They cut it down, dragged it to the sleigh and bore it home in triumph.They cut it down, dragged it to the sleigh and bore it home in triumph.
Bob pulled Banker in, and fumbled under the seat for the ax. But when they got out Polly found she had lost sight of the tree and they had to wade around in the snow up to their knees for fully ten minutes before they found another that suited them. They cut it down, dragged it to the sleigh and bore it home in triumph. It was dark long before they reached the house, and they found everybody dressed for dinner and waiting for them in the library.
"Oh, we've had a glorious ride!" Polly said brightly. Her cheeks were whipped red from the wind and her eyes sparkled.
"Is the tree bushy enough for you, Lo?" Bob asked.
"Yes, it's a beauty," Lois said, examining it.
"You two should have been with us," Polly said, speaking to Jim, "just to have seen Bobby work."
"While Polly told me how to do it," Bob said, teasingly. "You'd think, to hear her talk, she'd cut down trees all her life. When she found that I wasn't paying any attention to her, she got back in the sleigh and recited 'Woodman Spare That Tree' from the depths of the nice warm robes while I froze."
"Bob," said Polly, indignantly, "if you'll let me pass, I'd like to go upstairs and dress for dinner."
That evening, they decorated the tree, that is, Lois and Jim did most of it while Polly and Bob rested in two big chairs before the fire, with Sandy between them, and made suggestions.
"Jim, that tinsel would look much better going around the tree instead of up and down," Bob said critically.
Jim, who was upon a stepladder, went on trimming, while Lois came to his defense.
"Bob, do you know what tinsel is supposed to represent," she asked.
"Isn't supposed to represent anything," Bob said calmly.
Lois looked at Jim in sympathetic understanding. "You see, he doesn't know," she said. "Tinsel, dear brother, is supposed to represent the silver rays of the stars," she explained.
"Oh, get out," Bob objected. "It's no such thing. Anyway, that has nothing to do with putting it around the tree."
"Robert, you grieve me." Jim shook his head mournfully. "You a college man. How could the rays of the stars go around a tree? I ask it in all seriousness."
Bob was fairly caught. Even Polly laughed at him. Mrs. Farwell came in just in time to save him from more teasing.
"Oh, how beautiful the tree looks," she said. "I wouldn't put another thing on it, it's quite perfect as it is. Come into the other room and sing some carols, and then we must all hang up our stockings and go to bed; to-morrow will be a busy day."
"What are we going to do besides eat dinner?" Uncle Roddy demanded from the other room.
"Why, Sarah is packing some baskets for Polly to take to some of the poor families in the village," Mrs. Farwell explained, "and of course, we'll all go to church in the morning. In the afternoon I suppose—"
"Now, Kate," interrupted the Doctor, laughing, "In the afternoon do let us digest our dinner."
After they had all sung the carols around the old tinkly piano, they wished one another a MerryChristmas, found their candles on the big table in the hall—for there were no electric lights in Polly's house—and went upstairs.
"Come along old man," Polly said to Sandy. "Do you want some help?" she asked, as the old dog prepared to follow her. He always slept on the rug beside her bed.
"How feeble he is," Bob said. "He doesn't act a bit well, Poll."
"It's old age, I'm afraid," Polly replied, sadly. "He's over fourteen, you know."
"I'm going to carry him up," Bob said. "I believe it hurts him to take these steps." He picked up Sandy ever so gently and carried him to Polly's room. "Good night again," he said at the door, "and Merry Christmas."
But all the wishes in the world cannot make happiness. That Christmas Day was far from merry for either Polly or Bob.
About two o'clock in the morning Polly awoke with a start. Some one was groaning. As she sat up in bed and tried to rub the sleep from her eyes, she felt something touch her arm. It was Sandy's paw.
After groping about in the dark she found the matches and lighted her candle, and jumped out on the floor.
"What is it, boy?" she asked, resting his head in her lap.
Sandy rolled his eyes, as dogs do when they are in pain and the agonized appeal in them made a lump rise in Polly's throat.
"Dear old fellow, what is it?" she said, gently. "What can I do for you!" She was seized with sudden fright. It seemed as if she alone was awake in all that black, still night. She called Lois two or three times but got no reply. She went to the door and listened. Her friend's regular breathing came to her faintly from the other room.
"What can I do?" she whispered. "Oh, Sandy boy, don't," she pleaded as the dog groaned again.
A minute later, she was hurrying into her clothes. When she was dressed she tip-toed down the hall and knocked at the farthest door. "Bob," she called softly.
"Yes," came the instant reply. "What is it?" Fortunately the wind had rattled his shade, so that the noise had awakened him a few minutes before.
"Get up," Polly called. "Sandy's awfully sick and I'm frightened."
Bob hurried into his things with full speed and joined her. Together they carried the dog intothe morning room at the head of the stairs, and put him on the lounge. Bob lit the lamp.
"He can't breathe," Polly said desperately. "Oh, Bob, what can we do?"
Bob went for water and moistened the dog's tongue while Polly held his head in her arms. His breathing grew more labored.
"Could Tim do anything?" Bob suggested, forlornly. He knew that he couldn't, but it was terrible to just watch the dog suffer.
Polly shook her head. She didn't dare trust herself to speak. After a little while the breathing grew quieter. Sandy turned his head and licked Polly's hand. Then quite suddenly it stopped—his body trembled and he lay still in her arms.
Bob put his hand on her shoulder.
"Better leave him, Poll," he said huskily.
Polly looked up at him. It was a second before she understood.
"Bob, he's not— Oh, Sandy! You've left me," she sobbed, and buried her head in his silky coat.
All Christmas day Polly tried to keep up her spirits and not spoil the others' pleasure, but her heart had a dull, lonely ache that wouldn't go away. Any one who has loved and lost a faithful dog understands. And Polly had loved Sandy from his first puppy days.
All the family did their best to cheer her up, but the day was a woeful failure. Uncle Roddy and Bob were the only ones who understood her grief, and their own was so great that they could find no words of comfort.
After dinner she disappeared. She knew that all the afternoon callers would be dropping in to exchange greetings, and she could not bear the thought of talking to them.
Bob found her about four o'clock, curled up on her favorite window seat, at the head of the stairs. He had been despatched by his mother to tell her that some of her friends were in the drawing-room.
"If she doesn't want to come don't urge her," she had warned him. "I'll make some excuse."
"Bobby, I just can't," Polly said when he had told her. "My eyes are all swollen and I've such a headache."
"What you need is air," Bob said decidedly. "Go get your coat and hat, and we'll fly off with Banker for a little ride. Come on, Poll," he coaxed, "it will do you loads of good."
Polly gave in reluctantly.
"Where are we going?" she asked when they were in the sleigh.
"Never mind, I've a scheme," Bob told her."Shut your eyes." He headed the pony toward the bay. The cold air acted as a tonic on Polly. By the time they stopped before an old tumble down fisherman's hut, she was quite herself again.
"Why, it's Uncle Cy's place!" she exclaimed. "Bobby, how did you ever think of him?"
They pushed open the door, without knocking, and entered the one little room that served for all purposes.
Uncle Cy was one of Polly's earliest and best of friends; he was an old fisherman. They had spent many long, happy days together, when she was a little girl. He welcomed her heartily.
"Why, Miss Polly. I was beginning to think I'd have to go one Christmas without a word from you," he said. "How are you? You're getting mighty handsome," he teased "and I'm sorry to see it. I never did hold with handsome women. 'Handsome is as handsome does,' I always say," he added with a wink. "And you, Mr. Bob, how do you do again? That basket you brought me this morning was mighty good," he said with a chuckle.
"We're just here for a second," Polly explained. "Banker's freezing outside. Have you had a Merry Christmas?" she asked brightly. No one could be unhappy long under the spell of Uncle Cy's genial smile.
"Fair to middling," the old man answered, contentedly. "Have a seat," he offered.
They stayed chatting for a few minutes more, and then returned to the sleigh.
"The old darling," Polly laughed, "he hasn't changed a bit."
When they reached home, they stole in the back way. One of Lois' merry laughs greeted them as they entered.
"Jimmy, you wretch," they heard her cry.
"What's the matter, Lo?" Bob inquired from the door of the drawing-room.
Lois looked up in confusion.
"Jim kissed me under the mistletoe," she said, "after I'd expressly told him not to."
Polly joined in the laugh that followed.
"Bobby," she said as they were taking off their coats in the hall, "I'm ashamed of being such a baby to-day. I acted as if I were eight years old."
Bob pulled a big wadded handkerchief out of one of his pockets. "Don't apologize, Poll," he said. "Look at this. I wasn't so very grown up myself." Then he added, gently, "Good old Sandy."
Polly and Lois left for Fanny's the following Thursday and arrived the day before the dance. A description of their good time can best be gotten by reading Polly's letter to Betty, which was written a few days after:
"Dearest Betty:"What a shame you couldn't be here. I know it's mean to tell you, but you've really missed the funniest kind of a time."I do hope your mother is much better by now. Please give her both Lois' and my love."And now to tell you all about the dance—as I promised. So many things happened it's hard to know where to begin. The first day I guess—"Well, we arrived at this adorable little town about ten o'clock in the morning, and I thought when I looked out of our window as the train pulled in, that I was dreaming and it was a story book village. The sun was shining and it was aswarm as toast. I don't know why the fact that the grass was green made such an impression on me, but it did. We've had so much snow up home that I couldn't believe there could be summer anywhere else."Is this lengthy description boring you, Betty dear? What is it Miss Porter always says, 'Create your atmosphere first, before you begin your story.' That's what I'm doing and you'll just have to be patient while I create a little longer. I simply must tell you about the funny little cabins. They're all over the place. A relic from the days of slavery, I suppose, and they're so little—just a room or two—that you gasp when you see large families standing out in front of them. It's beyond me to figure out how they can all go to sleep at once."Lois suggests that they take turns and I think she must be right. The little pickaninnies are too sweet for words; they have innumerable little braids sticking out all over their heads, and their big black eyes just dance with impishness. You'd love them."Fanny lives in a most wonderful story book house. It's red brick that's really pink. Oh, you know what I mean! And it's trimmed with white. Big colonial pillars up the front, and a lot of littlebalconies jut out where you least expect them. I have one out of my window, and every night I play Juliet to an imaginary Romeo in the rose garden below. Lo insists I am getting sentimental, but it's only the effect of the 'Sunny South,' which brings me, no matter how indirectly, to the boys we've met—and the dance!"Oh, Bet, such a lark! There were over a hundred people—both old and young, and even then the ballroom—oh, yes, the Gerards have a ballroom—looked half empty. We danced from ten o'clock until four in the morning, and went for a picnic the next day. Imagine!"Fanny looked beautiful. She wore a lovely white dress without a touch of color on it, and it just set off her wonderful dark hair to perfection. The cousin, Caroline Gerard, is here at the house, too. You know, the one Fanny said could sing, and who 'just naturally gets ahead of her.' Well! Intermission of four minutes."No use, I've been struggling with my better self, but I can't resist the temptation to tell you just what Lo and I think of her. Betty, she's horrid. I mean it! She's so conceited and sure of herself and without the least reason to be. She looks a lot like Fanny, but with a difference. She's larger and much more definite, if you knowwhat I mean, and she walks into a room with a 'Well, here I come' sort of an air. She completely puts Fanny in the background. I'll tell you later, how Lo and I pulled her out again—Fanny I mean—but now, I'll go back to the dance."Caroline was there of course. She wore a wonderful red gown and carried a big yellow ostrich fan. She looked like a Spanish dancer. It took me all evening to get used to her. The combination was rather startling. Lo, in spite of her dislike, wanted to paint her.Idid not—jealousy, on my part of course—for every time she came near me, she killed my lovely green frock. You see, before I came down stairs, I looked in the glass and I rather fancied that I looked quite nice, but, I turned pale by comparison, and naturally I didn't like it. Are you getting curious about Lois? I hope so, I'm saving her on purpose for the end. Betty, she was the belle of the ball. You can't, no, not even with your imagination, picture her. She looked like some lovely fairy. But you know that dreamy style of hers. Well, just try and see her in your mind—draped in yards and yards of pale yellow chiffon, with touches of blue here and there,—and you'll understand the effect. Her gown was just nothing but graceful soft folds. I tell you everybody wentquite mad about her, and you know how beautifully she dances.— Excuse me, that's the luncheon gong— I'll finish later.
"Dearest Betty:
"What a shame you couldn't be here. I know it's mean to tell you, but you've really missed the funniest kind of a time.
"I do hope your mother is much better by now. Please give her both Lois' and my love.
"And now to tell you all about the dance—as I promised. So many things happened it's hard to know where to begin. The first day I guess—
"Well, we arrived at this adorable little town about ten o'clock in the morning, and I thought when I looked out of our window as the train pulled in, that I was dreaming and it was a story book village. The sun was shining and it was aswarm as toast. I don't know why the fact that the grass was green made such an impression on me, but it did. We've had so much snow up home that I couldn't believe there could be summer anywhere else.
"Is this lengthy description boring you, Betty dear? What is it Miss Porter always says, 'Create your atmosphere first, before you begin your story.' That's what I'm doing and you'll just have to be patient while I create a little longer. I simply must tell you about the funny little cabins. They're all over the place. A relic from the days of slavery, I suppose, and they're so little—just a room or two—that you gasp when you see large families standing out in front of them. It's beyond me to figure out how they can all go to sleep at once.
"Lois suggests that they take turns and I think she must be right. The little pickaninnies are too sweet for words; they have innumerable little braids sticking out all over their heads, and their big black eyes just dance with impishness. You'd love them.
"Fanny lives in a most wonderful story book house. It's red brick that's really pink. Oh, you know what I mean! And it's trimmed with white. Big colonial pillars up the front, and a lot of littlebalconies jut out where you least expect them. I have one out of my window, and every night I play Juliet to an imaginary Romeo in the rose garden below. Lo insists I am getting sentimental, but it's only the effect of the 'Sunny South,' which brings me, no matter how indirectly, to the boys we've met—and the dance!
"Oh, Bet, such a lark! There were over a hundred people—both old and young, and even then the ballroom—oh, yes, the Gerards have a ballroom—looked half empty. We danced from ten o'clock until four in the morning, and went for a picnic the next day. Imagine!
"Fanny looked beautiful. She wore a lovely white dress without a touch of color on it, and it just set off her wonderful dark hair to perfection. The cousin, Caroline Gerard, is here at the house, too. You know, the one Fanny said could sing, and who 'just naturally gets ahead of her.' Well! Intermission of four minutes.
"No use, I've been struggling with my better self, but I can't resist the temptation to tell you just what Lo and I think of her. Betty, she's horrid. I mean it! She's so conceited and sure of herself and without the least reason to be. She looks a lot like Fanny, but with a difference. She's larger and much more definite, if you knowwhat I mean, and she walks into a room with a 'Well, here I come' sort of an air. She completely puts Fanny in the background. I'll tell you later, how Lo and I pulled her out again—Fanny I mean—but now, I'll go back to the dance.
"Caroline was there of course. She wore a wonderful red gown and carried a big yellow ostrich fan. She looked like a Spanish dancer. It took me all evening to get used to her. The combination was rather startling. Lo, in spite of her dislike, wanted to paint her.Idid not—jealousy, on my part of course—for every time she came near me, she killed my lovely green frock. You see, before I came down stairs, I looked in the glass and I rather fancied that I looked quite nice, but, I turned pale by comparison, and naturally I didn't like it. Are you getting curious about Lois? I hope so, I'm saving her on purpose for the end. Betty, she was the belle of the ball. You can't, no, not even with your imagination, picture her. She looked like some lovely fairy. But you know that dreamy style of hers. Well, just try and see her in your mind—draped in yards and yards of pale yellow chiffon, with touches of blue here and there,—and you'll understand the effect. Her gown was just nothing but graceful soft folds. I tell you everybody wentquite mad about her, and you know how beautifully she dances.— Excuse me, that's the luncheon gong— I'll finish later.
"Ten P.M.
"Hello, again Bet:"It's late and I'm oh, so sleepy, but I must go on. Let's see where was I? Oh, yes, clothes. But poor dear you must feel as if you'd been reading a fashion book, so I'll skip the rest of the dresses, which really didn't amount to anything, and go on with the dance."Of course we met so many people that I can't even remember their names, but some of my dances stand out rather vividly in my mind. Do you know, Southern boys can say more pretty things in one minute than our boys up North can in a whole month. Don't think I consider it a virtue, far from it. I think they're awfully silly—on top. Of course underneath they're splendid—just like boys anywhere else—but certainly they are more fun to talk to."I danced the first dance with Fanny's 'Jack.' He's quite as handsome as she said and he came to the dance in his uniform. After the music had stopped we went out in the rose garden for a walk."Betty, what can a girl say, when a boy tellsher she is fit company for roses and moonlight? If there is a proper answer, I certainly couldn't think of it at the time and I did the very last thing I should have done— I laughed—and I went on laughing as he waxed more eloquent. Finally I said:"'Oh, for pity's sake, do stop and talk sense.' He looked as if he had never heard the word."'You're very hard to please,' he said in oh, such offended tones. 'What shall we talk about?'"'Why not Fanny,' I suggested; 'she's the only subject we have in common, except flowers and birds and moonlight, and we seem to have exhausted those.'"'But I'm very fond of Fanny!' he said quite feelingly. I told him I was too and that we ought to make the best of it. I explained how popular she was at school, and how she'd made the team, and raved at great length over her voice. And do you know what that boy did? When I stopped for breath he stood stock still in the middle of the path and looked at me, then he whistled."'Well, I'll be darned.' It was the first natural thing I'd heard him say. 'I never met a girl before in all my life that would talk that way about even her best friend,' he said."The music started then, and we had to hurry back—but, Bet, what do you suppose he meant?"Lois evidently had much the same trouble understanding her partners. I heard her say—'how absurd' during supper, and it sounded so like you that I was startled for a second."Oh dear, I almost forgot to tell you the funniest thing that happened through the whole evening. Poor Fanny, being hostess, had to dance with all the clumsy, unattractive boys that were there, and every time I saw her, she seemed to be having a dreadful time of it. I think it was the eighth dance and I was sitting out with a boy named Wilfred Grey—the one Caroline cut Fanny out with, you remember? I was arguing with him about clothes—he said he preferred bright colors, and I insisted there was nothing as lovely as white. Of course we both knew he really meant Caroline, and Fanny. Well anyway, in the middle of the dance—we were in a sort of a little alcove—Fanny came by pulling a big, lanky youth after her. I never saw anything so funny; he was just walking, and making no kind of an effort to keep to the music. Mr. Grey and I laughed about it, and when they came around again, we were watching for them. Imagine our joy when they stopped justbeside us, and we heard Fanny say, in that killing way of hers:"'Look here, Sam Ramsby, if you'll get on my feet and stay there, I'll tote you around this room, but this jumping on and off is more than I can stand.' Betty, wasn't that rare—it was the best minute of the whole evening. Lo is furious that she missed it."Mercy! It's twelve o'clock and I must go to bed. Lo is going to add a P.S. to-morrow. Please appreciate this long letter as I've really spent much valuable time over it.
"Hello, again Bet:
"It's late and I'm oh, so sleepy, but I must go on. Let's see where was I? Oh, yes, clothes. But poor dear you must feel as if you'd been reading a fashion book, so I'll skip the rest of the dresses, which really didn't amount to anything, and go on with the dance.
"Of course we met so many people that I can't even remember their names, but some of my dances stand out rather vividly in my mind. Do you know, Southern boys can say more pretty things in one minute than our boys up North can in a whole month. Don't think I consider it a virtue, far from it. I think they're awfully silly—on top. Of course underneath they're splendid—just like boys anywhere else—but certainly they are more fun to talk to.
"I danced the first dance with Fanny's 'Jack.' He's quite as handsome as she said and he came to the dance in his uniform. After the music had stopped we went out in the rose garden for a walk.
"Betty, what can a girl say, when a boy tellsher she is fit company for roses and moonlight? If there is a proper answer, I certainly couldn't think of it at the time and I did the very last thing I should have done— I laughed—and I went on laughing as he waxed more eloquent. Finally I said:
"'Oh, for pity's sake, do stop and talk sense.' He looked as if he had never heard the word.
"'You're very hard to please,' he said in oh, such offended tones. 'What shall we talk about?'
"'Why not Fanny,' I suggested; 'she's the only subject we have in common, except flowers and birds and moonlight, and we seem to have exhausted those.'
"'But I'm very fond of Fanny!' he said quite feelingly. I told him I was too and that we ought to make the best of it. I explained how popular she was at school, and how she'd made the team, and raved at great length over her voice. And do you know what that boy did? When I stopped for breath he stood stock still in the middle of the path and looked at me, then he whistled.
"'Well, I'll be darned.' It was the first natural thing I'd heard him say. 'I never met a girl before in all my life that would talk that way about even her best friend,' he said.
"The music started then, and we had to hurry back—but, Bet, what do you suppose he meant?
"Lois evidently had much the same trouble understanding her partners. I heard her say—'how absurd' during supper, and it sounded so like you that I was startled for a second.
"Oh dear, I almost forgot to tell you the funniest thing that happened through the whole evening. Poor Fanny, being hostess, had to dance with all the clumsy, unattractive boys that were there, and every time I saw her, she seemed to be having a dreadful time of it. I think it was the eighth dance and I was sitting out with a boy named Wilfred Grey—the one Caroline cut Fanny out with, you remember? I was arguing with him about clothes—he said he preferred bright colors, and I insisted there was nothing as lovely as white. Of course we both knew he really meant Caroline, and Fanny. Well anyway, in the middle of the dance—we were in a sort of a little alcove—Fanny came by pulling a big, lanky youth after her. I never saw anything so funny; he was just walking, and making no kind of an effort to keep to the music. Mr. Grey and I laughed about it, and when they came around again, we were watching for them. Imagine our joy when they stopped justbeside us, and we heard Fanny say, in that killing way of hers:
"'Look here, Sam Ramsby, if you'll get on my feet and stay there, I'll tote you around this room, but this jumping on and off is more than I can stand.' Betty, wasn't that rare—it was the best minute of the whole evening. Lo is furious that she missed it.
"Mercy! It's twelve o'clock and I must go to bed. Lo is going to add a P.S. to-morrow. Please appreciate this long letter as I've really spent much valuable time over it.
"Sleepily,"Polly."
Lois' postscript followed.
"Hello, Bet:"I've just read Polly's scrawl, and I must really smile. If Caroline's dress made hers look pale you may believe it was at long range, for I never saw Poll the entire evening that she wasn't completely surrounded and hidden from view by a flock of dress suits. Wait until you see the green dress and you'll understand why."Polly says she promised to tell you aboutFanny's triumph and forgot to. Personally, I'm glad she left me something easy. I know it will amuse you. It happened the first night we got here. There were a lot of Fanny's friends at dinner and in the evening we played games and Caroline sang. Poll has described her, but not her voice. It's one of those big throaty ones that quaver, and she sings the most dramatic of love songs. I hated it, it was so affected. Well of course, everybody raved about it and complimented her and asked for more. They didn't really want it, but Caroline has a way of insisting upon the center of the stage."She didn't stop until everybody was thoroughly tired of her and of music generally. Then Polly surprised every one by saying quite calmly: 'Fanny I wish you'd sing for us now.' Caroline couldn't understand. 'Why, Fanny can't sing,' she said. I don't think she meant to, but it was out before she could stop it. I was cross."'Oh, yes, she can,' I told her, 'the girls at school are crazy about her voice. Sing that pretty French song Fanny.' Poll joined in and we teased so hard that she finally did sing."Bet, I do wish you could have seen those people, they were overcome with astonishment. They were so used to Caroline talking of nothing buther voice that they had never thought of Fanny. But after that first song, I thought they would never let her stop. There, that's the story. Caroline hasn't been asked to sing since and Polly and I are mean enough to be just as pleased as punch. I must stop this instant. We'll see you next week at good old Seddon Hall. In the meantime, loads of love. I won't be sorry to get back. How about you?
"Hello, Bet:
"I've just read Polly's scrawl, and I must really smile. If Caroline's dress made hers look pale you may believe it was at long range, for I never saw Poll the entire evening that she wasn't completely surrounded and hidden from view by a flock of dress suits. Wait until you see the green dress and you'll understand why.
"Polly says she promised to tell you aboutFanny's triumph and forgot to. Personally, I'm glad she left me something easy. I know it will amuse you. It happened the first night we got here. There were a lot of Fanny's friends at dinner and in the evening we played games and Caroline sang. Poll has described her, but not her voice. It's one of those big throaty ones that quaver, and she sings the most dramatic of love songs. I hated it, it was so affected. Well of course, everybody raved about it and complimented her and asked for more. They didn't really want it, but Caroline has a way of insisting upon the center of the stage.
"She didn't stop until everybody was thoroughly tired of her and of music generally. Then Polly surprised every one by saying quite calmly: 'Fanny I wish you'd sing for us now.' Caroline couldn't understand. 'Why, Fanny can't sing,' she said. I don't think she meant to, but it was out before she could stop it. I was cross.
"'Oh, yes, she can,' I told her, 'the girls at school are crazy about her voice. Sing that pretty French song Fanny.' Poll joined in and we teased so hard that she finally did sing.
"Bet, I do wish you could have seen those people, they were overcome with astonishment. They were so used to Caroline talking of nothing buther voice that they had never thought of Fanny. But after that first song, I thought they would never let her stop. There, that's the story. Caroline hasn't been asked to sing since and Polly and I are mean enough to be just as pleased as punch. I must stop this instant. We'll see you next week at good old Seddon Hall. In the meantime, loads of love. I won't be sorry to get back. How about you?
"Affectionately,"Lois."
There was no need to consult the calendar. The subdued voices, and the worried frowns, to be seen in any of the corridors or classrooms of Seddon Hall proclaimed it the first of February, and examination week. Every girl carried a book under her arm and the phrase, "Do you think you passed?" was on every one's lips.
Outside the weather was clear and cold, the pond was frozen smooth as glass. The snow on the hill was packed solid and fit for coasting, but no one ventured that far away from their books.
The first half of the year was over and the girls knew from past experience that the rest of the time would hurry by. In one short month there would be a hint of spring in the air, and commencement would be in sight.
On this particular afternoon the Senior class were having their examination in Latin and, to judge by their frowns, they were finding it difficult.
Betty ruffled her hair every little while andscowled at Miss Hale, who was correcting papers at her desk. She had answered all the questions she could and done all the prose work. All that was left was a translation of Virgil. Betty stared at the unfamiliar text, and wondered where it had come from. "I don't believe it's Virgil," she said to herself. "If it is it's a part we haven't had." Then a few words from the confusing paragraphs caught her eye, and she began to remember. Her brow cleared—a few words were all Betty ever needed to start her on one of her famous translations. She wrote hurriedly for ten minutes.
"That will do, I guess. The Spartan's sure to say, 'a little too free, but correct on the whole,' anyway," she thought, ruefully, as she folded up her paper and put her pen and ink away.
Miss Hale raised her eyebrows in surprise as she handed in the examination.
"You have finished very early," she said, coldly, and Betty's heart sank. "Don't you want to look over your paper?"
"Jemima, no!" Betty exclaimed, without thinking. "That is, I beg your pardon, Miss Hale, but I don't think I do. You see I'd begin to wonder about all my answers and that would only make things worse," she said, desperately.
"Very well; you may leave the room," Miss Hale replied, with a resigned sigh that plunged Betty into the deepest gloom.
She wandered over to Senior Alley. It was deserted. The rest of her classmates were still in the study hall. She found Angela's history book on her bed and started to study, but gave it up in despair. They had covered over half of a thick book that year and there was no way of knowing what part to re-study.
"I'd be sure to learn all the dates that weren't asked for," she said, aloud, and closed the book.
She thought of the possible Juniors who might be free. She had passed Fanny on her way out of the study hall—she remembered the big ink spot that she had on one cheek. Suddenly she thought of Maud.
"I'll bet she's finished her exam, if she had one," she laughed to herself, for Maud's utter disregard of lessons that did not interest her was a much-discussed topic.
She went upstairs to the Sophomore corridor, expecting to find it almost as deserted as her own, but, instead, she found five of the teachers talking excitedly in the hall.
Mrs. Baird had her hand on the knob of Maud'sdoor. Betty was a little confused at such a strange gathering.
"Excuse me," she said, hastily, and turned to go.
There was no need to explain that something was wrong—the whole atmosphere of the corridor was charged with mystery.
"Don't go, Betty," Mrs. Baird said, peremptorily, "I have something to tell you; perhaps you can help. Have you seen Maud to-day?"
Betty shook her head. "No," she said, slowly, "I don't think I have."
Mrs. Baird hesitated for a minute and then said, very distinctly:
"Maud is lost."
It was a startling announcement, and Betty couldn't understand. Who ever heard of any one being lost at Seddon Hall.
"But how?" she asked Mrs. Baird. "Where could she be?" Miss Crosby answered her:
"Nobody knows, Betty," she said. "Maud was at breakfast this morning, but at luncheon time she did not appear. I sent one of the girls up to look for her and she came back and told me she couldn't find her. I thought perhaps she was in the Infirmary, but after luncheon I asked Miss King, and she said she hadn't seen her."
"She's not in the building; we've looked everywhere," Mrs. Baird continued. "Where could she have gone? None of the teachers gave her permission to go out of bounds."
At the word permission Betty looked up. It struck her that Maud might not have considered it necessary to ask for permission.
"May I go to her room?" she asked Mrs. Baird.
"Certainly."
Betty opened the door and looked up at the wall over the bed. As she had expected Maud's snow shoes were gone from their accustomed place. She explained to the teachers.
"She's probably miles away by now," she finished. "Did she have any examination this afternoon?"
"Yes, in literature," Miss Porter told her, "and I can't believe she'd cut—"
"She wouldn't—not literature anyway," Betty said, confidently, and turned to Mrs. Baird.
"I'm sure I can find her by tracing her snow shoes," she said.
"But you mustn't go alone; something may have happened. Take one of the stable boys with you," Mrs. Baird answered.
"I'd rather have Polly and Lois," Betty said, "if there's anything wrong."
"Very well, where are they?" Mrs. Baird asked.
"Taking their Latin exams," Betty told her.
"Go and get them. I'll explain to Miss Hale, and, Betty, dear, do make haste; I'm really worried; the child may have hurt herself somewhere."
Betty hurried to the study hall. She knew it was useless to try to explain to Miss Hale; so she said: "Mrs. Baird wanted Polly and Lois at once." They handed in their papers and joined her in the corridor. She hurried them to their room, and explained on the way.
Fifteen minutes later they had found the track of Maud's snow shoes and started out to follow it.
Seddon Hall owned over five hundred acres of land and for the most part it was dense woodland. Trailing through it in winter without snow shoes was hard work, for the snow drifted even with the high boulders in places and you were apt to suddenly wade in up to your waist. Maud had taken the path that went out towards flat rock. This made following her tracks comparatively easy for the girls.
"What under the sun do you suppose has happened to her?" Polly demanded.
"I don't know," Betty replied; "I wish I knewwhen she'd started. As far as I can find out no one has seen her since breakfast."
"Did she have an exam this morning?" Lois inquired.
"No; her class had Latin and she doesn't take it. I'm not awfully worried," Polly said, suddenly. "I would be if it were any one but Maud. She's used to much wilder country than this and I can't help feeling that she's all right somewhere."
"But, where?" Lois demanded. "If she were all right and hadn't hurt herself she'd have been home by now."
"If she's kept up on top of the hill she can't have come to very great grief," Betty declared, "but if she's headed down to the river—then, anything could have happened."
"What do you mean?" Lois asked.
"Why, she might have fallen and broken her leg," Betty explained. "You know how dangerous those rocks are in winter; she may have stepped between two of them and gotten caught."
"Don't," Lois protested, with a shudder.
They trudged on for a quarter of a mile in silence, then the trail turned suddenly to the right.
"She's gone toward the apple orchard, thank goodness!" Betty exclaimed.
"Do you suppose she's gone round by way of the bridge and home?" Lois asked, stopping. "If she has, we'll have our hunt in vain."
Polly and Betty considered a minute. Then Polly said:
"Of course not; if she had, she'd have been home hours ago."
When they reached the apple orchard they noticed that the print of the snow shoes was less regular.
"She's stopped to rest here," Betty said, pointing to the ground. "Look how irregular these prints are."
"Come on!" Polly said, quickening her steps, "we may be near her."
"Hold on!" Betty cried, "look, something happened here; it looks as if she'd fallen down!" A big dent in the snow, as if a body had been lying on the ground, showed up in the prints of Maud's snow shoes.
"Here's a queer thing," Lois pointed out, "one shoe's going in one direction and one in another."
Polly walked on a little way, and then called to the others, excitedly:
"Here are the prints and look, side of them there's a mark as if she were dragging something along with her."
"What's that black spot farther on?" Lois demanded.
They looked in the direction in which she pointed and saw, a couple of hundred yards farther on, something that showed black against the snow.
"It's a man's hat! Oh, Poll, I'm scared to death," Lois said, trembling, when they came up to it. Murder and every possible form of highway robbery passed through her mind.
Betty turned white, and Polly bit her lip.
"Come on!" she said, bravely, "we've got to find her."
"Jemima!" Betty groaned; "it's beginning to snow, too." She picked up the hat; it was almost buried by the snow, and looked green with age. They were tired by this time—walking in snow shoes is very much easier than trudging in rubber boots—and they realized with a shudder that Maud and her unknown companion had a long start of them.
They followed the track as fast as they could. It went on through the orchard and down the hill, and then over the bridge. It stopped there and zigzagged in every direction. The girls looked and exchanged frightened glances. Betty's heart was beating furiously and Lois' knees trembled.They forged on, the prints were clear again, and went straight up the hill, always accompanied by the queer, uneven path beside them.
"She must be dragging something," Polly said. "That's all that that track can mean."
"Or some one is dragging her," Lois spoke the thought that was uppermost in Betty's mind.
"Nonsense!" Polly ejaculated. "I don't believe it. I tell you Maud is all right, wherever she is. I know it."
The road they were taking was a short cut to school. There was a steep hill—a level stretch, and then it joined the road from the school farm. The snow was falling heavily, and it was getting dark when they reached the top of the hill, and the prints were fast disappearing. By the time they got to the road they lost all track.
"Whatever happened, Maud's home," Betty exclaimed in a relieved voice, and broke into a run. The others followed her.
Mrs. Baird was walking up and down the Senior porch as they came up.
"Oh, girls! I'm so glad you're back; come in and take off those wet clothes right away; Maud's here."
"Is she all right?" they asked in chorus.
"Yes," Mrs. Baird assured them. "She musthave been in the building when you started out."
"Where?" Betty demanded.
"In the bath-tub," Mrs. Baird said, hurriedly. "I'll explain it to you later. Now do go and change; you must be very wet. I'll have some hot soup for you in my sitting-room. Come as soon as you can. I'll excuse you from study hour."
The girls hurried upstairs without a word. In Senior Alley they met Fanny.
"Do you know where Maud Banks is?" Betty asked her.
"Yes; she's in her room," Fanny said; "where have you all—"
"Go up and tell her to come down here this minute," Betty interrupted her; "please, Fanny, like a dear," she added as an afterthought.
Fanny went up to the corridor and returned with Maud.
Polly and Lois and Betty were all changing their clothes in their separate rooms. Maud stood in the hall between, with the astonished Fanny.
"Did you get lost?" Betty asked the first question.
"No, rather not," Maud answered; "got out as far as an apple orchard, and it was awfully late.I'd no idea where the time went. I knew there must be a short cut, so I—"
"Never mind, we know that," Polly interrupted. "Did you sit down in the orchard?"
"As a matter of fact, I did; my snow shoe was loose. How did you know?"
"Were you dragging anything when you left the orchard?" Lois demanded.
"Yes, a branch of a tree; I say, I'm awfully sorry you had all that trouble of—"
"Did you see a man's hat by any chance, on your way to the bridge?" Betty asked.
"Yes." Maud was becoming more and more bewildered.
"What did you do when you got home?"
"Why, I hustled down to Roman Alley and took a tub. You see I was awfully late, and I knew that Miss—what's her name—Spartan would be no end cross if I didn't show up for the exam. I didn't want to miss it either; it was literature, you know."
"Where did you leave your snow shoes?"
"Up against the gym porch; they were awfully wet and I didn't want to take the time to go to my room. I say it was a bit of a joke; you're thinking I was lost, wasn't it?" she asked, calmly.
Polly finished buttoning her dress.
"Maud," she said sternly "go back upstairs. To-morrow we may be able to see the joke, but not now."
Maud left with Fanny. "I'm most awfully sorry," were her last words.
A few minutes later, the girls sought the comfort of Mrs. Baird's charming sitting-room, and the promised hot soup.
Between sips they told her the story of their hunt and the fears that beset them. She listened delightedly, but with ready sympathy.
"You poor, dear children! What an experience! I talked to Maud very severely."
Betty thought she said: "I will talk."
"Don't tell her what we've told you," she begged, "I wouldn't have her know for anything."
"She'd say it was no end of a joke," Polly laughed.
Mrs. Baird nodded in understanding.
"Of course I won't tell her," she said merrily. "It's a secret just between us," she added with a smile.
Polly and Lois were busily packing their suitcases, while Betty and Angela stood by and offered suggestions. They were leaving on the afternoon train for Cambridge to attend the Junior Prom. Bob and Jim had finally prevailed upon Mrs. Farwell to let them come. Barring the party at Fanny's this was their first big dance, and they were both frankly excited about it.
"What time does your mother get here?" Betty asked. "Is she coming up to school?"
"No; we're going to meet her at the Junction, where we change for the Boston train," Lois replied.
"Oh, I'm sorry; I hoped I was going to see her." Betty was very fond of Mrs. Farwell.
"She'll be here for Commencement," Polly said, "so will Uncle Roddy; he's crazy to see you again. And this summer we're going to have a big house party, Ange. You've got to come this time with Bet."
"I'd love it, if you won't insist on my breaking in colts, and— Look out, Lo! if you don't wrap up those slippers in tissue paper they'll be all scratched—"
"I haven't any tissue paper; won't a towel do?"
"Yes; here, I'll throw you one."
"Mercy! I almost forgot my silk stockings," Polly exclaimed. "Get them out of my bottom drawer for me, will you, Bet, like an angel?"
Betty hunted in the drawer. "They're not here."
"Then look on the closet shelf."
"Here they are. Mercy, aren't they beauties! butterflies embroidered on them!" Betty drew one on over her hand and admired it.
"That's Lo's taste," Polly said. "She gave them to me for Christmas. There, I think that's everything." She surveyed her neatly packed bag. "I do hope my dress won't be wrinkled."
"What are you going to wear for an evening coat?" Angela inquired.
"Our capes," Lois answered.
"You'll freeze to death, and the hoods will crush your hair."
"Well, what will we do?" Lois asked. "Wear veils?"
Angela considered a minute, and then left the room to return with a long scarf of maline over her arm.
"Here, take this, one of you; wait till we decide which one it's the more becoming to." She put it around Polly's neck and drew part of it up over her hair.
"Very sweet, but," Betty said, "try it on, Lo."
"Perfect! you get it," she said, as they viewed the effect, and certainly the soft, flimsy tulle did make a charming background for Lois' delicate beauty.
"Polly, you need something more severe," Angela said.
"I've a wonderful Roman scarf; it's all lovely pale shades. I'll get it; wait a shake," Betty offered. "There you are," she said, triumphantly, when she had pulled it tightly around Polly's head. "You look Italian; all you need is a pitcher on your shoulder."
"It might interfere with my dancing," Polly laughed. "Thanks, ever so much, Betty dear; I'll lend you my butterfly stockings when you go up to West Point."
"Then, don't you dare dance holes in them," Betty warned. "Perhaps you'd better not dance at all; it might be safer," she added.
"Just find a nice comfortable chair and sit in it and keep your feet off the floor," Angela suggested. "Then, if any one asks you to dance, why, tell them that you'd like to but Betty says you mustn't."
"I've taken enough clothes for a month." Lois looked despairingly at her bag. "Sit on it, will you, Bet?" Together they closed it and Lois locked it as a precaution against its flying open.
"It's nearly time to start." Polly consulted her watch. "I'm so excited my heart's in my mouth."
"There's your carriage; it's waiting," Angela said, looking out of the window. "You'd better hurry. Here, I'll take one bag." Betty took the other, while Polly and Lois tried frantically to pull on their gloves.
"Be sure and remember everything," Betty said, as they ran downstairs, "so you can tell me how to act next week."
"We will," Polly promised.
They met Mrs. Farwell an hour later and took the train for Boston.
"I had a letter from Bob this morning," she told them. "He says that he will not be able to see us until luncheon time to-morrow; he's awfully busy, I suppose."
"Maybe he's trying to find partners for us," Lois laughed, "and he's not finding it easy."
Polly groaned: "Oh, Aunt Kate," she said, "suppose we have to sit out half the dances."
Mrs. Farwell laughed.
"I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you," she said, confidently; "you can trust Bob to see to that."
The next day, Jim and Bob joined them at luncheon, at one o'clock.
"Why didn't you meet us yesterday?" Lois demanded when they were seated at the table.
"Couldn't do it," Bob told her.
"But we're at your service this afternoon," Jim added. "What do you want to do?"
"Why don't you just sit and talk, up in our sitting-room," Mrs. Farwell suggested. "If you do anything else the girls will be tired out for the dance."
"What, and waste all the beautiful afternoon? Oh, mother!" Bob objected. "Besides," he added, winking at Jim, "if we sit and talk, as you suggest, the girlswillbe tired. You know Lois?"
"Oh, Bobby, aren't you mean?" Lois said. "I don't talk nearly as much as you do."
"How about taking a ride in my car?" Jim suggested. "It's a warm day."
"Oh, Jim!" Mrs. Farwell said, "I'm afraid to let them."
"But you come, too," Jim urged. "We could all crowd in."
Mrs. Farwell shook her head.
"No; I must rest; my head really aches," she said.
"Then, let us go," Bob teased. "Just for a short ride. You'll hurt Jim's feelings if you don't; he's awfully proud of Pegasus."
"Pegasus? Is that the name of the car?" Mrs. Farwell laughed. "Well—" she hesitated.
"We'll promise not to go one bit faster than thirty miles an hour," Jim assured her.
"And I'll blow the horn all the way, mother darling," Lois added. "I hope it's a nice, noisy Claxon? Is it, Jim?"
"Better than that," he told her, "it has three notes, and you can play a tune on it."
"May we go, Aunt Kate?" Polly asked, anxiously. "We really will be careful."
Mrs. Farwell looked from one to the other.
"Yes," she said, slowly, "but you must be back by four o'clock."
"Oh, mother; make it five," Bob teased.
"No; four o'clock." Mrs. Farwell was determined. "The girls must rest."
Jim left to get his car. In less than half an hour they heard his horn blow.
"He's here; hurry up," Bob said. "Don't make him stop the engine."
Mrs. Farwell pulled the girls' furs up close about their necks and went down to see them off.
"Now, do be careful," she said, earnestly. "Remember, Jim, no fast driving."
"Not even if I see a fine road ahead with no cars in sight," he promised her solemnly.
"And that means a whole lot for Jim," Bob explained. "He's rather proud of his driving, mother, and it's an awful disappointment to him when he can't show off."
"Nonsense; I don't believe it," she called after them; "I know he'll be careful."
The car, or "Pegasus," to give it its proper title, was long and gray and shaped like a boat. It was really a roadster, but a small seat opened up in the back to accommodate two people.
Bob and Polly climbed into it, and Lois took her place beside Jim. They drove slowly through the city.
"Where to?" Jim inquired.
"Anywhere," Lois said, "as long as we go. Isn't this air wonderful? Why, it's like spring."
Jim headed the car in the direction of Salem and the speedometer registered thirty miles.
"Why didn't you promise mother not to go over forty miles an hour?" Lois asked.
"Because I knew she wouldn't let us go," Jim replied. "Isn't this fast enough for you?"
Lois looked up at him over her brown furs.
"Do you know," she said, slowly, "my one ambition is to go sixty miles an hour in a car."
Jim gasped for a second. He was tempted, but he said: "Sorry I can't take you."
"Of course you can't to-day," Lois agreed. "But will you some time?"
"You bet," Jim promised, enthusiastically. "Bob's asked me to visit him this summer, you know," he added; "maybe we can try it then. Would you like to drive?" he asked when they were well out of the city.
"I don't know how," Lois said, sorrowfully.
"Well, I'll teach you." Jim stopped the car.
"What's the matter?' Bob called.
"Nothing," Jim said, "I'm going to let Lois drive; that's all."
"Oh, Jim, have pity on us!" Polly begged; "we do want to go to the dance to-night."
"Don't worry," he answered, "you'll get there."
"Now," he said to Lois, when they had changed places, "push that back; it's the brake, and you want to release it. There, now put your foot on that; that feeds gas in the engine. No, do it gently," he said, as the car jerked forward.
Lois' face was set in firm determination, and she obeyed instructions without a word. After she had stalled the car several times, and Bob had gotten out to crank it, she finally started.
A motor van coming towards them made her almost run into a ditch. But Jim took the wheel in time.
"You know, you don't have to climb trees and fences, Lo," Bob teased; "there's really plenty of room on the road."
"Oh, but it looked as if it would run right into us!" she exclaimed, shuddering. "Suppose it had taken off one of our wheels?"
"Keep still, Bob," Jim directed. "Don't talk to the chauffeur."
They drove on for a few miles more and were beginning to consider turning, when the car began to miss and make terrifying noises.
"What's it doing?" Lois demanded. "Have I broken it?"
Jim laughed heartily. "No," he said, "change places with me. I'll fix it."
But Pegasus refused to be fixed. It went on a little farther, and then stopped.
Jim and Bob got out. They opened the hood. "Nothing wrong here," Jim said. "I wonder what's up!"
"I'll spin it," Bob suggested. They worked for nearly fifteen minutes, but the car would not budge.
"I know I did something to it," Lois turned tearfully to Polly; "now we'll never get home."
"Oh, yes we will; we can get some one to pull us, I guess," Polly comforted her. "Maybe there's no more gasoline," she said to Bob.
The boys looked at each other and then burst out laughing. Jim investigated the tank and then took off his hat and bowed respectfully to Polly.
"You are quite right; there is no gas, and I'm a—well—I'm a very brilliant driver. Will you please tell me how you ever thought of it?"
Polly laughed. "Why, that's what always happens to Uncle Roddy's car when he goes out," she said. "He never remembers the gas. Sometimes he pulls the poor car to pieces before he thinks of it."
Jim felt comforted.
"Well, I guess I'll go see what I can do aboutgetting some. Bob, you stay here with the girls."
"Somebody has to call up Aunt Kate," Polly reminded them, "we won't be home by four, and she'll be worried."
"Then Bob's got to do it," Jim said, decidedly. "I'll never be able to face her after all my promises."
"All right!" Bob said. "I see a house down the road."
"Perhaps they'll have some gas," Jim said, hopefully, as they started off.
But it was after seven before they finally got back to the hotel. Jim had had to walk miles before he could get a pail of gasoline, and then on the way back one of the tires had blown out.
Mrs. Farwell was waiting for them in the lobby. She looked thoroughly frightened.
"Children, where have you been?" she asked.
Bob explained.
"We couldn't get here a second sooner," he concluded.
"I'm awfully sorry, Mrs. Farwell," Jim added, apologetically, "I never felt so ashamed in my life; but I really did start with plenty of gas, only the tank leaked," he finished ruefully.
Mrs. Farwell smiled her forgiveness.
"You'll have to hurry through dinner, then goand dress," she said. "Perhaps, after all, the girls aren't so very tired."
Polly put her arm around her.
"Tired?" she said, happily, "why, Aunt Kate, I feel as if I could dance all night."
"So do I, mother darling," Lois insisted.
"Well, that's very probably just what you will do," Mrs. Farwell answered with a resigned sigh.
Bob and Jim, after a very hasty dinner, hurried to their rooms to change their clothes, and were back before either of the girls were ready, for Mrs. Farwell had insisted upon an hour's rest. When they did join the boys, they were looking their best. They had on the same yellow and green dresses that they had worn at Fanny's party.
Bob and Jim were secretly delighted. There is always a good-natured rivalry at a Junior Prom and they both felt that the girls' charming appearance gave them a decided advantage over the other men.
When they arrived at the Union the dance had already started, and the floor was crowded with people. Lois and Polly were so carried away by excitement that the whole evening passed in a whirl of delight.
Mrs. Farwell had been right the day beforewhen she had promised her that Bob would see that they had plenty of partners, for Jim and he brought up all their friends and introduced them.
As Polly said afterward, in answer to Betty's questions.
"There were so many of them that I couldn't begin to remember their names. I just called them all Mr. Er—"
"What was the hall like?" Betty had demanded of Lois.
"Mercy! I don't remember," she said, "except that it had two big fireplaces and the most fascinating chandeliers made of deers' antlers."
Betty had been disgusted at this hazy description.
It was after two o'clock before they got back to the hotel, and they were both so sleepy that they could hardly thank Bob and Jim for their good time.
As the boys went back to their rooms, Jim said: "Bob, do you think the girls will ever forgive me for this afternoon?"
"Why, of course," Bob assured him. "They didn't mind being late. Polly would rather motor than dance any day."
"H'm!" Jim replied, slowly, "but it happens to be Lois that I'm worrying about."
"Well, you needn't," Bob answered, laughing. "When I was dancing with her to-night, I asked her if she didn't like you better than she used to, and she said: 'Oh, lots, Bobby; I think he's a duck.'"
"Cheer up, Polly! it can't be as bad as all that," Betty said, laughing, in spite of herself. For the spectacle of her friend's woe-begone expression was too exaggerated to be funny.
"I didn't think the game was so bad," Lois remarked, cheerfully; "nothing to worry over."
They had just returned from the gym, where the regular team had been practicing in preparation for the coming indoor meet.
February was almost at an end, and the girls had completely recovered from the Junior Prom. The date for the game was settled, and Seddon Hall was to play the Whitehead school team the following week.
"If we were only playing in our own gym," Polly said, forlornly, "we might have a chance; but to have to travel for an hour on the train first, have luncheon in a new place, and then play in a strange gym, why we'll none of us be up to our best."
"You talk as if we were all very nervous and highly strung children," Betty said, impatiently. "We've all played in other gyms before."
"Fanny never has," Lois reminded her.
"Well, what of it? She won't get scared. I know her better than you do," Betty insisted. "We've two more days to practice, anyway."
"Two more days? Do you suppose that's enough time for Eleanor to learn not to make fouls, and for Fanny to learn your passes?" Polly demanded. "It's all very well for you to be cheerful; you're not captain."
"But worrying won't help any, Poll," Lois said, quietly. "If you are going to get in a blue funk, what can you expect of the others?"
"Nothing!" Polly answered; "I know I'm silly, but that team beat us last year on our own floor, and our team was twice as strong then as it is now."
Lois and Betty gave up arguing. They understood exactly how Polly felt, but they knew, too, as soon as the game began she could be depended upon to regain her courage and hope.
The next two days the team worked hard. They practiced passes and signals, and Eleanor did her best to remember the unaccustomed lines. BySaturday morning Polly felt a little more cheerful.
"What time do we leave?" Lois asked, after breakfast. "Ten-thirty?"
"Yes; and I'm going to post a notice that every one is to be ready at ten. Then I'll be sure of them," Polly said.
"I wish we could take Maud as a sub, instead of Caroline Webb," Lois said, slowly. "She's worth more."
Polly shook her head. "It doesn't matter, really," she said. "Our sub-team is so weak that we simply can't rely on it. We'll have to play it all through ourselves, and we mustn't get hurt; that's all there is to it. If one of us gets out of this game to-day, it will mean we lose," she concluded, decidedly.
"Oh, captain, how do you feel?" Betty inquired, coming in with her gym suit over her arm. "I've been talking to some of the girls; they're just sufficiently nervous—all except Eleanor—she's too cocksure. I don't like it," she added, shaking her head doubtfully. No one knew better than she how dangerous over-confidence was before a game; it was much more liable to prove disastrous than a severe case of fear.
"I'll talk to her," Polly said. "Don't worry; she'll get over any extra amount of confidence when she sees the other team—that is, if they're the size they were last year."
"Which I hope and pray they are not," Lois added, fervently.
They started at ten-thirty, after a little delay caused by Fanny forgetting her gym shoes, and Betty her favorite hair ribbon. The school gave them a hearty send-off, cheering the carryall as far as the gate.
They arrived at Whitehead in time for luncheon.
"They don't seem awfully cheerful here," Polly said, when she and Lois were alone for a minute. "I wonder what's the matter?"
"Doris Bates, you know, the girl who plays forward, told me she had a terrible sore throat," Lois replied. "Perhaps she's given it to the rest."
"I have an idea they'll use their subs," Polly said. "If they do—" She let Lois finish the remainder of the sentence for herself.
The game began at two o'clock. The Whitehead gymnasium was a big, high ceilinged room with small windows. It was really a converted barn. The light was so poor that on winter afternoonsthey had always to use the big arc lamps that were incased in wire, and hung at either end of the room. There was no gallery for the spectators. They sat around in groups wherever they could find a place. Some of them were so near the lines that Polly felt sure she would run into them and, hardest drawback of all, the floor was slippery. The school used the gym for all their entertainments and it had been waxed not a week before.
Polly took in all these disadvantages at once and realized their probable effect on her team.
"Don't lose your nerve or your head," she said, cautioning them before the game started. "The lights are a bother, but try not to pay any attention to them. If you hit them, never mind. Be careful of the floor, and if you want to go after a ball, let the girls on the side lines look out for you."
"I do wish they'd move back," Fanny said, almost tearfully. "They might just as well be following you around, holding your hand? They're so close I declare I can hear them breathing."
"The lines are awfully faint," Eleanor said, dejectedly. She was looking hard at the big broad-shouldered girl it would be her duty to guard.
Polly glanced from one face to the other. EvenLois' and Betty's reflected apprehension. She sighed.
"Remember," she said, as they took their places, "we're playing for Seddon Hall."
When the first whistle blew she felt that she was facing a sure defeat and she tried valiantly to keep her glance from straying in the direction of the silver cup. But, as the game progressed, she discovered that, though her team was heavily handicapped, the only danger that they really had to face was surprise. For they had expected to fight, and fight hard for every point, and they were totally unprepared for the unexplainable collapse of the opposing team. From the very start, the ball was theirs. It took time for them to recover from the shock before they could use their advantage. Before the end of the first half, Whitehead had put in four substitutes.
"What can be the matter?" Lois demanded between halves. "Why, they're not putting up any fight at all."
"They're all sick," Betty said. "Both the centers have terrible colds. It's a shame."
The second half was a repetition of the first, and Seddon Hall won an easy victory.