"We're going to the station first," answered her mother. "Betty wants to send her uncle a telegram, and Carter is going to leave directions to have the trunks sent up to the house. You have your baggage checks, haven't you, girls?"
They produced them, and Carter slipped them into his pocket. Betty had leisure and opportunity to enjoy the beauty of the handsome building as they approached it this perfect morning, and she could not help exclaiming.
"Yes, it is fine, every one says so," admitted Bobby, with the carelessness of one to whom it was an old story. "Finer, daddy says, than the big terminals in New York."
Libbie had the advantage of being the only one of the girls who had been to New York.
"This has lots more ground around it," she pronounced critically. "Course in a city like New York, they need the land for other buildings. But you just ought to see the Pennsylvania Station there!"
"All right, take your word for it," said Bobby. "Where do we go to send a telegram, Momsie?"
Mrs. Littell smiled.
"Betty and I are all who are necessary for that little errand," she said firmly. "The rest of you stay right in the car."
Carter opened the door for them and then went in search of the baggage man. Betty and Mrs. Littell found the telegraph window and in a few minutes a message was speeding out to Richard Gordon, Flame City, Oklahoma, telling him that his niece was in Washington, giving her address and asking what he wished her to do.
"I'll write him a letter to-night," promised Mrs. Littell when this was accomplished. "Then he'll know that you are in safe hands. You must write to him, too, dear. Flame City may consist of one shack and a hundred oil wells and be twenty miles from a post-office, you know."
Carter reported that the trunks were already on their way to Fairfields, and now the car was turned toward the gleaming Monument that seemed to be visible from every part of the city, Betty, her mind relieved by the sending of the telegram, abandoned herself to the joys of sightseeing. Here she was, young, well and strong, in a luxurious car, surrounded by friends, and driving through one of the most beautiful cities in the United States. Any girl who, under those circumstances, could remain a prey to doubts and gloom, would indeed be a confirmed misanthrope.
The car was stopped at one of the concrete walks leading to the base of the Monument, and with final instructions as to the time and place they were to meet her, Mrs. Littell drove away.
"Why, there's a crowd there!" cried Libbie in wonder.
"Waiting to be taken up," explained Louise. "Come on, we'll have to stand in line."
The line of waiting people extended half way around the Monument. The girls took their places, and when the crowd streamed out and they were permitted to go inside, Betty and Libbie, the two strangers, understood the reason for the delay. The elevator seemed huge, but it was quickly filled, and when the gates were closed the car began to mount very slowly.
"We'd be sick and dizzy if they went up as fast as they do in department stores and office buildings," said Bobby. "It takes about fifteen minutes to reach the top. Watch, and you'll see lots of interesting things on the floors we pass."
Betty was wondering how Bobby had ever survived the climb up the stairs and the trip down again with the enthusiastic theological student, when a cry somewhere in the back of the car startled her.
"What's the matter?" demanded the elevator operator, without turning his head.
"John isn't here!" declared a hysterical feminine voice. "Oh, can't you stop the car and go down and get him? He pushed me in, and I thought he was right behind me. Aren't you going back?"
"Can't, Madam," was the calm answer. "Have to finish the trip. You can go right back with the next load."
"Oh, goodness gracious," moaned the voice. "What'll I do? If I go back I may miss him. If I wait at the top it will be half an hour. Suppose he walks up? Maybe I'd better start to walk down to meet him."
Bobby stifled a giggle with difficulty.
"Bride and groom," she whispered to Betty. "Washington's full of 'em. Guess the poor groom was lost in the shuffle. Is she pretty—can you see?"
Betty tried to look back in the car, though the press of passengers standing all about her made it difficult. The bride was easily identified because she was openly crying. She was an exceedingly pretty girl, modishly gowned and apparently not more than twenty years old.
"We'll get hold of her and persuade her to wait," planned Bobby. "I'll show her the sights to amuse her while we're waiting for the next elevator load to come up. Here we are at the top."
A crowd was waiting to descend, and as they walked from the elevator, the bride meekly following, Bobby plucked her sleeve.
"Excuse me," she said bluntly, but with a certain charm that was her own, "I couldn't help hearing what you were saying. Your husband missed the elevator, didn't he?"
The bride blushed and nodded.
"Well, don't try to walk down," advised Bobby. "I did it once, and was in bed for two days. He'll come up with the next load. No one ever walks up unless they are crazy—or going to theological seminary. Your husband isn't a minister, is he?"
"Oh, no, he's a lawyer," the bride managed to say.
"All right," approved Bobby, noting with satisfaction that the elevator gate had closed. "Come round with us and see the sights, and then when your husband comes up you can tell him all the news. This is Betty Gordon, Libbie Littell and Louise, Esther and Bobby Littell, all at your service."
"I'm Mrs. Hale," said the bride, stumbling a little over the name and yet pronouncing it with obvious pride.
The girls, marshaled by Bobby, made a tour of the windows, and though Betty was fascinated by the views of the city spread out before her and bought post cards to send to the Pineville friends and those she knew in Glenside and Laurel Grove, her mind was running continuously on young Mrs. Hale's announcement.
"She couldn't be the old bookstore man's wife," she speculated, her eyes fixed on the Potomac while Bobby cheerfully tangled up history and geography in a valiant effort to instruct her guests. "Lockwood Hale was an old man, Bob said. He didn't say he had a son, but I wonder——Oh, Bobby, the Jesuit fathers didn't sail down the Potomac, did they?"
"Well, it was some river," retorted Bobby. "Anyway, Miss, you didn't seem to be listening to a word I said. What were you thinking about in such a brown study?"
Betty made a little face, but she had no intention of revealing her thoughts. She wanted to find out about the bookshop quietly, and if possible get the address. Always providing that Mrs. Hale was related to the man who had shown such an interest in Bob Henderson's almshouse record.
"Of course Hale is an ordinary enough name," she mused. "And yet there is just a chance that it may be the same."
The girls were planning to take the next car down, and yet when it came up they lingered diplomatically to catch a glimpse of the bridegroom. "John" proved to be a good-looking young man, not extraordinary in any way, but with a likeable open face and square young shoulders that Libbie, who startled them all by turning poetical late that night, declared were "built for manly burdens."
Louise, Esther and Bobby were the last to squeeze into the car, Libbie, the prudent, having ducked earlier. As Betty turned to follow them, the gate closed.
"Car full!" said the operator.
"Oh, Betty!" Bobby's wail came to her as the car began to disappear. "We'll wait for you," came the parting message before it dropped from sight.
Mrs. Hale laughed musically.
"Now you know something of how I felt," she said merrily. "May I present my husband? John, those five girls have been so nice to me. And now you'll go round with us, won't you?"
But Betty knew better than that.
"I'm going to write some of my post cards," she said. "But I would love to ask you a question before you go. Do you know a man in Washington who keeps a bookshop? His name is Lockwood Hale."
Mr. and Mrs. Hale exchanged glances.
"Know him?" repeated the young man. "Why, I should think we did! He's my great-uncle."
"I'm very anxious to see him to ask about a friend of mine," explained Betty. "Mr. Hale thought he might be able to tell him something of his parents who died when he was a baby. As soon as I heard your name I hoped you could tell me where to find the bookstore."
"Yes, uncle is a wizard on old family records," admitted the nephew. "Sometimes I think that is why he hates to part with a book. He keeps a secondhand bookshop, you know, and he's positively insulting to customers who try to buy any of the books. The old boy is really queer in his head, but there's nothing to be afraid of. He wouldn't hurt a flea, would he, Elinor?"
Mrs. Hale said doubtfully, no, she supposed not.
"Elinor didn't have a very good impression of him," laughed her husband. "We're on our wedding trip, you know,"—he blushed slightly—"and mother made us promise we'd stop in to see the old man. He hasn't seen me since I wore knickerbockers, and we had a great time making him understand who we were. Then he said that he hoped we liked Washington, and went back to his reading."
"And the shop is so dirty!" shuddered the bride. "I don't think she ought to go to such a place alone, John."
"I won't," promised Betty hastily. "If you'll let me have the address, I'll be ever so grateful and it may be a great help to my friend."
Young Mr. Hale wrote down the street and number on the back of the brand-new visiting card his wife pulled from her brand-new purse, and Betty thanked them warmly and turned to her card writing, leaving them free to enjoy each other and the view to their hearts' content. She had directed post cards to a dozen friends before the elevator returned, and this time both she and the bridal couple made sure that they were among the first to step in.
Betty felt of the little slip in her purse several times during the afternoon, inwardly glowing with satisfaction. If she could find Bob Henderson in Washington through the old bookseller, or learn something definite of the lad, she would find it easier to wait for word from her uncle.
After luncheon, which was calculated to please healthy appetites of five girls to a nicety, they went into several of the large shops with Mrs. Littell, and then, because it had begun to rain and did not promise pleasant weather for driving, they went to a moving picture show.
"Had a full day?" asked Mr. Littell at dinner that night. "Libbie, what did you see?"
Libbie's answer provoked a gust of laughter. She was so essentially a matter-of-fact little personage in appearance and manner that when she opened her red mouth and announced, "A bride and groom!" the effect was startling.
That started Bobby, and she told the story of the lost John, told it as her father would have, for neither Bobby nor Mr. Littell were at all inclined toward sentimentality.
"Well, Betty," Mr. Littell beckoned to her afterward when they were all in the pleasant living-room across the hall, "think you're going to like Washington, even if it is overrun with brides and grooms?"
"It's lovely," Betty assured him fervently. "We've had the most perfect day. And, Mr. Littell, what do you think—I've found out something important already."
She had told him about Bob that morning, and he was interested at once when she narrated what the bride and groom had told her of old Lockwood Hale.
"Why, I know where his shop is. Everybody in Washington does," said Mr. Littell when she had finished. "He has lots of rare books mixed in with worthless trash. Funny I didn't take in you meant that Hale when you spoke of him. I suppose you'll want to go there to-morrow Carter will take you in the car, and you'd better have one of the girls go with you. Bobby is all right—she may be scatter-brained but she doesn't talk."
For some reason none of the girls was sleepy that night, and after going upstairs they all assembled in Bobby and Betty's room to talk. Libbie could not keep her mind off the bride.
"I wonder how I'd look in a lace veil," she said, seizing the fluted muslin bedspread and draping it over her head. "It must be lovely to be a bride!"
"You've been reading too many silly books," scolded Bobby. "Anyway, Libbie, you're too fat to look nice in a veil. Better get thin before you're old enough to be married, or else you'll have to wear a traveling suit."
Libbie eyed her scornfully and continued to parade up and down in her draperies.
"Betty would look pretty in a veil," said Louise suddenly. "Come on, girls, let's stage a wedding. Libbie won't sleep all night if she doesn't have some romantic outlet. I'll be the father."
She seized a pillow and stuffed it in the front of her dressing gown so that it made a very respectable corpulency.
"I'll be the mother!" Esther began to pin up her hair, a dignity to which she secretly aspired.
"I'm your bridesmaid, Libbie," announced Betty, catching up the bride's train and beginning to hum the wedding march under her breath.
"If you _will_ be silly idiots, I'm the minister," said Bobby, mounting the bed and leaning over the foot rail as if it were a pulpit.
The bride stopped short, nearly tripping up the devoted bridesmaid.
"I don't think you should make fun of ministers," she said, looking disapprovingly at her cousin. "It's almost wicked."
"I'd like to know how it's any more wicked than to pretend a wedding," retorted Bobby wrathfully. "Weddings are very solemn, sacred, serious affairs. Mother always cries when she goes to one."
Betty began to laugh. She laughed so hard that she had to sit down on the floor, and the more the two girls glared at each other, the harder she laughed.
"I don't see what's so funny," resented Bobby, beginning to snicker, too. "For goodness sake, don't have hysterics, Betty. Mother will hear you and come rapping on the door in a minute."
"I just thought of something." The convulsed Betty made a heroic effort to control her laughter and failed completely. "Oh, girls," she cried, wiping her eyes, "here you are bickering about the bride and the minister, and not one of us thought of the bridegroom. We left him out!"
Louise and Bobby rolled over on the bed and had their laugh out. Libbie collapsed on the floor, and Esther leaned against the bureau, laughing till she cried.
"They say the bridegroom isn't important at a wedding, but I never heard of ignoring him altogether," gasped Bobby, and then they were off again.
They made so much noise that Mrs. Littell tapped on the door to ask why they were not in bed, and when Bobby told her the joke, she had to sit down and laugh, too.
"I'll send you up some sponge cake and milk if you'll promise to go right to sleep after that," she told them, kissing each one good night all over again. "Libbie shall at least have the wedding cake, if she can't have a wedding."
Drip! drip! drip!
Betty listened sleepily, and then, as she raised herself on one elbow to hear better, she knew the noise was made by the rain.
"If that isn't too provoking!" Bobby sat up with an indignant jerk and surveyed Betty across the little table at the head of the beds. "I thought we'd all go down to Mount Vernon to-day, and now it's gone and rained and spoiled it all. Oh, dear! I don't think I'll get up"; and she curled down in a dejected heap under the white spread.
"Well, I'm going to get up," announced Betty decidedly, springing out of bed with her accustomed energy. "Rainy days are just as much fun as sunny ones, and there's something I have to do to-day, weather or no weather."
"She's a dear," said Louise warmly, smiling as the sound of Betty's carolling came to them above the sound of running water in the bathroom. "Mother says she likes her more and more every day. I wish her uncle would never write to her and she'd just go on living with us all the time."
"And go to school with us in the fall. That would be nice," agreed Bobby reflectively. "But, of course, Betty's heart would be broken if she never heard from her uncle. However, we'll be as nice to her as we can, and then maybe she will want to stay with us anyway, even if he does send for her."
"What are you two plotting?" asked Betty gaily, emerging warm and rosy from her vigorous tubbing. "Do you know, I've just remembered that I promised to show Libbie how to make mile-a-minute lace before breakfast? I hope there is time."
"What on earth do you want to make lace for?" demanded the practical Bobby, as her cousin appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleepy eyes. "It's too early to begin on Christmas presents."
Libbie was not at all confused in her ideas, and she had a very clear reason for wishing to add this accomplishment to her rather limited list.
"It's for my hope-chest," she informed Bobby with dignity, and not even the shout of laughter which greeted this statement could ruffle her. "You may think it's funny," she observed serenely, "but I have six towels and three aprons made and put away all ready."
"My aunt!" sighed Bobby inelegantly, shaking her head. "You believe in starting young, don't you? Why, I'm fourteen, and I've never given a thought to a hope-chest."
Here Esther, the early riser of the family, created a diversion by coming in fully dressed and announcing that Mammy Lou was willing to teach as many girls as cared to come after breakfast how to make beaten biscuit.
"Take Libbie," giggled Bobby, whose sense of humor was easily tickled. "She's collecting stuff for her hope chest and I should think biscuit recipes would be just the thing. Do you want to learn to cook, Betty? Esther has a kitchen hobby and rides it almost to death."
"I do not!" retorted Esther indignantly. "Do I, Louise? Mother loved to cook when she was a girl, and she says she likes to see me fussing in the kitchen."
Betty was showing Libbie how to hold her crochet hook, and now she looked up from her pupil.
"Why, I'd love to learn to make those wonderful biscuits Mammy Lou makes," she said slowly, "but I really have to go into Washington to-day. That is, if it will not upset any one's plans? I can easily walk to the trolley line, and I won't be gone longer than a couple of hours."
A trolley line ran about half a mile from the house, and to Betty who had frequently walked ten miles a day while at Bramble Farm, this distance seemed negligible.
"Let me go with you, Betty?" coaxed Bobby. "Carter will take us in the machine. I won't bother you, and if you have personal business to attend to, I'll wait for you in the library or some place. Cooking and making lace drives me wild, and if you leave me at home as likely as not I'll pick a quarrel with some one before the morning is over."
"Worse than that, she'll insist on singing while I'm trying to practice," said Louise. "I'm three or four days behind with my violin, and a rainy morning is a grand time to catch up. Do take her with you, Betty."
"Why, goodness, she will be taking me," insisted Betty. "Of course you know I'll love to have you, Bobby. As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you to go with me because it is a strange place and your father said not to go alone. Only I didn't want to disturb any plans you might have made for to-day. I'll tell you about it on the way," she added noting the look of growing curiosity on Bobby's face.
After breakfast the girls scattered to their chosen occupations, and Mrs. Littell settled herself to read to her husband on the glass enclosed piazza that extended half way across the back of the house. The car was brought round for Betty and Bobby and, commissioned to do several small errands in town, they set off.
"Now where are we going?" demanded Bobby bouncing around on the seat cushions more like a girl of seven than fourteen. "Do tell me, for I'm simply devoured with curiosity."
So Betty briefly outlined for her a little of Bob's history and of what she knew Lockwood Hale had told the poorhouse master. She also explained how she had obtained the old bookshop man's address from the bride they had met in the Monument the day before.
The rain came down steadily, and the country road was already muddy, showing that it had stormed the greater part of the night. Carter was a careful driver, and the luxurious limousine had been substituted for the touring car so that the girls were protected and very comfortable. Quite suddenly Carter brought the car to a stop on a lonely stretch of road just above a sharp turn.
"Goodness, I hope he hasn't a puncture," said Bobby. "I was so interested in listening to you I never heard anything. What's wrong, Carter?" she called.
"There's a little dog in the road, Miss Bobby," said Carter slowly and distinctly, as he always spoke. Bobby had once declared that she did not believe a fire would shake Carter from his drawling speech. "A puppy, I guess you'd call it. I'll have to move it to one side before we can drive past, because it is in the middle of the road."
Bobby leaned out to look.
"It must be hurt!" she cried. "Bring it in here, quick, Carter. Why, it's just a tiny puppy, Betty," she added; "a black and white one."
Carter, mingled pain and reproach in his face, brought the dog to them, holding it gingerly away from him so as not to soil his coat.
"It's very muddy, Miss Bobby," he said disapprovingly. "Your mother won't like them nice gray cushions all stained up."
"Well, couldn't you lend me your handkerchief, Carter?" suggested Bobby gently. "I'll wipe him off. There now, he's all right. My handkerchief's so small it wouldn't have done one of his paws."
Carter, minus his handkerchief, started the car and they rounded the curve. The puppy seemed to be all right except that he was wet and shivering, and Bobby and Betty had decided that he was very young but otherwise in perfect health when the car stopped again.
"There's another one of 'em, Miss Bobby," groaned Carter. "You don't want this one, do you?"
The girls thrust out their heads. Sure enough, another black and white puppy lay abandoned in the roadway.
"Certainly, we'll pick it up," said Bobby indignantly. "Do you suppose we're going to go past a dog and let it die in the rain? Bring it here, please, Carter."
The old man got down stiffly and picked up the dog. This time he handed over a second handkerchief with a ludicrous air of "take-it-and-ruin-it."
"That's the last handkerchief I have with me, Miss Bobby," he announced feelingly, watching his young mistress mopping water and mud from the rescued puppy.
"Well, there won't be any more puppies, Carter," Bobby assured him cheerfully.
But they had not gone twenty rods when they found another, and, after that, a few rods further on, a fourth.
"Here's where we use our own handkerchiefs," giggled Bobby. "And what are we going to do with a car full of dogs?"
The problem was solved, however, before they crossed the bridge into Washington. On the hill leading to the bridge they overtook a small colored boy weeping bitterly. Bobby signaled Carter to stop, and leaning out asked the child what the matter was.
"I done lost my dawgs!" he sobbed. "We-all is moving, and I had 'em in a basket with a burlap bottom. I done tol mammy that burlap was rotten." He held up the basket for them to see the hole in the cloth tacked across the bottom. "I was going to sell them dawgs for fifty cents apiece when they was bigger," he finished with a fresh burst of grief.
His joy when the girls showed him the puppies and explained how they had found them was correspondingly noisy. He had an old gingham apron with him, and into this the dogs were unceremoniously bundled and securely knotted. Betty and Bobby each gave him a shining ten-cent piece, and a blissful boy went whistling over the bridge, his world changed to sunshine in a few brief minutes.
The car threaded a side street, turned twice, and brought up before a quaint old house with a basement shop tucked away under a bulging bay-window.
"This is Hale's bookshop, Miss," said Carter respectfully to Betty,
The door of the bookstore opened with a loose old-fashioned latch, and one fell down two steps without warning into a long, narrow room lined with books. Betty went first, and Bobby, stumbling, would have fallen if she had not caught her.
"Gracious! I'm a little bit scared, aren't you?" Bobby whispered. "It seems like such a spooky place."
It was certainly very quiet in the shop, and for a few moments Betty thought they must be alone. Then some one stirred, and, looking down the room, they saw an old man bent over a book open on a table near a dusty window. He wore big horn spectacles and was evidently extremely nearsighted, for he kept his face so near the book that his nose almost touched the pages.
"That must be Mr. Hale," said Betty. "I wonder if it's all right to interrupt him?"
"I should say the only way to make him understand you're here, would be to go up and take that book away," rejoined Bobby.
"He can't be very anxious to sell anything, or he'd pay more attention to his store," giggled Betty.
"I'll wait here," said Bobby hastily, as Betty moved toward the rear of the store. "I'd probably say the wrong thing anyway. Let me see, I'll be reading this fat brown book. They all look alike to me, but this may be thrilling in spots."
Betty approached the motionless old man, whose lean brown forefinger traced the curious black characters in the book before him so slowly that it did not seem to budge at all.
"I beg your pardon?" she said tentatively.
No response.
"I want to ask you——" Betty began again, a little breathlessly. "I want to ask you about a boy named Bob Henderson."
"Name's Hale," said the old man, without looking up and speaking in a cracked, hoarse voice. "Lockwood Hale, dealer in new and secondhand books. Just look around on the tables and you'll likely come across what you want. I'll wrap it for you when you find it. Just now I'm busy."
Betty looked desperately at Bobby, who was listening over the top of her book, and stifled a desire to laugh.
"I don't want a book," she insisted gently. "I want to ask you a question. About Bob Henderson. You know you were interested in the records of the Oliver County almshouse, and you thought you might know something of his people."
The old man pushed his spectacles up on his forehead fretfully and regarded the girl impatiently from a pair of near-sighted blue eyes.
"The books weren't worth anything," he told her seriously. "I spent near a day going over 'em, and there wasn't a volume worth bringing back with me. Folks get the idea in their heads that a book's worth money just because it is old. 'Tain't so—I could fill my tables and shelves with old trash and still not have any stock. Jim Turner don't know a valuable book from a turnip."
Mr. Hale gave every indication of returning to the absorbing volume before him, and Betty plunged in hastily with another question.
"You know a boy named Bob Henderson, don't you?" she urged.
"Yes, he was in here some time last week," answered Hale calmly. "Was it Wednesday, or Tuesday—that load of old almanacs was delivered that same afternoon."
"Well, I'm a friend of his." Betty almost stuttered in her eagerness to explain before the old man should be lost again in his book. "He worked on the farm where I spent the summer, and he told me about you and how anxious he was to see you and find out about his people. I've been anxious, too, to learn if he reached Washington and whether he is here now. Do you know?"
Now that the shopkeeper's mind was fairly detached from his printed page he seemed to be more interested in his caller, and though he did not offer to get Betty a chair, he looked about him vaguely as though he might be seeking a place for her to sit.
"I don't mind standing. I mustn't stay long," she said hurriedly, afraid to let him fix his attention on outside objects. "Didn't Bob Henderson say where he was going? Did he mention anything about leaving Washington?"
"Well, now let me see," considered the old man. "Bob Henderson? Oh, yes, I recollect now how he looked—a manly lad with a frank face. Yes, yes, his mother was Faith Henderson, born a Saunders. That's what caught my eye on the almshouse record book. Years ago I traced the Saunders line for a fine young lady who was marrying here in Washington. She wanted a coat of arms, and she was entitled to one, too. But there was a break in the line, one branch ending suddenly with the birth of Faith Saunders, daughter of Robert and Grace. I never forget a name, so when I read the almshouse record and saw the name of this lad's mother there I knew I had my chart complete. Yes, the boy was interested in what I could tell him."
Betty, too, was interested and glad to know that Bob had succeeded in finding the old bookseller and learning from him what he had to tell. But if Bob was still in Washington, she wanted to see him. He could doubtless tell her what to do in case she did not hear from her uncle within a few days—and Betty was growing exceedingly anxious as no answer came in reply to her telegram. And above all, she wanted to see an old friend. The Littells were kindness itself to her, but she craved a familiar face, some one to whom she could say, "Do you remember?"
"Didn't Bob say where he was going?" she urged again.
"Going?" Mr. Hale repeated the question placidly. "Oh, I believe he went to Oklahoma."
Oklahoma! Betty had a sudden wild conviction that her thoughts had been so centered on that one locality that she was beginning to lose her mind and imagine that every one repeated the word to her.
"Did you—did you say Oklahoma?" she ventured. "Why, how funny! I have an uncle out there in the oil fields. At least we think he is in the oil fields," she added, a sudden look of worry flashing into her eyes. "It seems so funny that Bob should go away off there."
The old man peered up at her shrewdly.
"Aye, aye, funny it may be," he croaked. "But suppose I should tell you I advised the lad to go there? Would that seem funny, eh?"
Betty stared in complete bewilderment.
"Oh, it isn't always in the story books, sometimes it happens to real boys," he nodded exultantly. "Suppose I told you, in strictest confidence, young lady, for I think you're a true friend to him, that he has relatives out there? His mother's two sisters, both of 'em living on the old homestead? Neither of 'em married and without near kith or kin so far as they know? Suppose I tell you that the old farm, as I locate it, is in the oil section? Suppose the lad is entitled to his mother's interest in the place? Eh? Suppose I tell you that?"
He made a question of each point, and emitted a dry cackle after every assertion.
"I told the lad to go out there, and if he had any trouble proving who he was to come back here to me," said Hale importantly. "I can help him straighten out the tangles. I've untied many a knot for families more tangled up than this. So he may be back, he may be back. Drop in any day, and I'll tell you whatever I know."
Betty thanked him warmly and he followed the girls to the door, repeating that he would be glad to tell them everything he knew.
They were going to one of the large shops to do a few errands for Mrs. Littell, and since their visit to the bookstore had taken so long they agreed to separate and each do one or two commissions and then meet at the door within half an hour.
Betty's mind was busy with the astonishing revelations Lockwood Hale had made, and as she deftly matched wool for a sweater, she turned the information over in her mind.
"I don't believe Bob has gone so far West at all," she said to herself firmly. "He wouldn't have money enough, I'm sure. I suppose he has written to me, but my mail will go to the farm, of course, and Mr. Peabody would be the last person to forward it. I must write the postmaster to hold and redirect my mail—when I know where I am to be."
Although she had promised herself not to worry, Betty was becoming very anxious to hear from her uncle. She had written to the Benders in Laurel Grove and to Norma Guerin at Glenside, explaining her situation and asking them to let her know as soon as the quarantine in Pineville should be lifted. She knew that she could visit friends there indefinitely. But that did not much lighten the burden. Anxiety for her uncle and growing fear that she might never again hear from him, it had already been so long a time since his last letter, at times oppressed her.
Their chopping finished, she and Bobby were reunited and were glad to enter the car and drive quietly home to luncheon. It was still raining, and they found the other girls impatient for their return.
"We know all about beaten biscuit," boasted Esther. "And I stirred up a gold cake every bit myself."
"Practising all done," reported Louise. "And I'm just aching for a good lively game. No wedding stuff, Libbie, I warn you. I can see a romantic gleam in your eye."
Libbie said nothing then, but after lunch when they were debating what to do, she had a suggestion.
"Let's play hide-and-go-seek," she said enthusiastically.
"Well, I didn't know you had that much sense," approved Bobby, who was blunt almost to a fault but undoubtedly fond of her younger cousin. "Come on, girls, we'll have one more good game before the family begin to hint I'm too old for such hoydenish tricks. We'll go up to the attic and make as much noise as we can."
Libbie waited till they were safely in the attic before she followed up her suggestion.
"I read the loveliest story last summer," she said dreamily. "It was about a bride—"
A shout of laughter from the listening girls interrupted her.
"I knew there would be a bride in it somewhere," rippled Bobby. "Now, Libbie, once and for all, this is hide-and-go-seek, not a mock wedding."
"You might let me finish," protested Libbie. "I only meant to say this story was about a bride who ran away from her wedding guests for fun and hid in a great carved chest; the chest had a spring lock and it closed tight when she pulled it down. Her husband and all the guests hunted and hunted, and they never found her. Years and years after, when they opened the chest, there were only some bones and the wedding dress and veil."
"And you call that a lovely story!" Bobby's scorn was immeasurable. "Well, I think it's gruesome. And what kind of housecleaning did they have in those days? My mother opens every chest and trunk and box in the house at least twice a year."
The game started merrily, and, forewarned by Libbie's story, the girls knew exactly where to find her when she hid from them and unerringly pulled her out of every chest into which she hopefully squeezed her plump self.
"You never should have mentioned 'chest' to us," laughed Betty, when Libbie was "it" for the third time. "We know your line of reasoning now, you see."
Libbie good-naturedly began her counting, and Betty looked about for a good place to hide. The attic was long and wide and a splendid place to play. It was rather too well lighted for hide-and-seek, but the trunks and boxes arranged neatly around the walls offered a fair chance to escape detection. A peculiar fan-shaped box near a window attracted Betty's attention, apparently being a built-in box.
"I'll hide there," she resolved, running lightly over to it.
Louise and Esther and Bobby were already stowed away in various corners, and Betty slipped into the box noiselessly. Libbie ceased counting.
The three Littell girls reached "home" without being detected, and then perched merrily on an old trunk to watch Libbie prowl about after Betty. A five-minute search failed to reveal her, and Libby gave up.
"All safe, you may come in!" they called in unison.
No Betty appeared, and they shouted again.
"Well, if that isn't queer!" Louise looked at Bobby in doubt. "Where do you suppose she is hiding?"
Bobby, a furrow of anxiety between her eyes, searched the attic with level glances, her sisters and cousin watching her apprehensively.
"Something must have happened to her," Louise was beginning, when Bobby gave a cry and raced for the door.
"I'll bet I know where she went," she flung over her shoulder. "Haven't time—to stop—don't bother me——" She flew down the stairs, the others after her at top speed.
Down, down, down, through the third, second and first floors, the four girls fled like a whirlwind, down, always following flying Bobby, to the laundry in the basement where modern electric equipment made washing clothes a scientific process.
Bobby brought up her mad flight before a tall cupboard in one corner, turning the catch on the door, opened it and out tumbled—Betty!
"Are you hurt?" demanded Bobby, helping her to her feet. "Oh, Betty, darling, do say you're all right! It's a wonder you weren't suffocated or didn't break any bones."
"I'm all right," said Betty, smoothing out her skirts. "But I'm still a bit dazed. It was such a sudden drop. What have I done that I shouldn't, Bobby?"
Libbie, too, was bewildered, and stared at the disheveled Betty with puzzled wonder.
"Why, my dear child," explained Bobby, with a funny maternal manner, "you fell down the laundry shoot. It opens into the attic for good ventilation. I'm glad there were some soiled clothes at the bottom for you to land on, otherwise you might have had a bad bump. Sure you're all right?"
"Yes, indeed," insisted Betty. "I thought I was climbing into a box and went in feet first without looking. Instead of hitting the floor, I slid gently on and on. I hadn't any breath to scream with I went so fast. Anyway, there wasn't time to scream. I just sat here for a time after I landed. And I was wondering where I was and how I could get out when you opened the door for me."
That ended the game for the day, and the rest of the afternoon the girls were content to spend quietly, Betty in writing a long letter to Mrs. Arnold, one of her mother's old friends who had moved to California, and the others with books and sewing.
The next morning was fair and sunny, and before breakfast Bobby had it planned that they should spend the day at Mount Vernon. Of course Betty and Libbie were very anxious to see the famous place, and the three sisters were glad to have the opportunity to take them for the first time.
"It's never the same again," explained Louise, obligingly tying Esther's hair-bow for her. "There's a wonderful thrill you get when you see the things that really were Washington's and were handled by him that never comes again. Though we love to go there and never tire of looking at the rooms."
"What a chatter-box you are, child!" expostulated her mother, who had come up to tell them breakfast was ready. Indeed the gong had sounded fully fifteen minutes before. "How nice you look, all of you! I'll be proud to take five girls to Mount Vernon. We're going to-day, aren't we?"
Dear Mrs. Littell! Betty already loved her dearly, as indeed did every member of the household. She was so unaffected, so affectionate and generous, and she allowed money to change her simple, happy nature not at all. The Littells had not always been wealthy, and the mistress of the beautiful mansion did not hesitate to tell of the days when she had done all of her own housework and taken care of two babies.
Soon after breakfast the party started, the plan to go by motor being abandoned in favor of the trip down the river. It was decided that Carter should come down later with the car and bring a basket luncheon, taking them home in the afternoon.
Mount Vernon is sixteen miles below Washington, and the sail down the Potomac was delightful in the cool of the morning, and Betty thought she had never seen anything more beautiful than the deep greens of the trees and grass on either bank. By common consent the boatload of chattering people became silent as they came in sight of Mount Vernon, and as the glimmer of the house showed white between the trees. Betty's heart contracted suddenly. Louise, who was watching her, squeezed her arm sympathetically.
"I know how you feel," she whispered. "Mother told me that the first time she went abroad and dad took her to see the Colosseum she cried. You're not crying, are you, Betty?"
Betty shook her head, but her eyelashes were suspiciously damp.
Libbie was staring in unaffected enjoyment at the scene before her and fairly dancing with impatience to be off the boat.
"I do want to see Martha Washington's things," she confided, as they went ashore. "Her ivory fan and her dishes and the lovely colonial mahogany furniture."
"George Washington's swords for mine," announced Bobby inelegantly. "I've seen 'em every time I've been here, and I'd give anything to have one to hang in my room."
"Bobby should have been a boy," remarked Mrs. Littell indulgently. "You're mother's only son, aren't you, dear?"
"Well, my name is as near as I'll ever come to it," mourned Bobby. "However, I manage to have a pretty good time if I am only a girl."
Mrs. Littell led them first to the tomb of Washington. The plain brick building was directly at the head of the path leading from the landing, and a reverent group stood, the men with bared heads, for a few moments before the resting place of the Father of his Country.
High above the river, overlooking the land he loved, stands the Mount Vernon mansion. From the tomb the Littell party went directly to the house.
Each of the girls, although interested in the whole, showed her personality distinctly in her choice of special relics.
It was Betty who lingered longest in the library, fascinated by the autographed letters of Washington, his tripod used in surveying, and his family Bible. Bobby had to be torn bodily from the room which contained the four swords. Esther spent her happiest hour in the old kitchen, admiring the huge fireplace and the andirons and turnspit.
Louise and Mrs. Littell were able to go into raptures over the old furniture in Martha Washington's bedroom and sitting room, though they, of course, had seen it all many times before.
Mrs. Littell herself had a collection of antique furniture of which she was justly proud, and mahogany furniture was sure of her intelligent appreciation. Strange to say, Libbie remained cool toward the very things she had voiced a desire to see, and in the middle of the morning they missed her.
They were on their way to the barn Washington's father had built, and Betty volunteered to run back and see if the missing girl had stayed behind in the house.
Betty hurried back and began a hasty inspection of the rooms. She recollected seeing Libbie upstairs at the door of Washington's room the last time she had definitely noticed her, and she ran upstairs to see if she might not be there.
No Libbie was in any of the rooms.
Downstairs she searched hurriedly, peeping under people's elbows, trying not to annoy others and yet to make a thorough hunt in a short time so as not to keep the others waiting. Then in the music room, or East Parlor, as it is often called, she found the truant, gazing with rapt eyes at the quaint old harpsichord which had belonged to Nellie Custis.
"Every one is waiting for you," announced Betty, pulling her gently by the sleeve. "Come on, Libbie, we're all going. We've seen the whole house."
Libbie followed in a sort of daze, and when they rejoined the others she seemed to be still in a brown study.
"For goodness sake," prodded Bobby impatiently, "what were you doing back there? We nearly went off and left you. Where did you find her, Betty?"
"I was in the music room," announced Libbie with dignity. "I wanted to see the harpsichord. Say, girls, did you know Washington gave that to Nellie Custis when she was married? He wore his uniform when he gave her away, and—"
"Well, for pity's sake!" Bobby's disgust was ludicrous. "Trust Libbie to dig up a romance wherever she goes. What else did you find connected with weddings, Lib?"
Libbie was inclined to be ruffled, but Mrs. Littell soothed the troubled waters by telling them that the old barn, which they had reached by this time, was built in 1733 by Washington's father and that the bricks were supposed to have been imported from England.
The beautiful old formal garden further mellowed their tempers, for it was impossible to say sharp things walking along the very paths which George Washington had often trod and between the rows of box brushed by the silken skirts of Mrs. Washington. Where her rose bushes used to be are planted others, and Mrs. Littell assured the girls that it was one of the great pleasures of the First Lady of the Land to gather rose leaves for her potpourri jars and to make a perfumed unguent for which she was famous among her friends.
"She was a wonderful housekeeper," added Mrs. Littell, smiling at Libbie, whose momentary resentment had quickly faded, "and a very fine manager. We are told that she was thoroughly domestic in her tastes and that she made her husband ideally happy."
Presently Carter came with a hamper of luncheon and their appetites did full justice to Mammy Lou's dainties. Betty wondered, sitting on the grass, the Potomac flowing lazily several feet below, whether she was dreaming and might not wake up to find herself at Bramble Farm with Mr. Peabody scolding vigorously because something had not gone to suit him. She often had this odd feeling that her present happiness could not be real.
This, too, brought the thought of her uncle to her mind, and again she wondered if she would ever hear from him—if something dreadful had not happened to him, leaving her almost as much alone in the world as Bob Henderson. She shivered a little, then resolutely threw herself into the chatter of the other girls and soon forgot all but the present pleasure and excitement.
After rambling about the grounds another hour or so, the party from Fairfield was ready to go, and they all found it restful to lean back in the comfortable car and spin back to the city.
"If you're not too tired I think we might drive down Pennsylvania Avenue," suggested Mrs. Littell. "Our guests haven't seen the White House yet, have they?"
Neither Betty nor Libbie had, and as the car turned into the famous thoroughfare both girls sat up alertly so as not to miss a single sight of interest. Carter slowed down as they approached a high iron fence, and at the first glimpse of the white mansion separated from the fence and street by a wide stretch of lawn, Libbie shouted joyfully.
"The White House!"
"Well, you needn't tell everybody," cautioned Bobby. "Think of the weddings they've held in there, Libbie!"
"I imagine any one who has ever seen a picture of the White House recognizes it instantly," said Betty, fearing a resumption of cousinly hostilities. "How beautiful the grounds are."
"You must go through it some day soon," said Mrs. Littell. "And now we'll drive to the Capitol. Day after to-morrow would be a good time for you to take the girls to the Capitol, Bobby."
The Capitol reminded Libbie of a pin tray she had at home, and awoke recollection in Betty's mind of a bronze plaque that had been one of Mrs. Arnold's treasures in the stiff little parlor of the Pineville house. All good Americans know the White House and the Capitol long before they make a pilgrimage to Washington.
On their arrival at Fairfields they found Mr. Littell playing solitaire, and something in his undisguised relief at seeing them made Betty wonder if time did not hang heavily on his hands.
After dinner Bobby proposed that they turn on the phonograph and have a little dance among themselves.
"Oh, that will be fine!" cried Betty.
"Then you can dance?"
"A little—mother taught me."
So the girls danced and had a good time generally for an hour or more, with Mr. and Mrs. Littell looking on. Then Betty sank down on the arm of Mr. Littell's chair.
"I've been thinking of something," she half whispered. "Do you like to play checkers? If you do, I know how."
Maybe Mr. Littell understood that she was doing it largely to keep him company. But he said nothing, and they played checkers for nearly two hours. Betty was a fairly good player and managed to land several victories.
"With a little more practice you'll make a very good player," declared Mr. Littell. "I appreciate your staying to play with a cripple like me," he added gratefully. "Does your Uncle Dick play?"
"I don't really know," replied the girl, and now her face clouded for an instant. Oh, why didn't she hear from Uncle Dick?
The next few days were filled with sightseeing trips. Betty was kept too busy to have much time to worry, which was fortunate, for no word came from her uncle and no word reached her from Bob Henderson. The Guerins and the Benders wrote to her, and each letter mentioned the fact that Bob had sent a postal from Washington, but that no later word had come from him.
"I met Peabody on the road yesterday," ran a postscript to Norma Guerin's letter, written by her doctor father. "He hinted darkly that Bob had done something that might land him in jail, but I couldn't force out of him what fearful thing Bob had done. I hope the lad hasn't been rash, for Peabody never forgives a wrong, real or fancied."
Betty knew that the farmer's action had to do with the unrecorded deed, but she did not feel that she should make any disclosures in that connection. Of Bob's innocence she was sure, and time would certainly clear him of any implication.
The girls visited the Capitol, seeing the great bronze doors that are nineteen feet high and weight ten tons. Betty was fascinated by the eight panels, and studied them till the others threatened to leave her there over night and call for her in the morning. Then she consented to make the tour of the three buildings. But the historical paintings again held her spellbound. When she reached the Senate chamber, which was empty, except for a page or two, the Senate not being in session, she dropped into a gallery seat and tried to imagine the famous scenes enacted there. They spent the better part of a day at the Capitol, and saw practically everything in the buildings. They were so tired that night that Libbie went to sleep over her dessert, and Betty dreamed all night of defending the city with a shotgun from the great gilded dome. But she and Libbie agreed that they would not have missed it for anything.
"That's twice you've made a wrong play, Betty," observed Mr. Littell. "What lies heavy on your mind this evening?"
Betty blushed, and attempted to put her mind more on the game. She was playing checkers with Mr. Littell, whose injured foot still kept him a prisoner most of the time, and she had played badly all the evening, she knew. Truth to tell, she was thinking about her uncle and wondering over and over why she did not hear from him.
After the rubber was played and the other girls who had been around the piano, singing, had gone out to get something to eat, for the maids had the evening off, Betty spoke to her host.
"I suppose you think I'm foolish," she ventured; "but I am really worried about Uncle Dick now. He has never answered the telegram and the two letters I've written. His Philadelphia lawyer writes that he is waiting to hear from him. He seems to have dropped out of the world. Do you think he may be sick in some hospital and not able to communicate with us?"
"That's a possibility," admitted Mr. Littell soberly. "But I tell you honestly, Betty, and not simply to relieve your mind, that I consider it a very remote one. Business men, especially men who travel a great deal, as you tell me your uncle does, seldom are without somewhere on their person, their names and addresses, and directions about what is to be done in case of sickness or accident. I never travel without such a card. Ten to one, if your uncle were ill or injured, his lawyer would have been notified immediately."
A weight of anxiety slipped from Betty's heart, for she immediately recognized the sound common sense in this argument. Still, something else was troubling her.
"Don't you think," she began again bravely, "that I had better go to Pineville? The quarantine is lifted, I hear, and the Bensingers will take me in till I can hear from Uncle Dick. You and Mrs. Littell and the girls have been so lovely to me, but—but—" her voice trailed off.
Mr. Littell leaned back in his chair and lit a fresh cigar.
"Well, now of course," he said slowly, "if you feel that you want to go to Pineville, we really have no right to say anything. But if I were you, I'd stay right here. Your uncle may be intending to come back to Washington. In any case, he will address his letter to you here. Of that much we are certain. You'll hear more quickly if you don't move about. Besides, there is that Henderson lad. I'm counting on making his acquaintance. He's likely to bob up any day—though I didn't mean to pun. If you want my advice, Betty, it is to stay here quietly with us and wait as patiently as you can. We like to have you, you know that. You're not a stranger, but a friend."
He went on to explain to her in his quiet, even, matter-of-fact way, that to the disturbed girl was inexpressibly soothing, his belief that her uncle was on an exploration trip for oil and might easily find a month's accumulation of mail awaiting him on his return.
"It's only here, in the heart of civilization, that we think we can't live without four mails a day," Mr. Littell concluded. "I've been out of touch with a post-office for three weeks at a time myself, and our sailors, you know, often go much longer without letters."
On one particularly lovely morning the four girls, with Mrs. Littell, started off on the pleasant mission of seeing the White House. Betty's and Libbie's acquaintance with it was confined solely to the glimpses they had had from the street, but Louise and Bobby had attended several New Year's receptions and had shaken hands with the President.
The party spent a delightful morning, visiting the famous East Room, admiring the full length portraits of George and Martha Washington, about which latter the story is told that Mrs. Dolly Madison cut it from its frame to save it from the approaching enemy in 1814. They were also fortunate to find a custodian taking sightseers through the other official apartments so that they saw more than the casual visitor does in one visit. They visited in turn, the Green Room, the Red Room, and the Blue Room, saw the state dining-room with its magnificent shining table about which it was easy to imagine famous guests seated, and enjoyed a peep into the conservatory at the end of the corridor. They did not go up to the executive offices on the second floor, knowing that probably a crowd was before them and that an opportunity to see the President on the streets of the city was likely to present itself.
"Well, I shouldn't want to live there," sighed Betty, as they came down the steps, "It is very grand and very stately, but not much like a home. I suppose, though, the private rooms of the President and his family are cozy, if one could see them."
"Beyond a doubt," agreed Mrs. Littell.
They lunched at one of the large hotels, and afterward Mrs. Littell had a club engagement. The girls, she announced, might spend the afternoon as they chose, and she would pick them all up at five o'clock with Carter and the car.
"Esther and I want to see 'The Heart of June,'" announced Libbie, who found romance enough to satisfy her in the motion-pictures.
Louise was interested, too; but Betty had promised to take some papers for Mr. Littell and see that they reached an architect in one of the nearby office buildings. Bobby elected to go with her, and they decided that, that errand accomplished, they might do a little shopping and meet the others at the theater door at five o'clock.
"Mr. Waters won't be in till three o'clock," announced the freckle-faced office boy who met them in the outer office of the architect's suite.
"Then we'll have to come back," decided Betty, glancing at her watch. "It is just two now."
"You can leave anything with me," said the boy politely. "I'll see that he gets it as soon as he comes in."
"Yes, do, Betty," urged Bobby. "Dad would say it was all right to leave that envelope of papers. They're not terribly important."
"We can do our shopping and then come back," insisted Betty, to the evident disgust of Bobby and the hardly less concealed impatience of the office boy.
"Why wouldn't you leave 'em?" demanded Bobby, when they were once more in the street.
"Dad hasn't any secret service stuff, I'm sure of that. Now we have to come all the way back here again, and that means hurrying through our shopping."
"You needn't come," said Betty mildly. "Your father asked me to give those papers personally to Mr. Waters. He didn't say they were important; I don't know that they are. But if I say I am going to give an envelope personally to any one, I don't intend to give that envelope to a third person if there's nothing in it more valuable than—hair nets!"
The window they were passing suggested the comparison, and Bobby laughed good-naturedly and forebore to argue further. Promptly at three o'clock she and Betty entered the elevator in the office building and were whirled up to the fifth floor to find Mr. Waters in his private office.
"Mr. Littell telephoned half an hour ago," he told them, taking the envelope and running over the papers with a practised eye as he talked. "He hoped to catch you before you left here. I believe he wants to speak to his daughter. There's a booth right there, Miss Bobby."
Bobby had a brief conversation with her father and came out in a few minutes in evident haste.
"He wants us to do a couple more errands, Betty," she announced. "We'll have to hurry, for it's after three."
The architect had written a receipt for the papers, and Bobby now hurried Betty off, explaining as they went that they must take a car to Octagon House.
Octagon House proved to be the headquarters for the American Institute of Architects, and Bobby's errand had to do with one of the offices. Betty admired the fine woodwork and the handsome design of the house while waiting for her companion, and in less than fifteen minutes they were back on the street car bound for "the tallest office building in Washington," as Bobby described it.
"Dad wants an architectural magazine that's out of print, and he thinks I can get it there," she said. "Afterward, if we have time, we'll go to the top of the building. The root is arranged so that you can step out, and they say the view is really splendid. Not so extensive as from the Monument, of course, but not so reduced, either. I've always wanted to get up on the roof and see what I could see."
Finding the office her father had specified did not prove as easy a task as Bobby had anticipated, and she said frankly that if she had been alone she would have given up and taken another day for the search.
"But if you can keep a promise down to the last dot of the last letter, far be it from me to fall short," she remarked. "Oh, Betty, do you see any office that looks like Sherwood and David on this board?"
At last they found it under another name, which, as Bobby rather tactlessly told the elevator boy, was not her idea of efficiency. The copy of the magazine Mr. Littell especially wanted was wrapped up and placed safely in Bobby's hands.
"And now," declared that young person gaily, "as the reward of virtue, let's go up on the roof. It is after four, but we'll have time if we don't dawdle. We can get from here to the theater in fifteen minutes."
They started for the elevator, and as a car came up and the gates opened a boy got off. He would have brushed by without looking up, but Betty saw him at once.
"Bob!" she cried in amazement "Why, Bob Henderson!"
"Betty! Oh, Betty! _Betty!_" Bob Henderson's familiar, friendly voice rose to a perfect crescendo of delight, and several passengers in the elevator smiled in sympathy.
Bobby Littell, who had entered the car, backed out hastily and the gate closed.
"Bobby, this is Bob Henderson," Betty performed a hasty introduction. "And, Bob, this is Roberta Littell, always called Bobby."
The latter held out an instant cordial hand to Bob.
"I know about you," she proclaimed frankly. "Betty thinks you are fine. We ought to be good friends, because our names are almost alike."
"I must talk to you, Bob," said Betty hurriedly. "Where are you going? Have you heard from Bramble Farm or Uncle Dick? How long have you been in Washington? Did you get out to Oklahoma?"
Bobby laughed and touched Betty on the arm.
"There's a seat over by the elevator," she suggested. "Why don't you sit there and talk? I'll come back and get you at a quarter to five—I want to get some new hair-ribbons for Esther."
"But you wanted to go up on the roof!" protested Betty, longing to talk to Bob and yet mindful of Bobby's first plans.
"Plenty of other days for that," was the careless response. "See you quarter to, remember. Good-by, Bob—though I'll see you again, of course."
She disappeared into a down elevator, and Betty and Bob sat down on the oak settle in the corridor.
"Wasn't it lucky we met you!" exclaimed Betty, getting a good look at the boy for the first time. "Seems to me you're thinner, Bob. Are you all right?"
"Couldn't be better!" he assured her, but she noticed there were rings under his eyes and that his hands, white enough now in contrast to the tan which still showed at his wrists, were perceptibly thinner. "Fact is, I work in this building, Betty. Kind of junior clerk for a man on the fourth floor, substituting while his clerks are away on vacation. Hale got me the place."
Betty told him of her interview with the old bookshop man, and Bob listened intently.
"So that's how you heard about Oklahoma," he commented. "You could have knocked me down with a feather when you said it. I guess Hale forgot I was working here—he really is dreadfully absent-minded—or else he thought you weren't to be trusted with so important a secret. He's as queer as they make 'em, but he was very good to me; couldn't seem to take enough pains to trace out what he knew of my mother's people."
Bob went on to explain that his money had given out and that he had to work in order to get together enough to pay his fare out to the West and also to board himself and pay for some new clothes. Betty guessed that he was scrimping closely to save his wages, though she did not then suspect what she afterward learned to be true, that he was trying to live on two meals a day, and those none too bountiful. Bob had a healthy boy's appetite, and it took determination for him to go without the extra meal, but he had the grit to stick it out.
"When Bobby comes back you must go with us and meet Mrs. Littell," observed Betty. "She'll want to take you home to dinner. Oh, Bob, they are the loveliest people!"
Bob shifted his foot so that the patch on one shoe was hidden.
"I'll go with you to meet her on one condition," he said firmly. "I won't go to dinner anywhere to-night—that's flat, Betty. My collar isn't clean. And who are the Littells?"
That led to long explanations, of course, and Betty told in detail how she had left Bramble Farm, of the mix-up at the Union Station, and her subsequent friendship with the hospitable family. She also told him of Mr. Gordon's sudden trip to Oklahoma and his almost inexplicable silence, but kept to herself her worry over this silence and as to her own future if it continued. She gave him the latest news of the Benders and the Guerins and handed over the two letters from these friends she happened to have in her purse that he might read and enjoy them at his leisure. In short, Betty poured out much of the pent-up excitement and doubt and conjecture of the last few weeks to Bob, who was as hungry to hear as she was to tell it.
"They certainly are fine to you!" he exclaimed, referring to the Littells. "There isn't another family in Washington, probably, who would have been as kind to you. I think you'll hear from your uncle soon, Betty. Lots of times these oil wells, you know, are miles from a railroad or a post-office. You take that Mr. Littell's advice—he sounds as if he had a heap of common sense. And whatever they've done to you, you're looking great, Betty. Pretty, and stylish and—and different, somehow."
Betty blushed becomingly. She had brightened up amazingly during her stay in Washington, despite her anxiety about her uncle and, lately, Bob, The serene and happy life the whole household led under the roof of "Fairfields" had a great deal to do with this transformation, for the bickering and pettiness of the daily life at Bramble Farm had worn Betty's nerves insensibly. She tried to say something of this to Bob.
"I know," he nodded. "And, Betty, what do you think? I met the old miser right here in Washington!"
Instinctively Betty glanced behind her.
"You didn't!" she gasped. "Where? Did he—was he angry?"
"Sure! He was raving," replied Bob cheerfully. "What do you think he accused me of this time? Stealing an unrecorded deed! Did you know anything about that, Betty?"
Betty described the incident of her delayed letter and told of the morning she had picked it from the floor and hung up Mr. Peabody's coat.
"He insists you took it, but I never believed it for one moment," she said earnestly. "I'm sure Mrs. Peabody doesn't either; and I didn't think Mr. Peabody really thought you took it. You know how he flies into a temper and accuses any one. But if he came down to Washington and said pointblank to you that you took it, it looks as if he thought you did, doesn't it?"