hands and make a bargain with me that you'll try to see our side of it, your uncle's and mine, and then just plan to have a happy time with the girls until we can reach him in the West?"
Betty placed her small hand in the larger one held out to receive it, and smiled back at Mr. Littell. He had a smile very few people could resist.
"That's better," he said with satisfaction. "Now we're friends. And, remember, I'm always ready to give advice or listen. That's what fathers and uncles are for, you know. And I'd like to have you look on me as a second Uncle Dick."
Thus encouraged, Betty briefly outlined for him her story, touching lightly on her experiences at Bramble Farm, but going into detail about Bob Henderson, her uncle, and her pleasant recollections of Pineville.
By the time she had finished, the four girls had joined them on the terrace and presently a table was brought out and spread with a cloth, and, Mrs. Littell following the maid with a silver coffee urn, breakfast was served.
"The girls will want to go into town to-day, I suppose," said the motherly lady, selecting the brownest muffin for Betty and signaling her husband to see that the maid served her an extra portion of omelet. "I have some shopping to do, so I'll go in with them in the car. But I absolutely refuse to 'do' the Monument again."
"Poor mother!" laughed Bobby. "She hates to ride in an elevator, and yet I know by actual count she's gone up in the Monument a dozen times."
"I suppose every one who comes to Washington wants to go sightseeing," said Betty Littell, or, as she must begin to be called now, Libbie, "I know how it is in our little town at home. There's just one monument—erected to some Revolutionary hero—and I get fairly sick of reading the inscription to all the visiting aunts and uncles."
"Well, I like to go around," declared the energetic Bobby. "But just once I had an overdose. We had a solemn and serious young theological student who made notes of everything he saw. He was devoted to walking, and one of his favorite maxims was never to ride when he could walk. He dragged me up every one of those nine hundred steps in the Washington Monument and down again, and I was in bed for two days."
"Wait till you see the steps, and you'll understand," said Louise to Libbie and Betty. "If you try to walk down you're apt to get awfully dizzy."
After breakfast Carter brought the car around, and Mr. Littell hobbled to the door to see them off.
"Betty wants to send a telegram to her uncle," he said in an aside to his wife, while she stood at the long glass in the hall adjusting her veil. "Better help her, for she'll feel that she is doing something. If Gordon is in the oil regions, as I think from what she tells me he is, there isn't much chance of a telegram reaching him any quicker than a letter. However, there's no use in dampening her hopes."
"Now we'll drop you at the Monument," planned Mrs. Littell, as the car bore them down the driveway. "You can walk from there to that pretty tea-room—what is its name, Bobby?—can't you?"
"The Dora-Rose, you mean, Mother," supplied Bobby. "Of course we can walk. But Carter is taking the longest way to the Monument."