CHAPTER XIXPERSONAL PLEASURE

"Never let yourself be worried,Or hurried, or flurried,"

sang Margaret.

"I'm not worrying or flurrying," retorted Miss Billy. "And as for hurrying"—she held up the new gloves as she spoke—

"Time kid and I were homeHalf an hour ago.

"If I dared I should put on my new beads, my scarf, my sash and my crêpe shawl, and, carrying my new fan in my neatly gloved hands, should go home arrayed in all my glory; but I know I should die of pride before I reached my humble doorstep. So I shall wrap them up tightly, and say 'fine feathers do not make fine birds' over and over all my way home. Oh, Peggoty, I never dreamed that I should actually own a string of coral beads myself!"

"I wish you could stay to luncheon," sighed Margaret. "However, I'm coming for you with the cart this afternoon, and after we drive we'll come here for dinner. You'll have to, you see, in order to try on the coat before mother."

"Don't offer any inducements," said Miss Billy. "I shall continue to live with you from now on. Tie your German flag to the window as a signal when you don't want to see me. I shall come here for music, for companionship, for comfort, for help, and for advice. In short, Margaret, you'll be sorry, before the autumn begins, that you are such an 'eddicated person.' I may possibly have mentioned this fact to you before, but Iamglad, glad, glad that you are at home again."

“How sad, and bad, and mad it was!But then how it was sweet!”

SCHOOL commences Monday," groaned Theodore dismally, from his favourite position on the couch. "How I am to modulate my tones to Virgil's verse after shouting at Mr. Hennesy's mules for two months, I can't see. As for a geometrical theorem, I haven't a single lucid idea on the subject. It's been a great summer, come to look back on it."

"Dear me," said Miss Billy, throwing down the book she was reading,—"I don't see how I am going to break loose from everything and go back to school. The Canary birdlings will be just as dirty and ill-cared for as ever,—andlittle Mike, and Isaac Levi, and a half dozen others are too young for the public kindergarten. Then there's the Street Improvement Club, and the mothers' meetings,—why, I don't see what I am to do."

Beatrice looked up from the lunch cloth she was hemstitching for a church fair. "If you can trust the smaller children to me," she said timidly, "I think I can take care of them. I was talking to Mrs. Canary to-day. I told her she could send the twins and Mikey over every morning for two hours, as usual. She seemed so relieved and happy over it, and promised that Holly Belle should go to school."

"Oh," cried Miss Billy, with shining eyes, "it's lovely of you, Bea, and Holly Belle will be wild with delight. But those babies are the slipp'riest things when they're wet!"

"I shall not drop them," said Beatrice firmly. "I shall think of Holly Belle all the time, and that her chances depend upon my success. All the rest of the little brood shall have as conscientious care as I can give them fortwo hours every day,—but I don't expect it to be easy for me, as it is for you."

"Oh, they'll love you, Bea," said Miss Billy enthusiastically. "You don't know what dear little things they are, especially just after they've been washed. Well,that'ssettled, then. Margaret will be glad to relieve you at any time, I know,—and she will continue to look after Holly Belle's music, too. The way the child takes to it is simply wonderful. Francis, of course, will continue at the head of the Street Improvement Club."

"Five long days between this and school, and nothing to do!" murmured Theodore luxuriously from the couch. "I shall drive no mules,—I shall instruct no growing intellects. Fads may continue to lead Miss Billy round by the nose, up to the very last minute,—but I shall do nothing at all!"

"It has been a busy summer," said Mrs. Lee, with a half arrested sigh.

"Is it good news, papa?" asked Beatrice of her father, who in the soft glow of the studylamp had been perusing the illegibly scrawled sheets of a special delivery letter.

"It is more!" said the minister impressively. "It is a vindication of human nature under the worst circumstances. Nearly twenty years ago a young fellow came to me for assistance. He had been in a hospital with a fever, and had neither money, work or friends. He wanted to go out West, where he thought he might be able to find employment. I drew him out about his past life, and found he knew what it was to sleep in a haystack and be lodged in a jail: but I lent him twenty-five dollars——"

"And he has died a millionaire and bequeathed you a fortune," wound up Theodore dramatically, sitting upright.

"No," said the minister, smiling, "those things happen only in books. What the fellow has really done is to return me the amount I lent him, with a half-manly sort of a letter showing he has cherished a sense of gratitude all these years. That is much more than I expected."

"Conscience money!" groaned Beatrice. "I suppose it will go to the poor."

"Let us hope to the deserving poor, like me!" observed Theodore, dismally echoing the groan, and collapsing on the couch again.

"Or like father," said Miss Billy severely. "It would buy him lots of things he needs."

The minister sat tapping his glasses with smiling introspection. "When I was a lad," he said slowly, "I desired with all my heart and soul a certain steam toy. It was rather a clever contrivance, and of course, was expensive. But I wanted it more than I've wanted anything since. Sometimes I dream I am a boy again, and always I see standing in the black shadow of disappointment that steam toy."

"And father's going to buy it now," said Theodore breathlessly.

"No," said the minister, shaking his head: "It's too late! that's the worst of it. Butthat was a distinct disappointment in my life that no amount of reasoning could reason me out of."

"It makes me think of an incident of my own childhood," said Mrs. Lee. "When I was about five years old, I attended my first party, given by a neighbour's child. All I can remember is that a black-eyed lady with dark curly hair passed a platter of tarts, and with an indistinct idea that it was a well-bred thing to do, I said, 'No, thank you,—I don't eat tarts.' Then I sat with welling eyes watching the other little guests eat theirs. It was a very real grief. I cried for that tart in the loneliness of many nights,—and I haven't forgotten it in thirty years."

"It is my belief that every one has ungratified whims," said the minister. "Some are grown-up whims, but none the less whimsical. I propose that we use this money for the gratification of purely personal pleasure. There will be five dollars for each of us. We'll have one glorious day of vacation,—with the worldbefore us, and five dollars for spending money!"

"I know what I should like to buy with mine," said Beatrice, "but I know you would all think it silly."

"And I've had an ungratified whim for years!" said Miss Billy, rising and overthrowing a pile of books in her excitement. "But you'll call it preposterous when you find out what it is!"

"Now watch her bring home a bear cub with a silver chain round its neck, and want me to build it a little pagoda to live in," said Theodore disdainfully. "But I know what I am going to do. I shall be the Count of Monte Cristo for one day only. Remember the date,—September the first,—to-morrow!"

"But it does seem a little wasteful," began Mrs. Lee, smiling in spite of herself at the exuberance of spirit in the air, "especially when——"

The minister interrupted, a mischievous ring in his voice. "I beg to remind you, Mrs. Lee,that 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.' We intend to have a lark. To relieve your mind let me add that I myself shall go on an eminently respectable lark,—one that shall not estrange me from my flock, for instance. We intend for one day to divide our ages by two, and no remainder. You shall be one of us, or forfeit your money. Though poor in pocket, we shall be rich in experiences. Do you agree?"

There was much bustling commotion at Number 12 Cherry Street the next morning. "I've sent word to the children not to come to-day," said Miss Billy, putting on her hat and tucking her rain coat under her arm. "Poor little things,—they'll be disappointed. Well,—good-bye, Bea,—I shall not see you again till night."

"Now do be careful, Wilhelmina," warned Beatrice. "Don't buy anything you don't want, or make yourself conspicuous in any way, or——"

"Why," said Miss Billy, "I am going togratify a heretofore ungratified whim. There are no conditions whatever. I have divided my age by two, the world is before me, and I have five dollars for spending money. Well, good-bye again; take care of yourself, dear," and Miss Billy sailed off down the street.

Theodore went next. He was attired in his very best clothes, and presented a fashionable appearance in a fearfully high collar and a white tie. Then the minister departed. Beatrice could hear him say to her mother in the hall, "I haven't had such delightful chills of anticipation since I took part in cane rushes at college twenty-five years ago. And I haven't the slightest idea what I'm going to do, either!"

Next Beatrice heard the door close after her mother's retreating form. She peeped out of the window and noted she carried a shopping bag. "The dear," she said. "She will buy us all stockings or gloves, and declare it was a purely personal whim. But it won't be keeping to the contract if she does!"

It was quite ten o'clock when Beatrice leftthe house. She was dressed in her best street gown, with dainty hat and gloves to match. As she closed the door behind her, Francis Lindsay was just coming out of his uncle's gate. He lifted his hat to her, and then crossed the street. "I hope Miss Billy isn't ill?" he inquired, with a shade of constraint in his manner. "I've heard, you see, of the child garden being discontinued to-day."

"No, she is not ill," answered Beatrice, feeling with embarrassment the colour creeping into her cheeks. "If I could only get over this silly habit of blushing every time a stranger speaks to me," she thought angrily,—and then blushed more furiously than ever.

There was nothing to do but walk along, and Francis, who evidently also was on his way down town, walked with her. He talked pleasantly, but Beatrice's replies were sadly disconnected.

"He noticed me blush," she kept thinking hotly. "No doubt he is conceited enough to attribute it to his own personal charms!"

She welcomed the first store as an avenue of escape, and bade him good-morning. "He has just spoiled my day," she thought, as she tossed over silk stockings and lace handkerchiefs in a flurry. "I'm always making myself ridiculous!"

But the zest of shopping came back to her, and she visited store after store, looking at pretty, dainty, feminine things, feeling her money always safe in her pocket, and knowing exactly what she should be weak enough to buy in the end. But it was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon, and she was feeling tired and a little dishevelled and very hungry, before she came to the Mecca of her wanderings.

It was a fashionable shoe-store, and in the very centre of the show window hung a fascinating pair of little red satin slippers, with Louis Quinze heels. Beatrice shut her eyes and grappled with temptation. "I haven't a thing that's suitable to go with them," she argued to herself. "In fact, I believe they would be out of place anywhere but in a French dressingroom. But they are so sweet and dainty with their beautiful little gilt heels——"

She opened the door and went in. The place was filled with customers, but a bustling salesman came forward and smiled into Beatrice's pretty flushed face. Yes, certainly, he would take them out of the show window. They were the only pair in stock,—a sample pair. He tried one of the satin slippers on Beatrice's dainty foot, and stepped back to admire the effect. "They are a perfect fit," he exclaimed.

"Yes," said Beatrice. They pinched her toes a little, but she would not wear them often. "Five dollars, did you say?" Then she should have to wait for the silk hose to match. She had hoped they would not be more than four. She pondered a moment, and then decided aloud, "I'll take them."

The salesman hurried away to put them in their box, and Beatrice, looking around for the first time, encountered the keen glance of a pair of dark eyes at the opposite counter. It was Francis Lindsay.

There was one dismayed moment,—then she hastily averted her glance without bowing in recognition. "He has watched me buy those silly slippers," she thought, growing red and white by turns. "He has stood there watching me admire myself in them. His eyes were full of unutterable things. Oh, I just—hate him!"

She glanced into the long mirror opposite, and it reflected back a figure from which all the morning daintiness had fled. Her boots were dusty, her gloves gaping at the fingers. The jaunty hat was awry;—her face was flushed, and burned with fatigue and heat.

The salesman returned with the package, and Beatrice gave him the five-dollar bill. She hastily left the store, and, still with averted eyes, bumped into the very person she was seeking to avoid.

"I beg your pardon," he said, raising his hat. "It was my awkwardness. I stopped to raise my umbrella. You see it rains a little." Then noticing that she carried no umbrella, and thatshe was looking very tired, he asked kindly, "Are you going home?"

"I think I am ready for home," answered Beatrice, trying to keep the tears out of her voice. "I've been down town since ten o'clock——" She stopped suddenly, the absurdity of the statement coupled with the single package of which he had relieved her, appealing to her with full force.

"But you've had luncheon?"

"I am not at all hungry," declared Beatrice perversely. She was very near to tears, and she felt that another question on his part might precipitate them.

"This is the very time to have you taste the German cake they call 'puffer,' and which can be had only in this shop," said Francis,—and almost before she knew it he had led the way into a caterer's, and a neat little maid was taking an order for iced chocolate and the German sweet-bread.

"What would father say?" she thought despairingly. "What will Miss Billy say? Whatshall I say to myself, to-morrow?" But for the present she was strangely content to sit in restful retirement opposite this grave dark-eyed young fellow, Mr. Schultzsky's grand-nephew, and satisfy her hunger with the iced chocolate and delicious German cake.

She was telling him the history of the day.

Strangely, too, in a few moments she was telling him the history of the day, and Francis was laughing heartily. "That accounts for the oddity of Miss Billy's actions," he declared. "I saw her riding on the top of an empty omnibus, clad in the sombre disguise of a raincoat. But she evidently didn't care if I knew her, for she waved her hand to me from her elevated perch."

Beatrice was too tired to be horrified. "I knew she would do something dreadful," she said, "but I, certainly, shall offer no criticism."

It was a tired little family group that gathered in the minister's study that night.

"I had no idea," said Theodore, from the couch, "that it used a fellow up so to have a gay time. I took dinner at the 'Alhambra,'ordering the best the place afforded, only cutting out the wines. That cost me two dollars, and I tipped the waiter with a quarter. Then I took a cab to the horse show, and took in the matinee on the way back. It cost me a dollar for a seat in the parquet. I didn't have enough money left for supper, so I ate two mince pies at a restaurant and I've got a nickel left."

"Well," said Miss Billy, "it comes easier to tell my story since I've heard Theodore's. I've always had the greatest desire to ride on the top of an omnibus and look at things from that point of view. I knew for appearance's sake I couldn't trundle back and forth from the trains, so I hired a whole omnibus for myself, with a driver, to take me out into the country. It was grand! It seemed as though the whole world was unrolled before me! It gave me a feeling of being some great bird flying through the air——"

"A wild goose, for instance!" put in Theodore disgustedly.

"Well I'm not an ostrich, anyhow, to eat alla hotel affords and two mince pies on top of it!" retorted Miss Billy, with spirit. "That omnibus ride cost me four dollars, but it was worth it. Then I bought a box of chocolates and came home."

"Now I suppose it's my turn," said the minister. "The first thing I saw when I left the house this morning was a load of watermelons. They were unusually fine melons, and the boy offered me the whole wagon load dirt cheap."

"Father!" broke in Miss Billy tragically, "what can I do with the rinds of a wagon load of watermelons, to say nothing of the seeds? We couldn't clean it up in weeks!"

"I had an idea your mother pickled the rinds," said the minister mildly.

"Consider pickling a wagon load of watermelon rinds," groaned Beatrice. "Beside, papa, we don't pickle the shell!"

"Cease your lamentations," said Theodore, with a wave of his hand. "I see in this the nucleus of a great business enterprise, that shall live, flourish and spread,—and shall be knownin the future as the 'Lee Pickle Works.' I shall be president, father can be buyer, and Miss Billy and Bea can do the pickling."

"Well," went on the minister, "I'm glad now I didn't buy the melons,—but it was certainly a temptation, they were such fine ones. The next thing I seemed to fancy was a buggy robe,—just five dollars,—so warm, and handsome, too, in the brown and gold colours your mother likes. But I happened to remember we didn't have a buggy, so I gave that up."

"This seems to be all about the things father didn't buy," said Theodore astutely. "He's giving us mild shocks, so we can bear the climax of what he did buy."

"I assure you I ran the gamut of temptations," said the minister. "At two o'clock I had about decided on a bull terrier pup. At three I was discussing the merits of a newfangled washing machine. But I finally ended it all by wandering into a fashionable photograph gallery and sitting for a picture,in the latest style. It will not be finished till next week, though."

There was great clapping of hands as this recital was finished. "Motherie next," called Miss Billy.

"I have no story to relate," protested Mrs. Lee. "Knowing exactly what I wanted, I went straight and bought it. Five dollars' worth of pots, kettles and pans. I haven't had any new kitchen utensils since our tenth wedding anniversary, and Maggie and I were at our wits' end with leaky vessels."

"You broke the contract!" said Theodore, pointing an accusing finger. "Kitchen utensils cannot be classed as a personal whim."

"Indeed they can! You will think so when you see them!" returned his mother laughingly. "They are of every shape, size and description. At first I thought of buying you all pretty silver pins, and having the date inscribed as a memento of a day of experiences. But thinking you might not consider that fair, I took the pans."

"Last but not least," announced Theodore oratorically, "Beatrice will tell us the experiences that befell a beautiful damsel in search of a personal whim."

Beatrice coloured slightly, but did not raise her eyes from her hemstitching.

"There is very little to tell, and it is very foolish. I've fancied a pair of satin slippers in Frothingham's show window for a long time. Such gay little things, with the dearest heels,—so I went and bought them."

"Oh," said Miss Billy disappointedly, "is that all? Didn't you meet with any experiences quite unlike other days,—see new people, and get other views? Didn't anything new come into your life?"

Beatrice bent her head lower over her work. "No," she answered, "nothing new."

“Cæsar himself could never sayHe got two victories in one day.”

DO you know, Ted," said Miss Billy, as they took their way to school together one morning in late September, "this air makes me feel like cutting civilisation entirely and taking to the wide prairies, where I can stick feathers in my hair, ride a bare-backed pony, and never hear another dreary platitude of Pope or Dryden's nor bother my head about the difference between the hieroglyphic and the hierotic characters on the Egyptian obelisks."

"Well, I wouldn't be surprised at anything you might do," said Theodore, "and I know itwould be done exhaustively. But what's the matter with school? I thought you liked it."

"Oh, it's not school, altogether. It's everything. It's life,—civilised life,—with all its little petty trials and meannesses. Now here is Miss Peabody's school that we have to pass,—the hall of the select and the home of the cultured,—an Eden from which I have been driven, to judge from the manner of some of the girls when I go by. Of course, I could go round the other way, but I just won't! I march past with my head up and my colours flying,—they give me the iciest bows,—I return them a mere sweep of my eyelashes,—and the thing is over for the day. But it rankles and hurts, and makes me miserable in spite of myself."

"I have been enduring that sort of thing for two months," said Theodore. "I am becoming cheerfully resigned to it. Whenever I meet those girls in a crowd together, they have an interesting letter to bend their heads over, or something of that kind, and at thevery last moment one or two will look up and give me a half-frightened bow, and I raise my hat with dignity to Miss Peabody's cupola, or some other equally lofty object, and walk on. Of course, I understand Myrtle Blanchard is at the bottom of it all. She's paying back an old score."

Miss Peabody's Select Seminary for Young Ladies, which they were approaching, was a handsome building in grey stone, with an imposing iron fence, and a square of well-kept lawn strewn with garden seats, on which "the select" were even now gathered. Miss Myrtle Blanchard was there, and as she saw Miss Billy and Theodore coming, she rose, in company with two other of the most popular girls, and advanced to the gate.

"You don't suppose they are meaning to speak to us," gasped Miss Billy in amazement. "Why, those three girls have been the ringleaders of the whole thing!"

Evidently the young ladies did mean to speak to them. They advanced with outstretched hands, and Miss Myrtle hooked on to Miss Billy's arm, while the other two engaged Theodore.

"Why in the world don't you ever come to see me," said Miss Myrtle, with an expostulatory little shake. "But there,—I know the reason. You are so carried away with Cherry Street that you haven't a thought for old friends! Oh, I know all about it, Miss Billy.—You needn't deny it! I've heard all about your Improvement Club, and the social you gave, and everything. Maude and Blanche wrote in their last London letter that slumming was more fashionable than ever, there."

"Yes?" said Miss Billy, looking meaningly at Theodore,—but Miss Myrtle was not to be so lightly shaken off.

"Margaret Van Courtland tells me she is a member of your Club,—and that elegant young college man, Mr. Lindsay, too, that the girls are raving over. Why didn't you let me know about it this summer? I've been just aching to help somebody. I want you to putmy name down right away for membership. Maude and Blanche will want to join when they come, I know. They'll love to belong to anything Margaret Van Courtland is connected with. They just adore her,—and they'll enjoy slumming."

"It isn't slumming," said Miss Billy, with repressed indignation. "It's just a little neighbourhood affair, and we are all on perfectly equal terms."

"Call it what you will, only let me belong! Remember now,—you've promised!" And with a final squeeze to the imprisoned arm, and a brilliant smile for Theodore, Miss Myrtle and her companions happily retraced their steps to the sacred confines of the Seminary.

"Hold me up till my shattered nerves are restored," murmured Theodore. "They almost ate me up!"

"Miss Myrtle has an axe to grind, but she shall not grind it on my grindstone," said Miss Billy resolutely. "She has a misty idea that I've become fashionable and quite the thing,and that she's not in it. She called our Improvement work 'slumming,' and wants to join our club. Imagine her condescending to Mr. Hennesy, or Marie Jean, or Mr. Schultzsky, or in short, any of them! And yet, Theodore, I'm such a miserably weak character, I couldn't help being glad I had on my real lace collar when she was talking to me."

"Well," said Theodore, "the tables have at last turned,—and strangely enough, through our friends in Cherry Street. You wakened, as it were, to find yourself famous, Miss Billy."

"Nonsense!" said Miss Billy. "I gave her distinctly to understand that every member of the Improvement Club was a friend of mine,—but of course she is too shallow to understand it. Still, our relations with many of the girls will be less strained now, because of her friendliness, and that is something to be thankful for."

The Blanchard trap stood at the door of the High School that afternoon, when school was dismissed. Miss Myrtle herself, in a nattygreen coat with a scarlet collar, and a red Tam o' Shanter, sat high on the box with the reins in her hands.

"I have come for you both, to drive," she smiled. "This is our new trap. Don't you admire the red paint and the shining wheels? I know, now we have it, I shall bore you with attentions, but I don't expect to take 'no' for an answer."

"Ted," murmured Miss Billy, "I shall have to feed you to the lions. Providentially, here is Margaret with her cart to take me."

"I refuse to be fed," said Theodore firmly. "I've got to go up town and order some things for mother. Get into the trap yourself,—and I'll go with Margaret."

So Miss Billy was obliged to climb into the seat beside Miss Myrtle, while Theodore, winding his long legs into the cart, took the reins from Margaret's hand and with a sharp click to Patsy was off without a backward glance.

Margaret laughed. "Ted, you grow more like Billy every day. You have the same wayof waving the American flag, and reading the Declaration of Independence, and having your rights. Now, don't go on disliking Myrtle. For one thing, it's too much trouble. If you think of her at all, think of her kindly, and, with a little practice, life will be a summer sea."

"No, sir!" said Theodore, flecking a fly off Patsy's back with the whip. "When people stand on my corns, I propose to let them know it. I found out who my friends were when I drove Mr. Hennesy's mules. It was perfectly honourable work, you know, but not elegant. A fellow's better off without fine-feather friends. He has the courage, then, to be what he is,—and stands a better chance of amounting to something."

"Well, I dare say you are right," said Margaret, "and if you are not,—it would be impossible to make either you or Billy over, so what's the use of arguing? Here is Brown's drug store. Will you step out and give them this bottle, Ted? It will take some time to put upthe prescription, so tell them they may deliver it."

Theodore's face changed. He was on the point of saying, "I don't go to Brown's,"—but he would a little rather Margaret should not know that story. After all, why should he not go? It certainly would not improve Mr. Brown's opinion of his character if he avoided the place. He gave the reins into Margaret's hand, took the bottle and disappeared into the store.

There were two or three customers being waited upon,—the clerks were in their usual places,—Mr. Brown was at the desk. He took the bottle to the prescription clerk. "When it is ready, send it up to Mr. Van Courtland's," he said, and was turning away when Mr. Brown called him.

"I have a letter here for you," he said, fumbling among the papers on his desk, "that I had just written and was about to send. Yes,—this is it,—merely asking you to call at the store." He opened the money drawer, tookout five dollars, and shoved it toward Theodore. "Mrs. Thorpe found that bill a few days after you were there. It had slipped under the lining of her purse. She has been away all summer, so she only had an opportunity of returning it to me a day or two ago."

Mr. Brown was returning to his books, and Theodore took the bill with heightened colour. "I hope, sir," he said, "that this entirely establishes my honesty in your mind?"

"I never doubted it," said Mr. Brown. "You took the affair a little too hard. Remember, you discharged yourself. If you should want your job back again next Spring, I'll try to let you have it. I don't think you will ever lose another bill."

"Thank you, sir," said Theodore, and passed out. He sprang into the cart beside Margaret, and gave the astonished Patsy a vigourous slap with the lines.

"Why, what's the matter?" said Margaret. "Your eyes are as shiny, and your cheeks as red——"

"I don't mind telling you the story now," said Theodore. "I went into that store wearing convict's stripes, figuratively speaking, and I've come out without 'em. My character is cleared, but I've a notion it will take some time for my shaved hair and my self-respect to grow again."

“Never since the world beganHas been such repartee;And never till the next beginsWill greater things be done by manThan this same company.”

I ’M going to have a party to-night," announced Theodore, coming into the study on a morning in late October. Mrs. Lee and the two girls looked up from their work in astonishment. "To-night!" they said in chorus.

"I think it's about my turn to 'entertain,'" went on Ted in a mock aggrieved tone. "Father opened the house to the Guild last week, mother had the Mothers' Meeting hereyesterday, Beatrice has company all the time, and I'm still picking peanut shells, left from Miss Billy's Lawn Fête, out of the grass. Don't you think that I deserve a 'function' to-night?"

"It seems to me that your arrangements are being made rather late in the day," laughed Mrs. Lee. "One usually plans for a party a day or two beforehand."

"Not for this kind of an entertainment," explained Theodore. "This is a sudden inspiration of mine—planned 'on the spur of the instant,' as Mrs. Canary would say. If you'll let me use the gasoline range to-night, that's all I'll ask. I'm going to give a pancake party."

"What's a pancake party?" inquired Miss Billy.

"Hist!" returned Theodore mysteriously. "'Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Ascalon,' is my motto. The ghosts and the witches walk abroad to-night, and we shall fitly celebrate. So much you shall knowand no more. Miss Billy, if you offer to make me a rarebit in your chafing dish to-night, I shall courteously accept; and mother, a bottle of stuffed olives, three bunches of radishes and a fruit cake would be delicate attentions on your part."

"Whom are you going to invite?" asked Beatrice.

"Oh, Margaret, of course, and Lindsay, and our friend John Thomas, and I suppose Mary Jane."

"But that won't make enough men to go around."

"Oh, you and Mary Jane can divide Mr. Lindsay," said Ted carelessly. "He's big enough to make two."

Beatrice left the room, and Ted went to his father's desk, where he laboured painfully over the following poetical effusion:

"Theodore Lee would like to see you at his home on Friday. Please come at eight, and do not wait to make yourself too tidy. For spells and tricks are apt to fix your clothes in sad condition; and folks, I ween, on Hallowe'en are not on exhibition."

Beatrice, coming downstairs at eight o'clock that evening, to assist in receiving the guests, found Miss Billy seated on the hearth rug, while Ted bedecked her hair with an artistic arrangement of feathers pulled out of the duster.

The elder sister looked disturbed. "Goodness!" she said. "Don't let Ted do that. I hope you're not intending to wear those things."

"Why not?" said Miss Billy carelessly. "The feather duster's moulting, anyway."

"It isn't the duster I'm thinking of. It's you. Whywillyou be so ridiculous before visitors?"

"Oh, pshaw," exclaimed Miss Billy impatiently. "I'm doing it for fun. The 'visitors' are only girls and boys."

"Mr. Lindsay is twenty-four," replied Beatrice with dignity, "and I am not a child."

"Oh, ho!" jeered Ted, "you're both Methusalehs! Lindsay's got more sense than most people of his age. He's more like sixteen than twenty-four."

Miss Billy had already removed the towering plumes.

"I love my darling sister soThat I would much for her forego,"

she chanted. "There goes the door bell. Ted, you're the footman?"

"By all the powers above!" exclaimed Ted, as he swung open the door in mock ceremony. "Mr. Francis Lindsay, in a full suit of evening clothes! Such splendour! I'm glad now I blacked my shoes. Miss Billy, don't you wish you'd braved Bea's jeers and worn your ostrich tips?"

"To the horror of all who were present that dayHe uprose in full evening dress,And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to sayWhat his tongue could no longer express,"

quoted Francis. "Am I or am I not to comein? Good-evening, Miss Billy, good-evening, Miss Lee."

Beatrice looked critically at the tall figure bending over her sister's hand. In his evening clothes Mr. Schultzsky's grand-nephew was a fine looking man, she owned to herself, and her voice was unusually cordial as she added her greeting to Miss Billy's.

At the stroke of eight Margaret appeared, and John Thomas soon followed, in a high state of collar and excitement. "Mary Jane wasn't ready to come with me," he announced cheerfully. "She was prinking before the glass when I went by her room, and she said she couldn't fix her hair. She'll be along."

His prediction was verified by a faint jingle of the door bell. A moment later Marie Jean's shrill voice was heard in the hall. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Theodore, don't mention it, please. I'msosorry to have kept you waiting. Where shall I lay my cloak?" The little group, gathered round the first fall fire, fell apart to permit the entrance of the last guest.

It was Marie Jean, but transformed. She wore the trailing silk skirt, and a bodice of showy pink taffeta, but the heavy frizzes were gone. Her hair was parted as smoothly and evenly as Margaret's own, and the German braids lent new character to her face. She glanced in some surprise at Beatrice's simple grey-blue gown, and surveyed Miss Billy's scarlet waist with disapproval. The plain elegance of Margaret's tailor suit utterly escaped her, but her eyes brightened as she beheld Francis' pearl studs. "He's got a genuine swallow tail," she said to herself. "I'm glad I dressed up."

"Come into the kitchen," announced the host, leading the way to the rear of the house. "This is the scene of our operations. Lindsay, how we are to manage such elegance as yours and Miss Marie Jean's, I don't see. You'll have to be aproned, each one of you." He handed Marie Jean and Margaret long gingham aprons, and then to the amusement of all proceeded to array Francis' six foot length inone of Bea's daintiest and most be-ruffled pinafores.

"The gasoline stove is for the fudge, which you, John Thomas, will find already mixed, in the pantry," continued Ted. "The range is ready for the pancakes, which you, Francis, are to bake during your leisure moments this evening. In the meantime, we will try what fate has in store for us."

There was a little thrill of expectation as Miss Billy and Theodore appeared, bearing a tub partly full of water, with a number of rosy cheeked apples floating on the surface. "Dive for your fate," commanded Ted. "The red apples are for the girls, the yellow ones for the boys. Your intended's name you'll find within." There was a dashing and splashing after the little buoys of fate, and even Beatrice and Marie Jean lost their dignity as the apples slipped time after time from the inviting crunch of their teeth. Margaret secured the first—a big red apple labelled "The Count," John Thomas drew "Miss Billy," andTed made a wry face as he read "Myrtle Blanchard" on the yellow Baldwin that floated in his clutch.

"Let's try the next test before we go to cooking," said Miss Billy, producing a tray which held seven miniature ships. Each was made of the half of an English walnut shell, and held an inch of wax taper in its tiny hold.

"Choose your colour," directed the hostess, "and launch your ship on the sea of life. If the light burns steadily till the wax is all melted, and the boat rides the waves safely, you are assured a long and happy life. If two boats come together and continue to sail about side by side their owners will pass much of their life together. Two boats in collision means a quarrel. A boat that touches frequently at the sides of the tub predicts many short voyages for the owner, but a bold vessel that goes to the other side promises a life of adventure and travel. All aboard!"

One by one the small crafts were launched onthe sea, and the owners hung over the tub awaiting the result with eagerness.

Margaret's capsized early in the course. Francis' and Marie Jean's crept along side by side, Theodore's and John Thomas' collided, and Miss Billy's travelled independently and speedily across the tub despite the sly efforts of Ted to turn its course. There was much teasing and laughing before the boats dropped their anchors. Theodore, who carried the tub to the kitchen, returned with a small iron vessel, a long-handled spoon, and a cup of water.

"This is the truest test of fate," he announced. "The melted lead dropped into the water will foretell every man's destiny with neatness and despatch. Strike, while the iron—and lead—is hot. Your turn first, 'oh rare pale Margaret.'"

The group left the fudge to the mercy of the fire and surrounded Theodore. The lead dropped into the cup of water, and Ted peeped cautiously into the bottom. "The fates speaktruly," he announced solemnly. "It's a cabbage—thrown at your first concert, I suppose. Miss Marie Jean, the next spoonful is for you. Here it is, but I'll be switched if I knowwhatit is."

John Thomas peered over his shoulder. "It's a hand glass," he announced.

"So it is," assented Ted. "I suppose you'll be a professional beauty like Mme. de Staël or Maxine Elliott. You may take the lead for a memento. Beatrice, step up to the front. Hail, all hail, you have won—a man,—a nice big fellow with a football."

"That must be you, Francis," said John Thomas, looking up at the tall athlete at his side.

Beatrice looked annoyed, and Francis' usually calm face reddened suddenly. Miss Billy's quick wits detected confusion in the air, and she stepped forward hastily. "Now me," she said.

Theodore dropped a spoonful of lead in the water, and it sank with a heavy thump.

"The man with a hoe! Or perhaps it's Mr. Schultzsky with his crutch instead," announced Ted. "This is for you, John Thomas—a nice round dollar. That means that one of these days you'll have money instead of lead to put in the fire.... Now Mr. Lindsay, leave your griddle and behold."

"A lead maiden!" said Margaret, as the metal hardened into a graceful shape in the bottom of the cup. "A bride, I declare! See her bouquet."

"Last but not least," announced Ted cheerfully, "is the fate of Mr. Theodore Somers Lee, one of the most charming and delightful members of our little circle. He deserves the best that the gods can provide. What have we here? A book! I bet it's a Bible. I have always had a secret longing for the life of a missionary. There's a cry from Macedonia, and I shall turn out immediately."

"It's more likely to be a bed than a Bible," announced Miss Billy witheringly. "Then you'll turn in, not out."

"Why is a boy pigeon-toed at night?" improvised Theodore. "Because he turns in."

There was a chorus of groans in reply. "That is the way we roast chestnuts on Hallowe'en," said Francis wickedly.

"Isn't it time to put on the pancakes?" said John Thomas. "The fudge is almost done."

"That's my work," said Francis. "Miss Billy, did you say there was a ring in the batter? What is it for?"

Miss Billy had brought out a bag of chestnuts, and was placing them in a long row on the top of the stove.

"The one who gets the ring is to be married first," she said. "But we'll try the chestnut charm before the cakes are ready,—if you can stand the smoke."

"What is the test?" asked Margaret.

"Name the two nuts," explained Ted, "one for yourself and one for 'your steady.' If they roast quietly and gently your affair will be long and tranquil; if they burst or fly apart, there will be troubles in the family."

The circle of young people gathered closer, and watched the little emblems of friendship. The fire crackled and burned brighter, and a silence fell upon the room. One by one the chestnuts popped and flew off, until only the two named by Miss Billy were left. They burned quietly side by side until Francis pushed them, fully roasted, into the owner's lap.

"You are the happy one," he said. "For whom were they named?"

"I shall never tell," declared Miss Billy.

Four great stacks of smoking cakes were carried into the dining room, where Miss Billy's chafing dish was already burning. Mrs. Lee had evidently lent her assistance, for added to Theodore's menu was a large plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of hot chocolate.

The hungry people gathered around the table; and the brown pancakes, covered with butter and smothered in maple syrup, received much commendation. While they were at the table the doorbell rang. Mrs. Lee, who hadanswered the bell, came into the dining room with a large basket in her hand, and a puzzled expression on her face.

"There was no one at the door," she said. "Only this basket. It has your name on it, Wilhelmina."

Miss Billy lifted the cover and peered in. "What on earth!" she began. She lifted out a curious little package labelled "Miss Margaret Van Courtland." "This is evidently for you," she said as she peered in again. "But there are a whole lot of others. One for each of us." She distributed the parcels to the party, while Margaret dubiously opened the square bundle that had been handed to her.

A small pasteboard box labelled "Burke's Peerage" was exposed to view. The following poem accompanied it:

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