"This necklace is mine!" returned the accused girl excitedly.
"This necklace is mine!" returned the accused girl excitedly.—Page 111.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. Why do I never thinkbefore I say horrid things? Forgive me, Patience, if you can. I'll gladly do anything for you."
Then the surprise came.
Patience, the silent, shy girl, threw her arms about the younger girl, and held her close.
"The necklace that I have on was given to me by Aunt Millicent. I've never worn it. It is beautiful, but I like quiet colors. The showy things are prettier for other girls, I think. I heard Lina say that she had lost hers, and I was just thinking that I would give mine to her, when she rushed in, and—I hadn't a chance to tell her. That's all," she said simply.
"Oh, I was worse even than I thought," cried Lina, "and to think, Mrs. Marvin, that she was planning to give her necklace to me!"
"Promise me, Lina, that after this you will be less quick to accuse."
"Indeed I will, and Patience, if you'll let me, I'd like to be your friend."
"I'm sometimes lonely. I need you, Lina," Patience said, gently.
Lina never did anything by halves. She told her classmates how just at the time that Patience had been planning to give her own necklace to make up for Lina's loss, she had been harshly accused. She told how sweetly forgiving Patience had been, and wound up by stating that hereafter they were to be chums.
Mrs. Marvin, on the way to her own apartment, vaguely wondered what the next happening would be.
"I wonder if the entire week is to be a series of disturbances," she thought. "To be sure, there are but two days more, Fridayand Saturday, but I should not be surprised if some one started something, so as to make the week complete."
It certainly had been a record week for petty annoyances, and to cap the climax on Friday, after lunch, Miss Fenler waited in the hall, near the door that led from the dining-room. She felt that she must speak to Patricia.
As a rule pupils were, of course, permitted to dress as they chose, but it seemed as if Patricia was actually trying to see how strange a rig she could wear and yet go unreproved.
On this day, she had done the oddest thing of all. She had tied her hair on the crown of her head with a yellow ribbon. The ribbon was very wide, and the bow was enormous. As if that were not enough she had taken equally wide ribbon, of pink, and ofblue, had tied a large bow of each and then had pinned the pink bow to the right loop of the yellow bow, the blue bow to the left loop, and when she entered the dining-room the effect was, to say the least,amazing!
The bows were about eight inches wide. Really, Patricia was a droll sight!
Unless she were spoken to she would wear her freakish ribbons at the afternoon session.
When lunch was over, and the pupils came trooping out into the hall, Miss Fenler spoke to Patricia. When they at last stood alone in one corner of the hall, Miss Fenler mentioned the gaudy colors, and said that while the girls were permitted to wear as bright ribbons as they chose, they would certainly not be allowed to wear three huge bows at a time.
"The idea!" said Patricia. "Well, Iguess I'll not agree to wear little stingy-looking bows for any one."
"You would obstruct the view of the large blackboard," said Miss Fenler. "No one could see around your head."
"I shall wear these bows I have on or none at all!" said Patricia.
"Don't be obstinate," said Miss Fenler. "Mrs. Marvin told me to speak to you."
"Didshesay I couldn't wear these big bows?" Patricia asked, her eyes black with anger.
"She certainly did," declared Miss Fenler.
"Well, you can tell her I wear these or none at all," Patricia said, stoutly.
"None at all!" repeated Miss Fenler.
"Don't attempt to come into the class-room with your long hair untidy. Without a ribbon it would look slovenly."
Patricia's smile was broad, and her eyes actually impish as she left the hall.
"She's equal to pinning on a half-dozen extra bows if she chooses," Miss Fenler said, under her breath.
Glenmore, once a private estate, looked like an old castle, and the dwellings that were its nearest neighbors were owned by old and wealthy residents. No stores had ever broken the charm of the locality, and the sleepy old town had supposed that they never would, yet around the corner of a little back street, an enterprising Italian had purchased a wee cottage. After three days a sign appeared in his front window. It stunned the residents. It read:
Antonio Carana,Barber and Hairdresser.
Already small boys and girls might beseen, in charge of maids, trotting up his steps with long curls, and after a few minutes, appearing with a "Dutch cut."
Patricia, buttoning her coat as she ran, appeared at his door breathless, but eager.
"I want my hair bobbed, and I must have it done right off, or I'll be late to school," she cried, rushing past the astonished Tony, and mounting his big chair.
"Dutch cut!" she demanded, thinking that he had not understood her.
"Cutta da long hair?" he asked, lifting the strands.
"Sure," cried Patricia, "What else would I want cut off? Certainly not mynose."
"Alla right," said Tony, but he thought it strange, and wondered if the little girl's mother would appear at any moment, angry, and vengeful.
Patricia's temper had been graduallycooling, and now, as she saw the long locks that Tony had clipped, she was desperately sorry that she had come. It was half done, however, so she could not "back out." One does not care to appear with the right side of one's head with short hair, and the left side with hair half-way toward one's girdle!
Patricia sighed, and allowed him to continue. What else could she do? She had been proud of her hair, but when she saw herself in the mirror, her vanity came to her aid.
She had given up her fine head of hair, but look! Here was another chance to make a sensation. Not a girl at school had her hair "bobbed."
"Probably they'll tell me that only very little girls have their hair like this, but I don't care. They'll be surprised, and it'sthe only way I can go without ribbons, and I said I'd wear big bows or nothing."
Of course the pupils stared when Patricia appeared in the class-room, and that delighted her.
"I guess my Dutch cut made more show than my ribbons would have," she whispered.
Making a show was about all that Patricia cared for, the only other thing that she appeared to think worth while was meddling in other people's affairs.
Mrs. Marvin decided to make the weekly socials very different from what they had been.
It had been her custom to hire musicians from the city to give a little recital, and then serve light refreshments, and allow the latter part of the evening to be spent in indoor games, or dancing.
The social part of the evening was always enjoyed, but many of the musicians, both vocal and instrumental, had given selections of so strictly classical character that some of the pupils complained that they did not care for it.
She determined to ask three pupils to arrange a program for each evening, each of the three being expected to take part in the entertainment.
One Monday morning she unfolded her plan, and announced that on Friday of that week would occur the first social having a pupils' program.
"I have asked Dorothy Dainty to take charge of the little recital, and I believe we shall enjoy it."
When the eager applause had subsided, Mrs. Marvin continued:
"The girl in charge of the entertainment must not be annoyed with questions as to the program because I wish the entertainment each week to be a surprise.
"Dorothy, herself must contribute one or two numbers, and I have appointed Nancy Ferris, and Patricia Levine to help her."
The pupils were wild with curiosity as to what the numbers were to be, but while a few hinted that they were eager to know just what they were to hear and see, they did not ask Dorothy to tell them. They thought it would be more fun to be surprised.
Dorothy found herself in an awkward place.
She had decided to sing a pretty waltz song, for which Nancy played the accompaniment. Nancy had at first thought of playing a piano duet with Dorothy, but Dorothy pointed out that a number of the girls, when it came their turn to entertain, would surely play, and she urged Nancy to do a fine solo dance.
"It will be more of a treat," she urged, and Nancy agreed.
Patricia declared that she had studied with a fine vocal instructor since they hadheard her, and she also stated that she would sing a solo, or nothing.
Patricia, when at Merrivale private school with Dorothy and Nancy, had done some very funny singing, and Dorothy felt a bit nervous as to what she would do now, but Patricia insisted that she had rapidly improved, and there seemed to be no choice but to let her sing.
"Do make her tell you what she's going to sing," Nancy said, one morning, "because if she has chosen something you wouldn't like to have her sing, youmightbe able to coax her to change it."
Dorothy promised to question Patricia, but she laughed at the idea of being able to make Patricia change her mind after she had decided what she should do.
"What am I to sing?" said Patricia, when at recess Dorothy questioned her. "I'mgoing to sing something from grand opera. It's called:
'I dreampt that I dwelt in marble halls,'
and my teacher coached me on it, and he said I sang it just as it should be sung."
"If her teacher said that she sang it well, perhaps it will be all right," Dorothy said, but even as she said it she wondered just what Patricia would do. Patriciamightdo anything.
Dorothy took the time to practice when all of the pupils were out of doors at recess. She did not wish them to hear her song until she should sing it for them at the social.
Nancy practiced her solo at early morning. Mrs. Marvin had given her permission to practice in their reception hall when she learned at what an early hour Nancy was willing to rise in order to do it.
Patricia declared it entirely needless forher to practice, thus making Dorothy still more uneasy as to her performance.
At last the evening arrived.
Dorothy had told herself that if, after all, Patricia did anything as "queer" as she had been known to do, worrying beforehand would not mend matters. She knew if she became nervous regarding Patricia, she could not do her own solo well. Patricia had asked that her number might be the last on the program, and Dorothy had agreed.
As Patricia usually wished to be first in anything, and was offended if not given precedence, it certainly looked as if she were planning to have her solo the crowning event of the evening.
Soon after seven a buzz of voices told Dorothy that the pupils had assembled early, and she would have joined them, but Mrs. Marvin had said that each of the soloists must be announced, and must come onto the stage, and greet her audience as if she were a professional.
All had been carefully arranged, and Vera Vane was to announce each performer.
Dorothy had chosen a light-blue dress, her pumps and hose of the same shade. The dress was charming, because of its lovely coloring, and its graceful lines.
Very clearly Vera announced:
"The first number to-night will be a waltz song by Dorothy Dainty."
Dorothy's voice had been carefully trained, and very sweetly she sang, one especial charm being that every word could be clearly heard, which is more than can be said of many singers who have studied for years.
She had chosen "Asphodel's Song."
How sweet was the voice, how happy her smile as she sang:
"Oh, how lovely are my flowersIn the morning wet with dew,Ah, they courtesy to the morningOff'ring gifts of fragrance new.Then the sound of bird wings whirringWake again the drowsy trees,And the tiny brooks are stirring,Running onward to the sea.Oh, how lovely are my flowersWhen the twilight shadows creep,Hosts of fairy folks come trooping,Where my flowers lie asleep."
Surely no singer was ever more graciously received.
There were to be no encores because of limited time.
Lights were usually out at nine-thirty, but the socials were from eight to ten. The concert must be brief to allow sufficient time afterward for games.
"The next number will be a dance by Nancy Ferris."
Nancy had stood in the upper hall, ready, when she heard her name called to enter. Here and there a tiny spangle caught the light, and the soft pink of her dress was repeated in her cheeks. She was happy. She was going to give pleasure.
As she heard her name called, she bounded down the stairway, across the hall, and up on the stage, looking far smaller than in her usual school dress. The pupils were spellbound.
Nancy had said nothing of her dancing nor had she spoken of having been a tiny performer at the theaters.
Now as they saw her whirling on the tips of her toes, dipping, swaying, doing steps of wondrous grace, they marveled at the skill with which she did it. At home, at theStone House, Dorothy had often played for her, but to-night she seemed to out-do herself.
Nancy swung forward, then with cunning steps retreated, crossed her feet and did the pretty rocking-step, whirled again, and yet again, did the pirouette to left, then to right, made a very low courtesy, and ran off the stage, followed by tremendous clapping.
How they wished that she might have repeated the lovely dance!
Mrs. Marvin closely watched the nimble feet and determined to know something more about the charming little dancer. And now—Dorothy wonderedjust whatthe next number would be. She took a long breath when, as Vera announced her, Patricia entered simply attired, wearing a pretty white dress, with a pale yellow sash, no other color.
It was remarkable to see Patricia without at least six colors.
"Perhaps she'll sing well," Dorothy said to herself, "for the lovely song that she chose for her numbercouldn'tbe twisted into anything funny."
Was that really so, or was Dorothy trying to think so? Was there anything that Patricia could not "twist" if she chose?
The charming old song is very sweet when properly sung, and the words fit the melody.
"I dreampt that I dwelt in marble halls,With vassals and serfs at my side,And of all who assembled within those walls,That I was the joy and the pride.I had riches too great to count, could boastOf a high ancestral name,But I also dreampt, and that charmed me most,That you loved me just the same."
So runs the first verse, but Patricia had never seen the music. She had heard thesong a number of times, and felt competent to sing it.
Dorothy had asked her to practice it, then had offered to loan her the music, but Patricia declared that she needed neither practice, nor the use of the music.
"Are you sure you know the words?" Nancy had asked.
"Of course!" Patricia had said sharply.
Nancy played the prelude, and Patricia sang. Sang with all her might, one might say, but oh, the words as she sang them!
She had caught them as they sounded, giving never a thought as to whether they made sense.
"I dre-eampt that I dwe-e-lt in mar-ar-ble hallsWithvesselsandsafesat my side.And of all who had stumbled within those wallsThat I was thejoke, and thebride,I hadwitchestomateand count, could boastOf a high and central nameBut I also dreampt, and that jarred me most,That Jew loved me just the same."
Was it strange that roars of laughter greeted the song? Even Mrs. Marvin, a model of all that was well-bred, covered her eyes for a moment with her handkerchief, but when she removed it, the eyes were twinkling and it was evident that only her self-control kept her from laughing aloud.
Dorothy's first thought was for Patricia. She knew it must be dreadful to be laughed at, and she was hoping that Patricia might not be too badly hurt. She would draw her into the games later in the evening, and thus cheer her.
It happened that Patricia needed no cheering. She was disgusted, but not hurt. She believed herself to be a very fine singer, and thought that the only reason for laughter was that her audience was dull, so dullindeed that her romantic selection had been mistaken for a comic song.
"The idea of thinking that song funny enough to laugh at! Why it is not a comic song at all. There's nothing funny about it!" she declared. "It really doesn't pay to sing for folks here. They can't understand what you are doing! The next time I sing, I'll sing for my friends in N'York."
Dorothy was puzzled for a second, then, as she saw that Patricia really meant what she said, she was thankful that the laughter had not been understood by the silly little singer.
Patricia had actually thought that they were foolishly amused by the song.
It had been quite another thing that annoyed Patricia, and that was the evident pleasure that Nancy's dancing had given, and on the day after the social, she was vexedto have to hear the other girls talking about it.
"I'd think you never saw any one dance before," she said, when Betty Chase said that Nancy's dancing was "simply lovely."
"Well, I never did see a girl dance like that," said Betty.
"Well, sheoughtto dance. She's had enough training, besides she used to dance on the stage. Who couldn't dance if they had a chance like that?"
"A whole lot of people couldn't," said Betty, sharply. "Icouldn't for one, and I guess there are a few others."
"Do you mean me?" Patricia asked, sharply, her eyes flashing.
"I mean any one silly enough to say that Nancy's dancing was anything but wonderful," Betty said, and she turned to Valerie,leaving Patricia to talk to herself, or to no one, if she chose.
Patricia had hoped to lessen interest in Nancy, but what she had said had had an opposite effect.
It had increased their already lively interest to such an extent that many who had not yet met her were wild to know her, and those who already were her friends were eager to question her as to her career. They longed to hear all about her training, her first appearance at the theater, and countless questions they wanted to ask her. Patricia had made Nancy more popular than before.
For several days Patricia was so busy thinking, that Arabella felt rather lonely. Arabella had been writing a letter to her Aunt Matilda, and endeavoring to answer all the questions that that peculiar woman had asked. It had occupied her spare time for two days, and was not yet ready to mail.
"O dear!" sighed Arabella, "I don't like to write letters."
"Don't write them," Patricia advised.
"Why, Patricia Levine! You know if I didn't answer Aunt Matilda's letter she'd pack her suit-case, and come right here!"
"Good gracious! Hurry up and finishit," cried Patricia. "I wouldn't want her coming here."
"I've got a cold, so I couldn't go out to mail it," drawled Arabella.
"Don't let that stop you," cried Patricia, "for I'll gladly go out to mail it for you, if it'll keep your Aunt Matilda away."
Later, when Patricia went down the hall on the way to post the letter, she saw that Dorothy's door was slightly ajar. Of course Patricia's sharp eyes saw it, and, because she never could resist the temptation to listen, where she might hear something not intended for her ears, she paused.
Nancy was speaking of the man that she had seen standing at the edge of the forest, on the day of the sleigh-ride. Again she told Dorothy how it had frightened her, adding:
"He looked just like Bonfanti, the ballet-teacher, and I believe if I should look from our window and see him out there, looking toward this house, I'd not dare to go out for days."
Dorothy tried to comfort her, by saying:
"But, Nancy dear, we'venotseen him since that day, and he's miles away from here by this time, as likely as not."
Patricia needed to hear no more. She could not make Nancy less popular, but here was a fine chance for annoying her.
It was strange what pleasure it afforded Patricia to make others unhappy! She never seemed to know that in striving to annoy others, she was constantly proving that she herself was disagreeable.
She hastened out to the nearest mail box with the letter, and then returning to her room, sat down to think.
"I wish you'd talk," said Arabella. "It's awful dull this cloudy afternoon."
Patricia was in no mood for talking, and Arabella dared not insist.
It was after dinner when the pupils met in the cheery reception-hall for a little chat before going to their rooms, that Patricia saw her chance, and took it.
Some one asked Nancy if she and Dorothy had been out for their usual walk.
"It seemed a bit raw," she replied, "so we remained in."
Patricia, who had been moving nearer, now stood at Nancy's elbow.
"Did you notice a big, dark man, this morning looking up toward your window?" she asked: "Do you know who he is? We saw him the day of the sleigh-ride, and that was weeks ago. I believe he is always rightaround here, for I don't know how many times I have seen him. He always simplystarestoward your windows. I thought perhaps you knew him."
Nancy turned pale, and Mrs. Marvin, who was near them, saw Dorothy draw Nancy closer as if to protect her.
"Is Nancy ill?" she asked kindly.
Patricia had left the hall when she saw Mrs. Marvin speaking to Dorothy.
Dorothy explained how frightened Nancy had been ever since the sleigh-ride, a few weeks before.
"Come into my apartment and tell me all about this. I am greatly interested," she said.
They were only too glad to escape the curious eyes that now were watching them, and together they told Mrs. Marvin the story of Nancy's career. When they reached thepoint where Patricia had told them of the man who had stood looking up at their windows that afternoon, a look of relief passed over her face, and she actually laughed.
"You two dear little friends may rest easy to-night," she said, "for the man whom you saw at the edge of the woods, and the man who was here to-day, looking up at your windows, as Patricia said, are one and the same person. He is a man who has made a study of all plant life, and especially wise is he in regard to vines and trees.
"To-day he was trying to decide just what sort of vine would thrive best on this sunny side of the house. His name is not nearly so picturesque as Bonfanti. It is Jonathan Scroggs. Not a fine name, surely, but his name has never hindered him in his profession. He is one of the best florists in the country, he knows all about beautiful vinesand trees, and he is also a landscape gardener. He can take a plain little cottage, with a small piece of land, and plant just the right kind of trees on the place, train vines over the porch so as to render it charming, and make the bit of land into a tiny park, so dainty, so altogether lovely that people will come from far and near to see the 'beauty spot.' Now do you care in the least what his name is?"
"Indeed I do not," Dorothy said, firmly.
"And oh, how glad I am that he is not Professor Bonfanti!" Nancy said. "It was silly to be so frightened, but if only you knew how hard those months were when he was training me, and old Uncle Steve was threatening all sorts of things if I did not dance well! You see, I was really ill with fear, and homesickness, and Uncle Steve did not seem to see that the more he threatened,the more ill I became. Oh, if I should talk all day, I could not tell you half the misery of those days. Only yesterday one of the girls said that she would not have minded any of the harsh things if only she could have danced on the stage. That is what she thinks, but she doesn't know!"
"Well, Nancy, to-day you are nervous and tired, but I have quieted all your fears, and assured you that you are safe here at Glenmore. Some day when we can arrange it, I would enjoy hearing more of your little career."
"And I'd be willing to tell you, Mrs. Marvin; you've been so kind, and you've comforted me. I shall sleep to-night without any horrid dreams."
Mrs. Marvin felt that Patricia had really intended to frighten Nancy, and she decided to have a quiet little talk with her, and ifpossible, learn what had prompted her to do so unkind a thing.
It was an odd combination that "Glenmore," one of the best of schools for girls in the country, modern in every respect, and absolutely "up-to-date," should be situated in a town that was quaint, and picturesque, with inhabitants as fanciful, and superstitious as one would find if he had traveled back a century.
True, there were residents who had recently come to the place for a summer home, but the old people of the place clung to their old time superstitions, their firm belief in "signs," their legends handed down from one generation to another, and the newcomers humored them, listened to their "yarns," and asked to hear more. Many of these stories were quite as interesting as anyfolk tales, and none could tell them with finer effect than old Cornelia Derby.
It was Marcus who had pointed her out to several of the girls who, one morning, chanced to be standing near the gate as the old woman came up the street.
"Oh, Marcus, do you really mean that she can tell all sorts of quaint stories about this old town?" cried Betty Chase.
"I sure does," said Marcus, "and 'nuffin' pleases her like gittin' a chance ter tell 'em ter folks as is willin' ter listen."
"Now, Valerie," said Betty, turning to her chum, "let's get her to tell us some of the stories she knows about the fine old houses, and the people that once lived in them."
"Fine!" cried Valerie, "but where would we find her?"
"She lives in a little old hut, 'round behin' the hill over there!" said Marcus, "an'all yo' has ter do is ter go up dis street, an' yo'll sure spot it, long 'fore yo' reach it, 'cause the top half er dat hut is red, an' the bottom half is whitewash. It sure looks mighty quare!"
"Let's take a walk over there to-morrow, when our lessons are prepared," said Valerie, "but," she added, "I hope we find it."
"Yo' couldn't miss it," said Marcus, "for all yo' has ter do is ter go up dis street, an' turn ter yo' left, den go a piece, an' turn ter yo' right, an' walk 'til yo' come ter a big yaller house, an' dat's 'bout half-way. Nex' yo' cross a field, skip over de place where de brook is in summer an' come ter a piece er wall, stone wall, 'tis, an' it don't seem ter b'long ter no place 'tall, an' de hut is jes' a little ways beyond."
The sound of a bell sent them hurrying toward the house.
"Do you expect to remember all that?" Valerie asked on the way to the class-room.
"If you do you'll be a wonder. I've forgotten it now."
Betty nodded confidently.
"We'll go over there to-morrow," she said.
The next afternoon, Betty helped Valerie with some puzzling problems that must be solved before starting out.
Then with confidence on Betty's part, and much doubt in Valerie's mind as to their ability to find the hut, they set off on the long walk. After twice enquiring of people whom they met, of taking a long walk in the wrong direction, and retracing their steps, they finally espied the piece of stone wall that seemed to belong to "no place at all," as Marcus had said.
Glad to rest, they paused there to lookabout them, and to wait for Vera and Elf, who had promised to meet them. Neither was in sight, although they had said that they would be prompt. Snow and ice had fled, and now everywhere were signs of spring. Vera had declared that the long walk was what she needed, and Elf had said that she would endure the walk for the sake of hearing the quaint stories of the town and its people that old Cornelia would tell.
At the end of the wall Betty and Valerie waited.
"I'd not wait much longer," Valerie said.
"I surely willnot!" Betty replied, "for if they are coming, they'll be here in a few minutes."
It was evident that the two girls had, for some reason, been detained, and Betty determined to wait no longer.
At the end of the wall Betty and Valerie waited.
At the end of the wall Betty and Valerie waited.—Page 150.
"Come!" she cried. "We'll go on now tothe little hut, and if Vera and Elf come poking along a half-hour later, they can just sit on this wall, and see if they enjoy waiting as well as we did."
It was but a short distance, and they ran part of the way to make up for lost time, but when they reached the gate they found, as Valerie glanced at her tiny watch, that it was later than they thought, and was already about time for them to turn toward Glenmore, if they did not wish to be late.
Hours were strictly kept at the school, and all pupils must return from recreation in time to give themselves personal care, and be in the lower hall at five-thirty for a friendly chat before going to the dining-room at six.
Mrs. Marvin insisted that every pupil look her best at all times.
It was now four o'clock. It would take ahalf-hour to reach Glenmore. That meant that not more than a half-hour could be spent at the hut.
There was no answer to their repeated knocking, but as they turned to go they saw old Cornelia coming toward them along the road, a big basket on her arm.
"Well, well, two fine little callers I find waiting for me," she said. "And what can I do for you?"
"We wanted you to tell us all about some of the old buildings and the interesting stories about the people who lived in them," said Betty, "but it's so late now that I don't believe there's time. We have to be back at Glenmore at five."
"Then sit right down here on my garden-seat and I'll tell you the shortest tale I know, and some other day if you come when you have more time I'll tell you more."
"Oh, that will be fine!" they cried, as with one voice.
"How would you like to hear about the wishing-well?"
"That soundsgreat!" declared Betty and then: "Could you begin it with 'Once upon a time?'"
"Surely," was the quick response, "and now I think of it, I'm sure you must have passed the old wishing-well on your way here. The old well was supposed to have magic power, and long ago when the old Paxton House was standing, people came, for miles around, to be near the old well in the garden, and wish for their heart's desire, feeling sure that their wish would be granted.
"Of course the idea was absurd, but the townspeople of those days were superstitious, so that if those things that they wishedfor beside the well never came to them, they thought that they must have forgotten to ask for them in the right way, and later they would try again.
"If they obtained the thing that they had wished for, they laid their good fortune entirely to the fact that the old well must have approved of them."
"And where is it!" Valerie asked. "You said that we must have passed it."
"The old well has a flat wooden cover over it now, with an iron bar to keep it in place, lest some one be careless and fall in, though now the wild blackberry vines have nearly hidden it from sight. Even now when only young leaves are on the brambles, the thorny stems make a network over the cover. The old Paxton House was gone before my time," Mrs. Derby said, "but a part of its fine wallremains. It was upon that wall that the wishers sat.
"Did you happen to notice a fine piece of wall that seemed to belong to no one at all, and ended in a broad field?"
"The idea!" cried Betty. "Why wesaton that piece of wall, and could have 'wished' just as well as not, if only we'd known it."
"And it's almost half-past four now," said Valerie. "S'pose we run along toward Glenmore, and stop just long enough to sit on the wall and wish. We can be on time at five, if we do that. Then we could come over some day when we've more time, and hear all about the well, and other stories, too."
It was a good idea, because it was already so late that they could remain but a few moments longer, so with an urgent invitation to come again, and a promise to do so, theyran back to the old wall, looking back to wave their hands to the little woman who waved in return.
"Isn't it funny to think that we stopped at the very place to wish, and never knew it?" said Valerie, as they ran along the foot path that would take them back, the shortest way to the wall, and the wishing-well.
"Not so 'funny' as that we'd take so much time and trouble to wish when we get there," said Betty.
"Why is it odd?" Valerie asked, stopping squarely in front of Betty, and looking at her with round eyes.
"Oh, because we're acting exactly as if we believed in the old well," Betty said, lookinga bit annoyed, yet keeping straight on toward the wall.
"Well, of course we're not so silly as toreallyandtrulybelieve it could grant our wishes, but it's no harm to try," responded Valerie.
Betty laughed.
"Oh, we don't believe it all,Yet wemustbelieve a littleWeb'lievethe water boilsWhen the steam comes from thekittle."It's dark inside the drum,Yet we hear the drumming well,But that we wished beside the wallWe'll never, never tell."
"Where did you hear those verses?" Valerie asked.
"That's a funny song my brother sings. I made the second verse to fit to-day."
"Why, Betty Chase! Who'd think you could make poetry?" cried Valerie, lookingBetty over, as if it were the first time she had ever seen her.
Betty laughed gayly.
"I guess Mrs. Marvin would tell you it wasn't poetry. Don't you remember she told us the other day that many people could write verses, but that verses were not alwayspoetry?"
"Well, all the same, I like the funny verses," Valerie said, "and here we are at the wall again."
"And here's luck to us, and our wishing!" cried Betty.
She sprang up on the wall beside Valerie, and for a moment the two sat thinking.
It was Valerie who first spoke.
"I've been trying to think what to wish for," she said, "and now all at once I know. Mother told me to work hard this year, so as to stand high in my class, andAunt Phyllis said if I could finish in June with ninety per cent. average she'd give me a beautiful ring. Yes, that's what I'll wish for by the old well, and after I've wished it, I'll work harder than ever so that my wish will come true. Well, why do you laugh?" she asked, looking not only amazed, but rather vexed at Betty, who could not stop laughing even when she saw that Valerie was far from thinking it a joke.
"Well, what have I said that is so awfully funny?" she asked sharply.
"Don't be provoked, Valerie," Betty said, but her shoulders shook although she tried to check her laughter.
"I was only thinking," she continued, "how generous you were to help the old well out so nicely. Just as soon as you've wished, you'll start right out to work hard enough to justmakethe wish come true,well or no well, and I do believe, if your aunt gives you the ring, you'll forget how hard you worked, and you'll be saying: 'I do more than half believe in the wishing-well!'"
Valerie was never long angry, and she laughed as she answered:
"Well, Miss Wise-one, are you going to wish, and then sit back and wait to see if it 'comes true'?"
"I'll wish just for fun, but I don't believe what she said about the old well any more than you do, Valerie Dare. We'd be silly to even think that an old well had any power to grant wishes," Betty said, but Valerie laughed again.
"Then why did we bother to sit on this wall and wish?" she said.
"We might just as well wish while we're waiting along the road."
"Come on!" cried Betty. "You wished on the wall beside the well, and I'll wish as we walk along, and we'll see which gets what she wished for."
"All right," agreed Valerie, "but Idohope you'll get yours, Betty."
"I'm as likely to, as if I'd kept sitting by the well," Betty said, "for I wish for what justcouldn'thappen."
"Why Betty Chase! Why don't you wish for something that you've achanceof getting," said Valerie, stopping squarely in front of Betty.
"Because I have everything I want but one thing," was the quiet reply.
"And that one thing is—what?" queried Valerie.
"I love Dorothy Dainty, and I don't want to say 'good-by' to her when school closes. I'd like to be where she is this summer, butthatcouldn'tbe. You see our summer home is lovely, and we go there every year. Father and mother like the country better than the shore, but I like the beach, and the water best. Dorothy and Nancy will go home to Merrivale, but whether they spend the summer there, or go away to some other place, it won't make much difference to me. It's not likely to happen that they'll come to the quiet little town where we are to spend the summer."
Betty's merry face now wore such a sober expression that Valerie said:
"Well, I still say I wish you'd wanted something that really could happen."
At that moment some one appeared just around a bend of the road, some one wearing the gayest of colors, and with her a little old-fashioned figure in a dark brown dress.
"Look! Patricia and Arabella are coming this way, and they look as if they were planning something great. Just see how close together their heads are! I don't know Arabella very well, but when Patricia is 'up to' anything, it's pretty sure to be mischief."
"Oh, I don't know," Valerie. "It's just as likely to be some way she's planning for a chance to show off."
Betty laughed.
"Did you hear Vera Vane telling about the afternoon that Patricia knocked at her door, and said that she had come to 'make a call'?"
"I didn't hear that," said Valerie. "What did she do?"
"She was wearing all the rings and bangles that she owned, and in her hand was a card-case, just as if she were grown up. She sat on the tip edge of her chair, andshe kept taking out her handkerchief, and shaking it because it was drenched with perfumery, and when she went, she emptied the card-case on the table, and Vera counted the cards. Say, Patricia had leftfifty. Wasn't that funny?"
"Hush—sh!" breathed Valerie, "she might hear you."
Patricia rushed forward, while Arabella, as usual, hung back, preferring to stare at Betty and Valerie through her spectacles, rather than have a little chat.
She wanted to watch their faces, and see if they were greatly surprised with the news that Patricia had to tell.
"Guess where we're going!" Patricia cried, "but you couldn't guess, so I'll tell you. We're going over to the well, the one that's called the wishing-well," she explained, "and we mustn't tell what we meanto wish for, 'cause if you tell, you wouldn't get your wish. Did you know that?"
Betty said that she had not heard that.
"I'll tell you to-morrow just how to find it, but we can't stop now. There isn't time."
"Late!" cried Valerie. "I guess you two are late. We think we have to hurry to get to Glenmore on time, and you are going away from school every minute. Why don't you go to the well, if you want to, to-morrow."
Arabella thought that they ought to turn back, but Patricia seized her hand, and the two commenced to run.
"They'll be a half-hour late," said Valerie, looking after the flying figures.
"And 'The Fender' will be waiting for a chance to scold them when they come in," said Betty.
As they pushed the gate open, they saw a little figure disappearing around the corner of the house.
"That was Ida Mayo," said Valerie.
"I didn't see her face. Are you sure it was Ida?" Betty asked.
"Oh, it was Ida," Valerie answered, "and I do wonder why she stays in her room all the time. If she happens to come down when the girls are out, she runs, the moment she sees any of us coming."
"It's a long time ago that she was sick," Betty replied, "but she must be all right by this time. I wonder why she ran when she saw us? We don't know her well enough to stop her to talk. She's bigger than we are, and she's three classes above us."
"Who told you she stayed in her own room all the time?" continued Betty.
"Patricia Levine said so," Valerie said.
"Why, Valerie Dare, you know Patricia tells—well—things that aren'treallytrue," said Betty.
"Well, we don't see Ida, now, as we used to," Valerie said.
"That might just happen," said Betty.
It happened that what Patricia had said was true.
The so-called "beautifier" had injured the skin so severely that it required time to heal it.
Mrs. Marvin had said that Ida was feeling far from well, which was true.
Her vanity had prompted her to do a foolish thing, and she had suffered for it, both because of her painful face, and because in her nervousness, she had cried until completely tired out.
Mrs. Marvin had talked with her kindlyand wisely, she had let old Judy take her meals up to her room, and she had personally given her private instruction, for she pitied the silly girl, and sought to keep curious ones from annoying her.
Ida had hastened away when she had seen the two younger girls coming because there still were traces on her cheeks of the burning caused by the patent "beautifier," and she seemed more afraid of the comments of the younger girls, than of her own classmates.
As the two girls entered the hall they saw that the tall clock marked the time as quarter-past five.
"Fifteen minutes to fix up just a bit," said Betty. "Come on!"
They raced up the stairs and soon reached their room.
Valerie was ready first, because Betty had found a letter waiting for her, and promptly sat down to read it.
"You'd better not stop to read it," cautioned Valerie, "for when we came in we had only fifteen minutes to—"
But just then Betty gave a little cry of delight.
"Oh-oo! Just listen to this!" she cried. "Father says we are to go to the shore this summer just for a change, and already he has rented the summer place." She clapped her hands, and laughed with sheer happiness.
"Oh, I'm so glad to hear that to-night. I do believe I'll dream about it," she said.
The half-hour for social chat was over, and dinner was half through when Patricia and Arabella entered the dining-room.
All eyes were turned upon them.
Patricia held her chin very high, and looked as if she were thinking: "I know I'm late, but what of that?" She was assuming a boldness that she did not feel, whereas Arabella was absolutely natural. She felt frightened, and looked—just as she felt.
"Wouldn't you like to know what they wished?" whispered Valerie, to which Betty whispered in reply:
"I'd like to know, but they wouldn't tell us."
It was a fixed rule at Glenmore that the pupils must be present at the social half-hour, and then be sure of being prompt at six, the dinner hour. Patricia and Arabella were the first to break that rule.
There was to be a week's vacation, and all but four of the pupils were to spend it at home.
They were Patricia and Arabella, Dorothy, and Nancy.
Mrs. Dainty and Aunt Charlotte were still traveling, and Mrs. Vane had asked Vera to bring Dorothy and Nancy home with her for the week. Already they had planned enough pleasure to last a month, and Vera was still racking her busy brain to think of other things that they might do.
The pupils were welcome to remain at Glenmore if they wished, and Patricia had decided that that was just what she would do.
Arabella had hesitated. She was fond of her father, and she had intended to go home for the week, but Patricia had declared that they would stay at Glenmore, and Arabella was no match for Patricia, so it was settled that they would remain at the school.
The week at Vera's home opened charmingly.
Mrs. Vane had given the week over to Vera and her three little guests.
"It isn't quite a week," she said when she greeted them, "for you have arrived Monday afternoon, and you must leave Saturday morning. That gives us Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and we must make each day delightful."
"It always is delightful here," said Dorothy, "and it seemed so good to come to you when mother was away."
Mrs. Vane drew Dorothy closer. She knew that at heart, sweet Dorothy was a bit homesick.
"We'll have a pleasant little home evening with music and games," she said, "and you'll all feel rested by to-morrow. I'll nottell what I've in store for to-morrow. That is a secret," she said.
Of course Vera coaxed, and the others tried to guess, but Mrs. Vane remained firm, only laughing as their guessing grew wilder.
"Mother truly can keep a secret, but I can't," said Vera. "I mean to keep it but first thing I know, I'm telling it."
"We all know that," said Elf, and Vera joined in the laughter of the others.
Tuesday was fair, and Mrs. Vane, at lunch looked at the four bright faces before her, Vera, a small copy of herself; Elf, whose mischievous face was truly elfish; Nancy, whose gypsy beauty always pleased, and Dorothy, blue-eyed, fair-haired, whose lovable disposition shone from her eyes, and made her sweet to look upon.
"We shall take a trip to Fairy-land thisafternoon," she said, "and must start directly after lunch."
That was all that she would tell, and as they motored up one busy street, and down another, she enjoyed watching their eager faces, and listening to their chatter.
Fairy-land proved to be a wonderful play, depicting Elf-land with fairies, water nymphs, elves and witches, goblins, and gnomes, with exquisite scenery, beautiful costumes, and graceful dancing that held them entranced, from the time that the curtain went up until the grand march of the fairies at the finale.
The "grown-ups" in the audience were delighted, so it was not strange that Mrs. Vane's party was spellbound.
Of them all, Nancy best understood the perfect art of the dancing. She had beendrilled in those dainty steps, and she saw how cleverly each did her part.
It was an afternoon of enchantment, and when the play was over, the gay little party howled along the broad thoroughfare toward home and they talked of the beautiful fairy play, and the graceful girls who had danced as nymphs.
The four days passed so quickly that when Saturday dawned, it seemed hardly possible that it was time to return to Glenmore.
There had been a wonderful exhibition of paintings for Wednesday, a huge fair for Thursday at which Mrs. Vane bought a lovely gift for each as a souvenir.
Thursday they had motored out beyond the city where willows were showing their misty green, and gay little crocus beds were in bloom. They had stopped for lunch at a pretty restaurant that looked for all theworld like a rustic cottage, and then had returned to find Rob Vane waiting to greet them, as they drew up to the house.
"Hello!" he called to them before they had alighted.
"How is this, that a fellow gets a week's vacation, and comes home from school to find only servants to greet him?"
"Why, Robert, I am glad enough to have you home for a week. I thought you were to stay at school for extra coaching?"
"That's what I wrote in my last letter," said Rob, "but I passed exams. with flying colors. I was nervous, and feared I wasn't prepared, but say! I was needlessly scared, for I not only 'passed,' but snatched the prize for mathematics."
"I am proud of you, Robert, and your father will be pleased," Mrs. Vane said, her fine eyes shining.
"And I'm proud of you, Rob," cried Vera, rushing at him, and clasping her arms about him.
"Hi, Pussy Weather-vane, it's good to have a little sister," said Rob, swinging her around until she was dizzy.
"Are you glad to see me, too?" he asked, laughing at her flushed cheeks, and touzled, flaxen hair.
"Oh, Rob!Soglad, even if you do shake me up until I look wild," Vera said, clinging to his arm, and dragging him toward the little guests.
"I dare to say he's the best brother in the world because neither one of you has a brother, so you won't be offended."
"Spare my blushes, Vera," cried Rob. "Say, girls, I'm mighty glad to see you. How long are you to stay? A week?"
"We are going back to Glenmore Saturday," Dorothy said, "and we start at nine in the morning. There is no one at the Stone House but the servants, and it was so lovely to come home with Vera."
"It surely was the best thing that you could do," Rob replied earnestly, for he knew by a slight quiver in her voice that Dorothy was a bit homesick.
Nancy heard the odd little quiver when Dorothy was speaking, and she hastened to speak of cheery things.
"We've had just the dearest visit, and we've been to the theater, to a big fair, to see a hall hung with beautiful pictures, and how we have enjoyed it all!" she said.
"I'll do the entertaining to-morrow," saidRob. "I'll take you all to see something that will be no end of fun."
"What will it be, Rob?" Vera asked, but Rob tweaked her curls, and laughed.
"That's my secret," he said, and they had to be satisfied with that.