PREFACE.
PREFACE.

As Phronsie Pepper was the only one of the “Five Little Peppers” who had not a chance to become
“grown- up” in the three books that form the Pepper Library, it seemed (to judge by the
expressions of those persons interested in this family) a little unfair not to give her that
opportunity.
The author has had so many letters from the elders, as well as the children, presenting this view of
the case, that she has been brought over to that opinion herself. And as Phronsie appeared to have
something to say on her own account, that the public, ever kind and attentive to the Peppers,
desired to hear, it was thought best to let her speak, to make her appearance as “grown-up,” and
then to draw the curtain over the “little brown house” and the “Five Little Peppers,” never more to
rise.
Nothing was farther from the mind of the author of the “Five Little Peppers” than a series
concerning them; for she did not naturally incline to the extension of a book into other volumes.
But the portrayal of the lives of the Peppers seemed to be a necessity. They were living, breathing
realities to her; and when pressed by many importunate readers to know “more and more” about
“Mamsie and Polly, Ben, Joel, David, and Phronsie,” it was only like telling the stories in the
twilight hour, of what was so real and vital to their author, that it was as if she were not speaking,
but only the scribe to jot it all down as it fell from the lips and the lives of others.
And here let the author state, in answer to the question so often asked her, “Did the Peppers really
live? and was there any little brown house?” that the whole story is imaginative, existing only in
her mind; although they always seemed so alive to her, that she let them talk and move and act
from beginning to end without let or hindrance; believing that Margaret Sidney’s part was to
simply set down what the Peppers did and said, without trying to make them do or say anything in
particular.
And now the closing volume, that shuts the door of the little brown house forever, takes the whole
scene back to dear old Badgertown; and life begins over again in rollicking, merry, and home-y
fashion; and the “Five Little Peppers,” with their troops of friends old and young, control the
book, and say and do and live, just as they like, without the meddlesome intervention of
THE AUTHOR.
CHAPTER I. THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE.
CHAPTER I. THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE.
“O CHILDREN!” said Phronsie softly, “what are you doing?”
“They’re pulling all the hair out of my mamsie’s cushion,” shouted King-Fisher, in a tone of
anger; and, struggling with the two delinquents on the floor, he bestowed several smart pulls on
the chubby shoulders bent over their task.
“Oh, oh!” cried Phronsie, dropping needle and scissors, and the little sheer lawn bit destined to
adorn Mamsie’s head, the lace trailing off by itself across the old kitchen floor, as she sprang to
her feet. “How can you, King?”
“Stop pulling all the hair out of my Mamsie’s cushion, Barby,” screamed King-Fisher, very red in
the face. “Look at that, now! I’ll bite you, if you don’t stop!”
“O King!” Phronsie seized his arm, as he began to set his white teeth on the little fat arm.
Barby sat still in the middle of the floor, both hands grasped tightly around the old calico cushion,
which she huddled close to her small bosom. “Go ’way!” she commanded, her blue eyes flashing
at him from her tangle of brown hair. “Go right ’way, bad, naughty boy!”
“I’ll take care of him. There, now, see if you come biting round here, Mister King!” The other
figure deserted the old hair cushion pulled out of the rocking-chair, and, throwing itself on the
unsuspecting King, rolled over and over, pommelling and puffing furiously.
“O children, children!” cried Phronsie in great dismay. Just then the door opened, and in walked
old Mr. King, bending his handsome white head to clear the doorway.
“Well—well—well! this is beautiful upon my word!” Then he burst out laughing.
“O Grandpapa!” exclaimed Phronsie, clasping her hands in distress, “this is so very dreadful! Do
make them stop!”
“Nonsense! Let them alone,” said the old gentleman, in the midst of his laugh. “I don’t doubt
King-Fisher has been putting on airs, and Polly’s boy is aching to take it out of him. That’s right,
Elyot, give it to him! I dare say he deserves it all, every bit.”
“Grandpapa,” begged Phronsie, hurrying up to clasp his arm entreatingly, “do please make them
stop. They’re in the little brown house, Grandpapa; only just think, the little brown house. Please
make them stop!”
“To be sure,” said old Mr. King, pulling himself out of his amusement, and wiping his face, “that
is a consideration. Come, now, boys, hold up there; you must finish all this out-of-doors, if you’ve
got to.”
“O Grandpapa!” interposed Phronsie, “please tell them not to finish at all. Make them stop
always.”
“Well, at any rate, you must stop now, this minute; do you hear?” He stamped his shapely foot,
and the combatants ceased instantly, King, in the sudden pause, finding himself at last on top.
“I could have beaten him all to nothing,” he declared, puffing violently; “but he jumped whack on
me, and my arm got twisted under, and—and”—
“Never mind the rest of it,” said Grandpapa coolly; “of course you’d have beaten if you could.
Well, Elyot, you did pretty good for a boy of five.”
“He was biting my sister,” declared Elyot, squaring up, with flushed cheeks, and clinching his
small fists.
“Oh—oh!” cried Barby, who had held her breath in delighted silence while the encounter was in
progress; and running up, her brown hair flying away from her face, she presented a fat arm for the
old gentleman’s inspection.
“I don’t see any bite,” he said, after a grave scrutiny of it all over.
“Not yet,” said Barby, shaking her brown head wisely; “but it was coming — it truly was,
Grandpapa.”
“Don’t worry till your miseries do come, little woman;” he swung her up over his white head, then
put her on his shoulder.
“There Phronsie used to perch,” he said, smiling over at the young girl.
“O Grandpapa, she’s too big—why, she’s Aunt Phronsie, and she’s most dreadful old,” said
Barby, leaning over to look at him.
“Well, she used to sit just where you are, Miss,” repeated the old gentleman. “Now, you be sure
you’re always number two.” He pinched her toes, making her squirm and squeal.
“What’s numtwo?” she asked at length, all out of breath from play.
“Lucky you don’t know,” said the old gentleman, his mouth close to her ear; “well, it’s just always
after number one, and never gets in front. There, now, jump down, and help Phronsie patch it up
with the boys.” He put her on the floor, and went over to the corner, to sit down and view
operations.
Phronsie, meanwhile, had a boy each side of her, both trying to get into her lap at once.
“It would just kill Mamsie,” she said mournfully, “to think of you two boys behaving so, and she’s
only gone a week!”
There was an awful pause. The old gentleman over in the corner kept perfectly still; and Barby,
finding all obstructions removed, placidly engaged in completing the destruction of Mother
Fisher’s cushion.
“And you promised her, King, you’d be a good boy, and be nice to the children.”
“I—forgot,” blurted out King, winking very fast, and not looking at Elyot. “I—I—did. Don’t look
so, Phronsie,” he mumbled; and instantly after his head went over in his sister’s lap, and he sobbed
in her dress, “Don’t write her, Phronsie—don’t!”
“And to think,” said Phronsie, gravely regarding Elyot, “that you should fly at him, when he only
wanted to protect Mamsie’s dear old cushion. O Elyot! I am so surprised at you for pulling it to
pieces.”
“I only wanted to see inside it; you said Mamsie and Uncle Ben made a Santa Claus wig of it
once; I was going to put it right back,” said Elyot stoutly. Yet he looked at the ceiling diagonally,
not trusting himself a glance into Phronsie’s brown eyes. “Say, you don’t suppose Grandmamsie
will know?” he asked suddenly.
“I suppose I must tell Mamsie everything,” said Phronsie soberly. “I promised to, you know. And,
besides, we always have.”
Elyot shivered all over his small frame, while King howled, and burrowed deeper than ever in
Phronsie’s lap.
“But I can tell her how sorry you two boys are,” Phronsie went on, “and that you never, never will
do such a naughty thing again; that is, if you never will, boys.”
“There! I got it all out alone by myself,” said Barby.
“Oh, we never will!” they both protested over and over; and King came up out of his shelter, and
wiped his eyes, and the two put their arms around each other, and made up splendidly; then turned
to hear Barby say, “There, I got it all out alone by myself;” and there was the hair out of Mamsie’s
cushion all sprawled over the floor.
While the children were picking this up, and crowding it back into the big calico cover, Phronsie
making Elyot do the best part of the work, as he was older, and had helped Barby along, King
working vigorously, as penance, old Mr. King called, “Now, Phronsie, I want you, as those
youngsters seem to be straightened out;” and she had gone and sat on his knee, her usual place in a
conference.
“Well, I’ve just done such a good stroke of work, child,” he said complacently, pulling softly the
golden waves of hair that lay over her cheek.
“What, Grandpapa?” she asked, as he seemed to wait her reply.
“Yes, such a good piece of work,” he ran on. Then he chuckled, well pleased. “You must know,
Phronsie,” for he was determined to tell it in a way to suit himself, “that I was sitting on the back
veranda—Polly’s gone to town to-day, you know.”
“Yes, Grandpapa.”
“Well, and the house was quiet, thanks to you and the little brown house, and I had a chance to
read the morning paper in peace.” This he said, unconscious of the fact that every one knew quite
well he courted the presence of the children on any and every occasion. “Well, I had considerable
to read; the news, strange to say, is very good, really very good to-day, so it took me quite a long
time.” He forgot to mention that he had lost himself a half-hour or so in a nap; these occurrences
were never to be commented on in the family. “And I was turning the paper—it’s abominable that
editors mix things up so; it’s eternally turning and returning the sheet, to find what you want. It’s
very hard, Phronsie, when we pay such prices for articles, that we cannot have them to suit us,
child.”
“Yes, Grandpapa,” said Phronsie patiently.
“Well, don’t look at those youngsters, Phronsie; they’re all right now. They won’t fight any more
to-day.”
“O Grandpapa!”
“I mean it, child. Well, I was turning that contemptible paper for about the fiftieth time,—I wanted
to read Brinkerhoff’s editorial,—when I caught sight of a figure making around the lawn to the
front veranda. Thinks I, ‘that looks wonderfully like Roslyn May.’”
The pink glow in Phronsie’s round cheek went suddenly out.
“And so it was, as sure as you’re here on my knee.” He had her hand in both of his, and was
affectionately pressing it. “Yes, Phronsie, there was that fellow. So I jumped up, and told Johnson
to send him around to me; and he came.”
Old Mr. King drew a long breath of pleased reminiscence. Phronsie sat quite still, the afternoon
sunlight that streamed through the western window glinting her yellow hair. Her hands lay in
Grandpapa’s, and her eyes never wavered from his face. But she said nothing.
“You don’t ask me anything, Phronsie,” said the old gentleman at last. “Hey, child?” pinching her
ear.
“No, Grandpapa, because you will tell me yourself.”
“And so I will; you are a good girl not to badger me with questions. Well, he came about the same
thing, Phronsie,—wanted to see you, and all that. But I couldn’t allow it, of course; for, if I did,
the next thing, you would be worried to death by his teasing. And that’s all out of the question.
Besides being decidedly unpleasant for you, it would kill me.”
“Would it, Grandpapa?” Phronsie leaned forward suddenly, and held him with her brown eyes.
“Not a shadow of doubt,” he answered promptly; “I shouldn’t live a month if you went off and got
married, Phronsie.”
“I wouldn’t go off and get married, Grandpapa!” exclaimed Phronsie. “I could stay with you then;
didn’t Roslyn say we could, and you would always go with us if we went away? O Grandpapa,
you didn’t think I would ever leave you!” She threw her arms around his neck, and clung to him
convulsively.
“Yes, yes, that’s right,” said the old gentleman, immensely pleased, and patting her on the back as
if she were a child of three; “but you see this is nothing to the point, Phronsie, nothing at all.”
Then he went on testily, “You’d belong to somebody else besides me, and that would be the same
as being a thousand miles away. And as long as I’m sure you don’t love him, Phronsie,”—which
he had found out by taking care not to ask her,—“why, I’ve done just the very best thing for you,
to send him away about his business.”
“Did he ask to see me?” Phronsie sat up quite straight now, and waited quietly for the answer.
“Why, of course he did; but I knew it would only trouble you to see him.”
“O Grandpapa—just one little minute—I wouldn’t have let him stay long. Couldn’t you have sent
him over here just for one minute?”
“Nonsense! You’re so tender of his feelings, it would only have been hard for you. No, I thank my
stars, Phronsie, I saved you from all this trouble. What you would do, child, if it were not for your
old Granddaddy, I’m sure I don’t know. Well, he’s gone, and I told him never to come back again
with that errand in view; and I only hope to goodness it’s the last time I shall be so worried by
him.”
“There, we’ve got the hair all in,” announced King triumphantly, rushing up, followed by the other
two, Barby wiping her grimy little hands in great satisfaction over her white apron. “Now please
say we’ve been good boys, and”—
“And a good girl,” chimed in Barby, flying after with red cheeks.
“And sew up the old cushion,” begged Elyot. This would be almost as good fun as the pulling it
open had been, to see Phronsie sewing it tight, and she could tell them stories meanwhile.
“Let the cushion wait,” began Mr. King.
“But, Grandpapa, the hair may get spilled out again,” said Phronsie gently, and getting off from his
knee. “I really think I ought to do it now, Grandpapa dear.”
“Yes—yes,” cried all the children, hopping up and down; “do it now—do it now, Phronsie.”
So Phronsie found her thimble and scissors once more, and got out the coarse brown thread from
her little sewing-bag, and sewed the big seam in the old calico cushion fast again, the children
taking turns in poking the wisps of hair in the crevice.
“Now tell all what you used to do when you lived here—just here,” demanded Elyot, patting the
old floor with his hand, “every single thing, Phronsie;” for the children, except on rare occasions,
never called her “Aunt.” “Don’t leave out anything you did in the little brown house. Now begin.”
“O Elyot,” said Phronsie, “I couldn’t tell it all if I tried ever so hard.”
“Polly tells the best stories,” said King, pushing and picking the hair into place in the last corner.
“So she does,” said Phronsie; “there now, King-Fisher, that’s all you can do. Look out; my needle
is coming up there,” as King with a final pull settled the last little wisp into place.
“Let me—let me,” begged Barby, thrusting her little hand in. “I want to do it last. Let me, King.”
“No,” said King stoutly, hanging to the corner. “I shall; it’s my mother’s cushion.”
“O King,” began Phronsie gently, “Mamsie would like it better if you let Barby do it. She’s so
little.”
“She’s always pushing, just the same,” said King stoutly, “as if she was big folks.”
“Well, if you want to please Mamsie, you’ll let her do it,” went on Phronsie, pausing with needle
in mid-air. “Hurry, now, children; I can’t wait any longer.”
“You may, Barby,” declared King, relinquishing with a mighty effort the pinched- up corner.
“There, go ahead,” and he winked fast at her great satisfaction while she pushed and poked the
wisps in with her fat little finger, humming contentedly meanwhile.
Phronsie flashed a smile over at King. “Now, children,” she said, “you must know we were very
poor in those days, and”—
“What is poor?” asked Barby, stopping singing.
“I know,” said Elyot; “it’s wearing rags like the ashman. Oh, I wish I could!”
“Oh, no!” cried Phronsie in horror; “that isn’t poor; that’s shiftless, Mamsie always used to say.
Oh, we were just as nice! Well, you can’t think, children, how spick and span everything was!”
“What’s spick ’n’ span?” demanded Barby.
“Make her stop,” cried Elyot crossly; “we shall never hear all about it if she keeps asking
questions every minute. Now go on, Phronsie.”
“Well,” said Phronsie, “now that corner’s all done beautifully, Barby; take care, or I shall prick
your finger. Why, Polly would scrub and scrub the floor and the table, till I used to try to see my
face in them, they were so bright.”
“They’re bright now,” declared both the boys, jumping off to investigate. Barby pushed her hair
back from her round cheeks, and leaned over. “I don’t see my face, Phronsie,” she exclaimed.
“No, and I couldn’t see mine; but I always tried to, for Polly kept them so bright, and one day I
remember I was scrubbing Seraphina, and”—
“Who’s Seraphina?” burst in Barby, coming back to crouch at Phronsie’s feet.
“Ow! Be still!” cried Elyot, with a small pinch.
“Seraphina was my very first doll, the only child I ever had until Grandpapa gave me all the rest,”
Phronsie sent a smile over to the old gentleman in the corner, “and she’s in Mamsie’s big bureau
in the bedroom now.”
“I’m going to see,” declared all three children at once, hopping up.
“Oh, no! you mustn’t,” said Phronsie; “not till this cushion is done. Then, if you’re very good, I’ll
show her to you.”
“We’ll be just as good,” they all cried, “as we can be,” and running back to sit down on the floor
again at her feet. “Do go on,” said Elyot.
“You see, I wanted Seraphina to be just as nice as Polly kept things; and so I was scrubbing her
with soap and water one day, when Polly called out, ‘O Phronsie! the big dog’s out here that
scared the naughty organ-man; and the boy;’ and before she could wipe my hands and my face, for
you see I’d got the soap all over me too, I ran to see them, and Jasper kissed me, and got the soft
soap all in his mouth.”
“Ugh!” cried King, with a grimace.
“Yes, that’s just the way Japser looked, and that’s what he said too!” said Phronsie, going on with
the recital.
“Who was Japser?” demanded Barby.
“Why, he was our Popsie,” said Elyot, who had heard the story many times. “Now do stop talking,
Barby. Well, go on,” he begged, turning back to Phronsie.
“And I couldn’t say Jasper,” said Phronsie, “and then sometimes we called him Jappy.”
“Oh, goody! here comes Mr. Tisbett,” howled King.
“How funny!” laughed all three. “Oh, goody! here comes Mr. Tisbett,” howled King in a sudden
rapture, lifting his head to see the top of the old stage through the window. “Why, he’s stopping
here! He’s stopping here!” and, tumbling over the other two, King found his feet, and pranced off
over the big flat doorstone, and down the path, Elyot and Barby flying after, to see Mr. Tisbett
open the stage-door with a, “Here you be, ma’am, and the boy too.”
“Grandpapa,” cried Phronsie, taking one look out of the window, “it’s Mrs. Fargo and Johnny!”
“The mercy it is!” exclaimed the old gentleman ruefully. “Well, good-by, Phronsie, to any sort of
peace, now that boy’s come!”
CHAPTER II. A BADGERTOWN EVENING.
CHAPTER II. A BADGERTOWN EVENING.

“BOOKS! I’ve a fine packet for you to-night, Polly.” Jasper’s eyes glowed. Polly ran up to meet
him.
“O Mamsie! let me take the books—let me!” Elyot thrust in his small figure between them, and
tugged at the parcel.
“You take yourself off, young man,” said his father. “Now, Polly, hold out your arms.”
“Oh, what richness!” sighed Polly ecstatically, “as Alexia would say;” and, clasping her parcel
closely, she sank into a big chair, and examined her treasure. “O Jasper!” she cried, “isn’t it just
magnificent to be a publisher’s wife!”
Jasper laughed, and swung his boy up to his broad shoulder.
“I thought you’d like them, Polly,” he said with great satisfaction, looking at her.
“Like them!” repeated Polly in a glow. Then she sprang to her feet, tossed the whole pile into the
easy-chair, and ran up to her husband, putting her hand within his arm. “But where is the bag,
Jasper?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh, what richness!” sighed Polly.
“Well, the fact of it is, Polly,” said Jasper slowly, “I left the bag at the office. Just for this night,”
he added, as he saw her face.
“Why, Jasper?” asked Polly quickly, the color dropping out of her cheek.
“Well, the truth is, I was afraid,” began Jasper.
“Oh! go on, and dance me up and down, Daddy,” screamed Elyot, beating his heels with all his
might.
Polly laid her hand on the small feet. “No, no, dear; Mamsie’s going to talk now. Why, Jasper?”
she asked again. This time she stood quite still, and looked at him.
Jasper swung his boy lightly to the ground. “Off with you!” he cried with a laugh, and Elyot
scuttled away. “Now, Polly,” as he put his arm around her, and drew her to a seat, “the fact is, I
thought you wouldn’t sit down and go over those books to-night if I brought out the bag.”
“And so I wouldn’t,” declared Polly. “Of course not, with the dear old bag waiting. How could I?”
“That’s just it,” said Jasper; “and it’s not fair for me to bring the bag, with those waiting, either;”
he nodded over at the untied packet and the new books scattered about. “You ought to have at
least one go at them before being tied down to business matters.”
Polly broke loose from him, and ran over to the easy-chair. “And did you think I would so much
as look at these once?” she cried, her face flushing up to the brown waves. “Oh! oh! I just detest
them now.” She looked down at the pile with the same face that she carried in the little brown
house when the old stove burned Mamsie’s birthday cake.
“But, Polly,” said Jasper, hurrying over to comfort her, “you see it’s just this way. I’m tying you
down too much to business detail, and you ought to be enjoying yourself more, dear.”
“And don’t you suppose, Jasper,” cried Polly, turning on his troubled face a radiant one, “that
lovely old bag is just the dearest dear in all the world next to you and the children? Oh, say you
will never leave it again! Do say so, Jasper;” she clung to him.
“I am so afraid I’m making your life too full of care, Polly,” said Jasper gravely, “to bring the bag
out every night. And this evening we might go over the new books, and have a break in the routine
for once.”
“And let you work over all your papers alone, Jasper,” cried Polly, aghast. “O Jasper!”

“Dance me up and down, daddy!” screamed Elyot.
“I can find time to do them, dear; don’t worry. And it would be better for you.”
“And indeed it would be the worst thing in all this world, dear,” protested Polly, shaking her
brown head. “I should be so dismal, Jasper, you can’t think, without our lovely time working
together after dinner. When the bag is done, then we’ll play and read, and do all sorts of things.
But that first hour is the best of the whole evening, Jasper; it truly is.”
“I’m sure I love it,” cried Jasper, with kindling eyes; “I never could do it so well without you, nor
in half the time, Polly.”
“Well, then you must just promise you’ll never leave the bag back in the office,” said Polly,
laughing. “Promise now, Jasper.”
“I suppose I must,” said Jasper, laughing too. “Here come Alexia and Pickering,” looking down
the carriage-drive.
“We’ve come out to dinner, Polly, if you want us,” said Alexia, hurrying in, Pickering’s tall figure
following. “Goodness me! how you can live so far out of town, I don’t see!”
“So you say every time I chance to meet you, Alexia” said Jasper.
“Yes, and that’s the reason she’s decided to try it herself,” said Pickering with a drawl.
“O Alexia!” Polly gave her a small hug, as she helped her off with her things, “are you really
coming to Badgertown? Oh, how nice!”
“Pickering is always springing things on me, and telling everything I say,” said Alexia, trying to
send a cross grimace over at her husband, but ending with a short laugh instead, “and just because
I said I wanted to have a house near you, Polly, he’s got it into his head I’m coming out here to
live.”
Pickering indulged in a long laugh.
“And I think it’s a shame,” declared Alexia, with a very injured face, “to have one’s husband go
about, and spoil all one’s surprise parties—so there!”
“Then you really do mean to come to Badgertown to live, Alexia?” cried Polly with sparkling
eyes. “Oh, you dear! how perfectly delightful!”
“I suppose I’ll have to, Polly,” said Alexia, “as I must be just as near you as I can get. But I do
think Badgertown is utterly horrid, and you ought to be ashamed to live out here so far. I’m dying
to have that cunning little yellow house on the hill, Polly,” she broke off suddenly, “with the
barberry-bushes in front, and we’ve come out here to see it after dinner. Now you know it all; only
I was going to ask you to go out and take a walk, and then bring you up there with a flourish, and
give you a grand surprise. And now it’s as tame as tame can be.” She shook her linger at
Pickering, who bore it like a veteran.
“How’s baby?” asked Polly, when the wraps were off, and they were all seated on the long
veranda for a talk.
“He’s the dearest little rat you ever saw,” said Alexia, who couldn’t forgive her boy for not being a
girl, whom she could call Polly. “He’s two teeth, and four more coming.”
“Alexia always counts those teeth that are coming with so much gusto,” said Pickering.
“And why shouldn’t I?” cried Alexia. “It would be perfectly horrid if he stopped with two teeth;
you know it would yourself, Pickering. And to-day, Polly Pepper, you can’t think”—
“I decidedly object to having my wife called Polly Pepper,” said Jasper, trying to get on a grave
look. “Polly Pepper King is all right. But be sure to put on the King.”
“Oh! we girls shall never call her anything else but Polly Pepper—never in all this world, Jasper,”
said Alexia carelessly. “Well, you tell what baby did to-day, Pickering. I’m quite tired out with all
my trial of getting here, and the disappointment of my surprise spoiled.” She leaned back in the
rattan chair, and played with her rings.
“Our child,” said Pickering solemnly, “developed a most astonishing mental power this morning,
and actually uttered two consecutive syllables like this, ‘Ar-goo!’”
“So did Elyot at the same tender age,” observed Jasper, “and Barby too, I believe.”
“Now, you just be quiet, Pickering!” Alexia cried, starting forward; “and aren’t you ashamed,
Jasper, to help him on? Baby actually said the most beautiful words; he really and truly did. And
that’s what I wanted to come out for to-night, Polly, as much as to look at the house, to tell you
that baby’s talking; and he’s only eight months old! Think of that, now!”
“I met Roslyn May down town to-day,” said Pickering when the laugh had subsided.
“Did you!” exclaimed Jasper.
Polly stopped laughing at one of Alexia’s sallies, and met her husband’s eyes. His look said,
“Strange he did not come out here.”
“Yes; he just got in day before yesterday, he told me, from England. I couldn’t understand what he
came over for.”
“He is going to stay some time, I suppose,” said Jasper, “now he’s here.”
“No, he was on the way to the steamer, when we ran across each other on Broadway,—sailed to-
day on the Cunarder; that is, he said he was going to.”
“He was going right back!” exclaimed Polly; and going over to Jasper’s side, she lay her hand on
his. “What do you mean, Pickering?”
“It’s just so, Polly,” said Pickering, feeling awfully that he must make the sad droop in her eyes,
and the color go out of her face.
“He probably is coming back soon—he may have been cabled back—a dozen things may have
happened,” said Jasper. “Don’t feel so badly, dear.”
“Well, Phronsie must never know he has been over,” said Polly. “Promise, Alexia, you never’ll
tell her! You won’t, dear, will you?” She ran over and put her arms around Alexia.
“Horses won’t drag it out of me,” declared Alexia. “I won’t ever mention Roslyn May to”—
“Hush!—hush! here she comes,” warned Polly frantically, pinching Alexia’s arm to make her
stop.
“Oh, mercy! Well, I didn’t say anything,” said Alexia.
Phronsie came around the veranda corner in her soft white gown. “We’re going to have a candy
party to-night,” she said.
“And a peanut party,” cried the children at her heels, as they scurried over the veranda steps. “Tell
it all, Phronsie; tell it all.”
“And you’re just in time, Alexia and Pickering,” said Phronsie, with a smile, “to come over to the
little brown house after dinner, to the party.”
“And you’ve got to pull candy with me, Mrs. Dodge,” declared Elyot, who just adored her, racing
up to possess himself of her long white fingers, glittering with rings.
“Oh, mercy me! I can’t. Why, I’ve on my best dress,” she said, to tease him.
“Mamsie will let you have one of her aprons,” he cried, “or my nice Mrs. Higby will. I’ll go and
ask her.”
“No, I’m going to; Mrs. Higby will let me have the aprons,” shouted Barby, turning her back on
her father, in whose lap she had thrown herself, and rushing after him.
“We’re all in for it, I see,” said Pickering. “Well, King, you’re my boy, seeing the others have got
champions. What do you want? I’ll see you through this candy scrape.”
“I’d rather have my brother Jasper,” said King, not over politely, “but I’ll take you.”
“O King!” remonstrated Phronsie gently.
“Let him alone, Phronsie,” said Pickering. “King is delicious when unadulterated. Well, my boy,
so I’ll consider myself engaged to you for this evening at the party.”
“All right,” said King coolly.
“And Mrs. Higby says we can have all the aprons we want,” announced Elyot, rushing back.
“And she’ll boil the candy while we’re at dinner,” piped Barby, tumbling after.
“This knocks your pretty plan of gazing at the yellow house, sky- high, Alexia,” whispered
Pickering, under cover of the noise.
“No, it doesn’t,” she retorted. “We’ll go afterward, when the children are abed. It’s moonlight, and
we can see it just as well.”
“Think of choosing a house by moonlight!” laughed Pickering.
“Just as well as to choose it by sunlight, as long as we can see,” said Alexia, jingling the house-
key they had secured from the agent on the way up. “Yes; we’ll have quite time before we take the
train home.”
“Oh, you can’t go home to-night!” cried Polly and Jasper together. “The idea! with a party and
house-hunting on your hands. Stay over, Alexia.”
“I must be in town at eight in the morning,” said Pickering, getting out of his chair to stretch his
long legs and look at the hills. “Alexia can stay if she wants to.”
“As if I could or would, when my husband can’t,” she cried. “And there’s that blessed child left all
alone!”
“But since he’s learned to converse,” said Pickering, “he can ask for his rations. So he’s not to be
considered.”
“Well, I’m perfectly shocked!” declared Alexia. “And I shall go home with you in the late train.”
Oh, the candy frolic of that night! Everybody had such a glorious time that the little old kitchen
rang with the jollity that flowed over, taking in all Primrose Lane, and down as far as “Grandma
Bascom’s” little cottage. “Grandma” now had to lie abed with her rheumatism; but Polly and
Jasper found time to slip away a bit in the midst of the festivities and carry her a little dish of the
candy before the nuts were put in, for “Grandma” didn’t like nuts, and she did like molasses
candy. And Polly carried a few other things in a small basket on her arm.
“For I never shall forget, Jasper,” she said as they hurried along, “how good Grandma was the day
Phronsie hurt her toe. Oh, that horrible old ‘receet’ of Mirandy’s wedding-cake! I thought it would
kill me to wait for it. Dear, dear,” laughed Polly, “how we do remember, don’t we, Jasper, things
we used to do when we were children?”
“I’m sure I never want to forget what we did in the little brown house,” said Jasper. “Well,
Grandma was always good, I remember, bringing raisins and all that. Now, Polly, we must tell her
every single bit of Joel’s last letter; for she’ll question us up just as closely, you may be sure.”

“We’ve come out to dinner, Polly,” said Alexia.
“I know it,” said Polly, hanging to his arm; “and Joel thinks as much of Grandma as she does of
him. It’s so nice of him, Jappy, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, indeed!” said Jasper, nodding briskly; “for no matter how tired Joe is,—and he must get
awfully used up sometimes, Polly, with that big parish of his,—he’s always doing something for
her. It was fine for him to buy her that big easy-chair with the first money he had saved up after he
paid father back for his education.”
“Dear, beautiful old Joel!” cried Polly, with shining eyes.
“How upset father was,” exclaimed Jasper, in a reminiscent mood, “when Joe made him take that
money back. I declare, Polly, I never saw him so upset in all my life!”
“It was right for Joel to make him,” said Polly stoutly.
“Yes, I know it. But Father had so set his mind on doing it for Joe.”
“But Joey couldn’t take it to keep,” declared Polly. “You know he really couldn’t, Jasper.”
“Of course not,” said Jasper quickly. “But what we should have done without Phronsie to make
the peace between them, I don’t know. Well, here we are.”
“See here,” cried Alexia, Mrs. Higby’s red plaid apron working all up her long figure, as she had
tied it by the strings around her neck, “if somebody doesn’t go over and call Polly Pepper home,
why I’ll just go myself.” She brandished the big wooden spoon, a few drops of molasses trailing
off over the floor.
“I suppose that is meant for me,” said Pickering, placidly eating the big piece he ought to have
been pulling, “as I’m the only one she orders round.”
“Horrors!” cried Alexia, glancing along the tip of the spoon, “just see the mischief I’ve done! Now
the Peppers won’t ever let me in this kitchen again.”
“I’ll wipe it up,” said Elyot, running over to her, with sticky hands, and face streaked with
molasses.
“Oh!” exclaimed Alexia with a grimace, and edging away. “Oh, my goodness, me! and see my
husband eating candy like a little pig, and me in this dreadful scrape.”
“I wish I was your husband,” said little Elyot, getting down on his knees; and, seizing the first
thing he could find, which proved to be a fine damask napkin, he began to vigorously mop the
floor.
“Mercy me! what have you got?” cried Alexia, her sharp eyes peering at him. “Oh! give it to me.”
She seized it from his hand, and threw down the spoon. “Come along, do,” and she hauled him out
into the entry. “It’s one of Polly Pepper’s bestest napkins; we brought it over on the cake-plate.
Now we must just douse it into a pail of water; but goodness knows where that is.”
“Hoh!” said Elyot, “I know where there’s one, just as easy as not. Come on.”
It was now his turn to haul Alexia, and he did it so successfully that she was soon over the little
steps, and in the “Provision Room.”
“If ever I’m thankful,” she sighed gratefully, “it is to see that sticky mess come out,” when Elyot
had delightedly plunged the napkin into a pail of water standing in the corner. “Oh, my goodness
me! if it had spoiled that; and it’s one of her great big embroidered K’s, too! Well, come on; we
must run back, or the whole troop of them will be after us. Wring it out and hang it up, do! Now
come on.”
She picked up her skirts, and skipped over the steps, Elyot scuttling after, in time to hear Pickering
say, “Evidently my wife doesn’t intend to take the train with me, for she’s disappeared.”
“Somebody take off this!”
“I haven’t disappeared at all; I’m here,” cried Alexia at his elbow. “The idea! Why, I’m going to
look at the house on the hill; but ’tisn’t time yet,” drawing a long breath.
“Going to look at the house on the hill! Well, I guess you won’t to-night,” said Pickering, taking
out his watch; “it’s just a quarter of ten, and the train leaves at ten. So, good-by, Alexia; you’ve
got to stay all night.”
“Oh, I can’t—I won’t!” cried Alexia. “Oh, dear! somebody take off this horrible old apron,”
wildly twisting this way and that.
“I will—I will,” cried little Elyot, fumbling at the strings.
“Oh, dear—dear!” wailed Alexia, “my face is all stuck up; somebody—where’s Mrs. Higby? Oh,
somebody wash it, please!” She was rushing around after her bonnet now, Elyot hanging to the
apron-strings valiantly, this process tying them tighter than ever at each step.
“Here, hold on, can’t you!” roared Pickering. “You’ll never get her undone at that rate.”
“Yes, I will, too,” cried Elyot, tugging away, and tumbling against Mrs. Higby with a towel, wet at
one end, in her hand.
“Oh, dear, dear! and that blessed child at home alone,” cried Alexia. “Mercy! here’s my best
bonnet down by the coal-scoop. Well, as long as I’ve got anything to put on my head I suppose I
should be thankful. Oh, dear! where’s that wet towel? Do cut the strings of this horrible old apron
—Oh, dear! what shall I do!” She whirled around on them all, as the door opened, and in ran Polly
and Jasper, with glowing cheeks.
“For goodness sake, Alexia!” began Polly.
“Whew! Is it a menagerie?” cried Jasper.
“Well, it’s bad enough to go visiting, and have your friends run off to see horrible old women,”
said Alexia, whirling more than ever, “without coming back to laugh at one’s misery. Oh, that’s a
dear, Mrs. Higby!” as that good lady’s scissors clicked, and set her free. “I’ll bring you out a new
pair of strings next time I come. Come on, Pickering—good-by, everybody;” and she was out and
running down the path by the time he found his hat.
“Oh dear!” and back she came again, “I forgot my face; it’s all stuck up. Do, somebody, wash this
molasses off.” And Polly gave her a dab with the wet towel, and a little kiss at the same time.
“You didn’t wash it in the right place,” grumbled Alexia, running off again; “it was the other
cheek. Oh dear, dear! Come on, Pickering; we shall lose the train.”
CHAPTER III. JOHNNY.
CHAPTER III. JOHNNY.

“WHAT a pity that Johnny couldn’t come to the candy party,” sighed Phronsie the next day,
looking over at the little brown house across the lane, which presented the same serene
appearance, as if such jovial affairs had not been; “but I suppose Mrs. Fargo knew best, and he
really was too tired, as they’d just come.”
“Mrs. Fargo surely does know best,” said Polly, stopping long enough in her trial of a very
difficult passage in the sonata to fling this over her shoulder to Phronsie; “for you know, Phronsie,
Johnny is just awful when he’s tired out.”
“Yes; I know,” said Phronsie, with another sigh, “but then he’s Johnny, you know, Polly.”
“And the dearest dear of a Johnny too!” cried Polly warmly, going on with her practising. “O
Phronsie, supposing I shouldn’t play this—good!” She stopped suddenly, and leaned both hands
on the music-rest at the dreadful thought.
Phronsie stopped looking over the children’s books on the table, and, setting them straight, came
over to her side.
“You can’t make a mistake,” she breathed confidently. “Why, Polly, you play it beautifully!”
“But I may,” broke in Polly recklessly. “Oh, I may, Phronsie! And then, oh, dear! I could never
hold my head up in all this world. It would be so very dreadful for Jasper and the children, for me
not to play it as it ought to be.”
Phronsie leaned over Polly’s shoulder, and put two soft arms around her neck. “You will play it
good, Polly,” she declared; “and Mamsie would say,—I know she would,—that you’re not to
think of what you’ll do at the time, till the time comes.”
“You blessed child!” cried Polly, whirling around on the music-stool. “O Phronsie! you’re just
such a comfort as you were that day when Grandpapa brought you and put you in my arms, when I
broke down practising, and I’d almost made up my mind to go home. Now, then, I’ll just stop
worrying, and play ahead.”
And she sat up straight, and flashed all the brilliant passages over again, Phronsie standing quite
still to watch Polly’s fingers flying up and down.
But, notwithstanding all Phronsie’s comfort, Polly knew that she would have to give hard and
constant work to make this, the supreme effort of her life thus far in a musical way, a success. It
was the first time that anybody outside of the highest professional lines had been asked to play
with the Symphony Orchestra; and when this urgent request had been laid before Polly, she had
said, “Oh, no! I cannot play well enough.”
But Mrs. Jasper King’s reputation as a pianist had gone farther than Polly knew. A request came,
signed by a long list of people whose names were high in an artistic sense, fortified by the best
citizens of the good old town of Berton,—itself a guaranty of anything in that line, for was it not
the home of the Symphony? When this came, and Polly saw Jasper’s eyes, she gave a little gasp.
“I will, dear, if you think best,” she said, looking at no one but him.
“It’s just as you say, Polly,” Jasper had answered. But his eyes shone, and he instinctively
straightened up with pride. And when she had said, “O Jasper! if you think I can, I’ll do it,”—“I
know you can, Polly,” Jasper had declared, and Polly had said “Yes,” and great delight reigned
everywhere; and Grandpapa had patted her head, and said, “Well done, Polly! To think of all those
hard hours of practice in the old days turning out like this;” and Mamsie had smiled at her in a way
that only Mamsie could smile. And Polly and Jasper had hurried off to Berton the next morning,
Jasper swinging the little publishing bag, on the way to the train, with a jubilant hand; and in the
lapse of the hard working hours, when things eased up a bit, he had said to Mr. Marlowe (for it
was Marlowe & King now, in bright gilt letters over the big door), “I am going with my wife to
select the music,” for Polly was a prime favorite with Mr. Marlowe, and everything was told to
him.
And Jasper and Polly went to the music- store, and ransacked the shelves, and tried various
selections, for Polly was to play what she liked; and after the piece was picked out, then the two
went to luncheon at the cunning little restaurant on a side street, nice and quiet, where they could
talk it all over.
But sometimes, when Polly was all alone in the big music-room opening on the side veranda, she
trembled all over at the terrible responsibility she had taken upon herself. It seemed so very much
worse to fail now that she bore Jasper’s honored name, than if she were only unknown and simple
“Polly Pepper.” And to-day she could not help showing this dismay to Phronsie.
“But Mamsie would say so,” repeated Polly over and over to herself bravely, “just what Phronsie
did.” And then at it she would fly harder than ever. And every evening after the “publishing bag”
had been looked over in Jasper’s and Polly’s little den, and its contents sorted and attended to for
the morrow, Jasper would always say, “Now, Polly, for the music;” and Polly would fly to the
piano, while he drew up a big easy-chair to her side, to settle into it restfully; and the others would
hurry in at the first note, and then Polly’s concert would begin. And every night she knew she
played it a little bit better, and her cheeks glowed, and her heart took comfort.
Tying on her big garden hat, Phronsie went across the road.
Phronsie put away the little sewing-bag as soon as Polly finished practising this morning, and hung
it on its hook over Grandpapa’s newspaper rack,—for she always sat and sewed in the music-room
mornings when Polly practised, generally making sails for the boys, just as Polly had done years
ago, or clothes for Barby’s dolls,—and tying on her big garden hat, she went over across the road,
and down around the corner, to the big house where Mrs. Fargo and Johnny had come to board for
the summer, arriving a week earlier than they intended, as it was warm at home, and Mrs. Fargo
watched jealously over Johnny’s health.
“It does seem so very nice to have you here, dear Mrs. Fargo,” she said, coming upon that lady in
one of her big square rooms. For Mrs. Fargo had taken the whole upper floor of the house, and
was in the depths of the misery of unpacking the huge trunks with which the rooms and hall
seemed to be full, the maid busy as a bee in the process, while Johnny was under foot every other
minute in a way terrible to behold. “And now I’m going to help.” She laid aside her big hat on the
bed.
“O Phronsie!” cried Mrs. Fargo, turning a pink, distressed face to her, “it’s perfectly lovely to see
you; but you’re not going to work, dear. It’s bad enough for me. Joanna, the nails aren’t out of that
box of books. You’ll have to go down, and tell Mr. Brown to come and draw them.”
“I’ll draw them,” cried Johnny, springing out from behind a trunk he was trying with all his might
to move. “I’ve got my own hammer; yes, sir-ee! Now get out of the way; I’m coming.”
“O Johnny! you can’t,” remonstrated Mrs. Fargo quickly. “You’re not big enough; it needs a
strong man.”
“I’m ’most a man,” said Johnny, twitching away from her. “I’m going to do it.”
“But your hammer is in the box of your playthings,” said Mrs. Fargo, glad to remember this.
“I don’t care; I’ll get Mr. Brown’s, then,” declared Johnny, prancing off.
“Oh, dear me! Phronsie, do stop that boy,” begged Mrs. Fargo, tired and distressed.
“Johnny,” called Phronsie softly. She did not offer to go after him. “Come here, dear.”
“Am going for Mr. Brown’s hammer,” said Johnny, edging off.
“I want you, dear.”
“Am going for Mr. Brown’s hammer.” Yet he came back. “What you want?”
“I’m going to take you over with me, if your mamma says so, to our house; and if you’re very
good, Johnny, you shall ride on the donkey. May I take him, Mrs. Fargo?”
“Oh, if you only will!” breathed Mrs. Fargo thankfully.
“I don’t want any old hammer!” screamed Johnny in a transport; “the donkey’s a good deal
gooder,” scrambling down the stairs.
“And I’ll send Mr. Brown up to open the box,” said Phronsie, tying on her hat, and going after
him.
But she didn’t get Johnny over to the donkey, after all; for, just as she had seen Mr. Brown on his
way up-stairs to open the box, some one ran up the steps, two at a time, with, “O Phronsie, I’ve a
day off!” most joyfully.
“Why, I don’t see how, Dick,” said Phronsie, looking at him from under her big hat.
“Never mind. I have it, anyhow; tell you later. Now for some fun! That chap here?” looking
suddenly at Johnny, who now began at the bottom of the steps to howl to Phronsie to hurry for the
donkey.
“Yes; they came a week sooner than they expected,” said Phronsie. “They got here yesterday.”
“Botheration! Well, now, Phronsie, let the boy alone. I’m only here for a day, you know. He’s all
right if turned out in the dirt to play. I want you to go to drive.”
“I promised him he should ride on the donkey,” said Phronsie. “I had to, for his mother and Joanna
have all the unpacking to do. And he must, Dick.”
“Hand him over to me, then,” said Dick. “I’ll give him a donkey-treat, Phronsie.”
“Oh, thank you, Dick; and then I can help Mrs. Fargo,” turning back to the door.
“See, here,” cried Dick; “I’m doing this to help you out of it. Now, you’ve got to go to drive with
me afterward, Phronsie.” He stopped with his foot on the upper step, and looked at her.
“Grandpapa said I might try the new pair next time I came out. Will you?”
“We can take Johnny,” said Phronsie, pausing a bit. “Yes, Dick, I’ll go.”
“Bother him for a nuisance!” growled Dick.
But as this was all that he could get from Phronsie, he hurried off, and overtook Johnny trying to
get on by himself to the donkey’s back, where he peacefully browsed in the paddock.
“Hold on there!” roared Dick at him, as only a college boy can roar. But Johnny was in no mind to
hold on to anything but the donkey. This he did so effectually, sticking his toes into the sides of
the animal, that the donkey at last sent out a hind foot. Away went Johnny, half across the field, it
seemed to Dick, hurrying up; and then he lay still as a stone.
“Johnny! open your eyes,” cried Dick.
“Oh, dear!” cried Dick, in the greatest distress. “Here, Johnny, open your eyes,” kneeling down
beside him on the grass. “Come, get up, and stop shamming;” for there was a dreadful feeling at
Dick’s heart, that, if he didn’t keep joking about it, Johnny would be found to be hurt.
But Johnny wouldn’t get up, and he wouldn’t open his eyes; so Dick was forced to pick him up,
the donkey, finding that he incommoded no one by running away, now trotting up to stare at the
little figure on the grass. “Here, give me some of that water,” cried Dick hoarsely, to one of the
stable boys, who appeared around the paddock with a pail. “Dash it over his face,” as the boy
came shambling up. “Donkey kicked him—oh, my goodness! he doesn’t stir,” as the contents of
the pail streamed over Johnny’s face.
“I’ll carry him for you,” said the boy, setting down the pail.
“You get out—oh! beg your pardon—I’ll carry him myself.”
Just then Polly looked out of the window, humming the last bars of her sonata.
“Why, Dick!” as she spied him, “how funny that you’re home. Oh, what”—as she caught sight of
a little boy’s figure in his arms.
“It’s Johnny,” said Dick, lifting his pale face to the window, as he hurried along. But Polly didn’t
hear; speeding over the stairs, she ran out to the lawn, and over the walk to the paddock-edge. “O
Dick!” she exclaimed again. Then she held herself in check, as she saw his face. “I believe he’s all
right,” she began cheerfully.
“He’s dead!” declared Dick hoarsely, and staggering on.
“Oh, no, Dick!—oh, no!” protested Polly, hurrying by his side. “Bring him in here,” she said,
pointing to the side veranda.
Dick still staggered on, up the steps, and into the house.
“Oh, if Papa Fisher were only here!” sighed Polly; then she looked at Dick. “But how nice it is
that there’s such a good doctor here. You know, Father Fisher told us to send for him if anything
was the matter with us. There, lay Johnny on the sofa here, and then run, Dicky, do, and get the
doctor. He lives on Porter Road, the third house this way. Take the pony-cart. Dr. Phillips is his
name,” she called after him; then she touched the electric bell at her elbow.
“Tell Mrs. Higby to come here at once,” said Polly to the maid, who popped in her head in
obedience to the summons.

“Oh, he’s rolled off,” cried Polly, aghast.
“I must get some hartshorn,” said Polly; “he won’t stir, poor boy. I’ll run up to my room and get
it.” In less time than it takes to tell it, Polly was off and back, to find Mrs. Higby just arrived in the
doorway, saying, “Did you want me, Ma’am? Jane said as how one of the boys was sick.”
“O Mrs. Higby!” gasped Polly, the color beginning to come back to her cheek. “It’s Johnny—on
the lounge. Here, I’ve the hartshorn,” holding up the bottle. “He was kicked by the donkey—
Dick’s gone for the doctor.” All this in one breath, as they were going across the room, the good
woman in advance.
“I don’t see,”—began Mrs. Higby.
“And some one must tell Mrs. Fargo,” mourned Polly, back of the ample figure. “Why—where”—
for the sofa was empty.
“Oh, he’s rolled off! though how he could, I don’t see,” said Polly, aghast, and tumbling down on
her knees to peer under the sofa, Mrs. Higby pulling it out from the wall to facilitate matters. “He
was just as if he were dead. O Mrs. Higby! where do you suppose he is?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” declared Mrs. Higby, thoroughly alarmed; “like enough, Mrs. King, it’s
flew to his head, and he’s gone crazy.”
At this direful prospect, Polly set up a most diligent search here, there, and everywhere a small
boy of eight would be supposed to rest under such conditions, assisted as well as she could be by
Mrs. Higby, whose ample figure, impelled by her fright, knocked down more articles than she
could well set to rights again, until at last they were compelled to call in others to the search.
And in the midst of it all, they heard a shout out in the direction of the stables; and, running out to
the veranda, they saw Johnny triumphantly sticking to the donkey’s back, while he waved a small
switch the stable—boy had just obligingly cut for him.
“Pay him up now for your tumble,” advised the boy.
“See, I did get on all by myself!” shouted Johnny at them. “Runned away when Mrs. King went
up-stairs;” then he turned, and waved his stick at Dick and Dr. Phillips driving at a furious pace
into the side yard.
CHAPTER IV. CAN SHE GO TO MRS. KING’S RECEPTION?
CHAPTER IV. CAN SHE GO TO MRS. KING’S RECEPTION?

“I ’LL ask Uncle Carroll. Uncle Carroll, sha’n’t Aunt Fay take me? Please say yes.”
“No use to ask him, Grace; you’re too young.”
“Please, Uncle Carroll, don’t mind what Aunt Fay says. Just you say I’m to go.”
“Where?” he dropped his paper.
“Out to Mrs. King’s reception to-morrow afternoon.”
“Nonsense! You’re too young.”
“Child, I told you so,” said Aunt Fay quietly, slipping the cosey on the tea-pot again.
“Too young!” Grace pulled savagely at the girlish hair on her brow, and twisted her long braid
hanging down her back, up high on her head.
“I’ll do up my hair, and pull down my face—so,” lengthening her round cheeks—“anything, to
just get the chance of going,” she cried. “O Uncle Carroll! and I’m sixteen. You’re positively
cruel.”
“You’re nothing but a school-girl,” said Aunt Fay; “the idea of going to a reception.”
“Why, those receptions of Mrs. King’s are packed; you don’t seem to understand, Grace; and
you’d take the standing-room of some one else,” added Uncle Carroll.
“I’d take my own standing-room,” declared Grace positively, “and I wouldn’t tread on other
people’s toes;” seeing a chance for her, since the two guardians of her peace had begun to argue
the point. “Just think, I’ve never seen the King house nor Miss Phronsie.”
“Well, she’s a raving, tearing beauty,” said Uncle Carroll, “and worth going miles to see, I tell
you.”
“And I want to see Mrs. King again,” cried Grace, pursuing her advantage. “I got a peek at her
once, when she came to call at the Drysdales. Bella and I heard she was in the drawing-room, and
we crept in behind the cabinet. She was just lovely; and the color kept coming and going in her
cheeks, and her brown eyes were laughing, and I’ll do anything to see her again.”
“She’s the rage, that’s a fact,” assented Uncle Carroll. “Well, Mrs. Atherton, why don’t you take
the child for once; I would.”
“Carroll Atherton!” exclaimed his wife in dismay, “how could I ever look her father and mother in
the face, and they’ve trusted her to us, while she went to school, to do the right thing by her. The
idea of a sixteen-year-old girl, and a school-girl, going to a reception!”
“The child won’t have a chance to get there any other way,” observed Mr. Atherton. “One little
social break won’t matter.”
“The worst place to make a social break is at Mrs. King’s,” said Mrs. Atherton. “No, Grace, you
cannot go.” She set her lips tightly together. “Any other thing you might ask, I’d try to indulge you
in; but I won’t make a faux pas at Mrs. Jasper King’s.”
“I don’t want anything else,” cried Grace in a passion. Just then a young girl ran over the steps,
and plunged without ceremony into the pretty breakfast-room.
“Oh, joy—joy—joy!” she cried, beating her hands together, “mamma’s going to take me to Mrs.
King’s reception to-morrow afternoon.”
“The idea of a school-girl going to a reception,” said aunt Fay.
“Bella Drysdale!” shrieked Grace, deserting her chair to throw her arms around her friend. “There,
Uncle Carroll, now you see what Mrs. Drysdale’s going to do for Bella,” she flung over her
shoulder, not deigning to notice her aunt.
“It’s too bad,” began Mr. Atherton.
“I shall see that lovely Mrs. King again,” cried Bella in a rapture. “Brother Tom’s going to get a
look at Miss Phronsie; and we’ve got a cousin from Chicago, and he’s going for the express
purpose of seeing her. Oh! everybody will be there, Grace. Mamma says you must go.”
“You’re older than Grace,” began Mrs. Atherton to gain a little time before the storm should begin
again around her head.
“Only one month,” said Bella; “what’s that?”
“Sixteen days!” cried Grace, “only sixteen days! Just think of that paltry atom of time to keep one
away from that glorious reception. Uncle, wouldn’t you be ashamed to have every one know that
Aunt Fay kept me away for just sixteen days? I should positively die of mortification.”
“Well, you cannot go anyway,” suddenly and decidedly declared Mrs. Atherton. Mrs. Drysdale or
no Mrs. Drysdale, whom she followed when it suited her to do so, she was determined to keep to
that decision. “It is of no use to argue and to tease—you cannot go.”
Bella dragged Grace off to her room, and shut the door on their woes.
“I shall go! I shall go!” declared Grace in a white heat, raging up and down the room.
“Oh, mercy! Mrs. King won’t have you, if you go on that way. She’s awfully nice and particular.
Stop it, Grace.” Bella shook her arm.
“I’m going—I’m going—I’m going, so there!” declared Grace determinedly. “That’s settled.
Now, how shall I do it? Help me to think, Bella.” She stopped suddenly.
“What’s the use of thinking,” cried that young lady, throwing herself on the broad window-seat in
among its cushions, and stretching restfully, “as long as you can’t go?”
“As long as I can go, you mean,” corrected Grace, an ugly little gleam in her blue eyes.
“Well, you’re a regular Western fury,” declared Bella, regarding her. “Gracious, I wouldn’t have
taken you from the ‘wild and woolly plains’ as your aunt has for a year!”
“Don’t speak to me of Aunt,” commanded Grace, frowning heavily. “What has she done? Kept me
out of this, the thing I wanted most of all. And besides, the ‘wild and woolly West’—why, I
haven’t been educated there, as you know. It’s New England, if any place, that’s to blame for me.
Oh, oh, I’ve an idea!”
Bella sat up straight, the transition was so great, to stare, as Grace ran softly to the door, opened it,
and looked and listened; then locked it again, and tiptoed back.
“The very thing!” She seized Bella’s hands, and dragged her off the window-seat. “I’m going to be
your Western friend; you put that idea into my head—don’t you see? dressed up. O Bella, you
stupid, you owl, I’m going as your visitor; and I’ll hire my bonnet and gown, and change my hair,
so Aunt won’t catch me. And—and—what joy!”
When the luckless Bella, nearly danced out of breath, was released, she made a faint protest. But
she was fairly talked off her feet again; and by that time the fun of the thing had entered into her
soul and clutched her. So she said “yes,” and began to plan as smartly as Grace herself.
“But mother never will take you in all this world,” she said, sobering down.
“Did you for an instant suppose I was going to let your mother know who I am?” cried Grace,
bursting into a laugh. “Oh, what a sweet owl you are, Bella Drysdale! Of course I’m going to fool
her too.”
“Well, she won’t let me take a stranger,” said Bella sharply, tired of being called an owl twice. “I
guess I’m as smart as you, Grace Tupper. I should know better than to get up such a silly plan.”
“I’m to be Miss Strange from Omaha, Nebraska,” said Grace solemnly; “a pupil of Miss
Willoughby’s boarding- and day-school. All this is true—my name is Grace Strange Tupper. And
because I don’t happen to board, instead of going to her day-school at Miss Willoughby’s, isn’t
my fault. I would if I could. Now, Owlie, do you see?”
“If you call me an owl again I won’t do a single thing about it,” cried Bella stubbornly; “that’s
flat.”
“So she was a dear,” cried Grace, soothing her, and launching at the same time into an animated
discussion as to ways and means; which milliner to hire the bonnet from, and which was the most
becoming way to do up her hair, and how to darken her eyebrows, till Bella looked at her watch
aghast. “And I’ve a horrible French letter to write for to-morrow, or Mademoiselle will kill me,
and mamma won’t let me go to the reception.”
“Oh, misery! Hurry, do; run every step of the way home,” begged Grace, nearly pushing her out of
the room as she ran off.
And the next afternoon Grace shut herself up again in her room; and while the French maid was
evolving the usual fine creation out of her aunt for the reception, Grace was also doing wonders,—
to steal softly down the stairs, and out and away to Bella’s.
“I thought I’d save you the trouble of calling for me,” she said, in a sweet little drawl as far unlike
her usual tones as possible, as she entered the long Drysdale drawing-room. “Oh, beg pardon, I
thought Bella was here!”
“Er—no; allow me to do the honors.” A tall young man with shoulders built for ball-team work,
came slowly into the centre of the room. “Bella will be down soon. Take a seat, Miss”—
“Strange,” murmured Grace faintly, and wondering if her front frizzes had slipped, and if the
pencilling under her eyes looked natural. “I—I—it isn’t any matter. I suppose I’m too early.”
She sank into an easy-chair in the darkest shadow of the room, and covered her feet primly with
her hired gown, regardless of the wasted elegance of her new little boots. These had been her one
extravagance; but now she was too far gone to care whether or no they were seen.
“Oh, Bella’s the same as she was ten years ago when I last visited here,” observed the young man,
carelessly leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, and staring at her. “She was always a tardy little
thing, I remember; kept us waiting everlastingly when we were going outing.”
So this was Bella’s cousin from Chicago. Well, he was perfectly horrid to talk that way of her
dearest friend; and besides, what sharp black eyes he had, piercing through and through her. She
put her hand up involuntarily to feel of her frizzes, shivered, and drew in her boots farther than
ever under her chair.
“I don’t think it is very nice to speak so of your relatives when you are visiting them,” she
observed to her own astonishment. Then she would have bitten out her tongue sooner than have
spoken.
“Er—oh, beg pardon, did you speak?” exclaimed the young man, starting out of a revery.
Joy! he hadn’t heard her. “No—that is—it isn’t any matter,” said Grace hastily. “I was going to
say I think Bella is perfectly splendid. We all do at school.”
“You attend Miss Willoughby’s boarding-school, I believe,” said the black-eyed young man,
bending on her a sharper gaze than ever. “It’s a delightful school I’m told. Isn’t that a fact?”
Grace was saved from replying by his next remark, which he presented without any pause to speak
of. “I’ve two cousins, Jenny and Francina Day, there. I’m going over to call on them this evening
after dinner.”
Oh, horrors! Why hadn’t Bella told her of this before she had taken upon herself such a scrape!
Well, there was no help for it now; there was no other way, if she would see Mrs. King, and be
part and parcel of Mrs. King’s great reception. She tried to recover herself enough to smile; but
she felt, as she afterward told Bella, as if her face wobbled all over.
“I’m glad to meet somebody who will give me a sort of a welcome there. Fact is, I don’t know my
cousins by sight. Never saw but one of them, and she was a kid of three years old. Are they nice
girls?”
“Perfectly splendid,” said Grace recklessly, glad to think she had made up a long, outstanding fight
between Jenny and herself just the day before, and stifling the qualms of conscience when she
reflected on Francina’s heavy dulness. “Oh, I’m so glad they’re your cousins,” she said, smiling
radiantly.
The sharp-eyed young man showed two rows of even white teeth as he also smiled expansively.
“Miss Willoughby is extremely gracious to allow you to go to a swell reception,” he said slowly.
“If I’d supposed it would be of any use, I’d have begged my cousins off. I presume it’s too late for
me to run around now and get them.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” cried Grace, starting forward, and beating one little boot in terror on the carpet.
“Miss Willoughby doesn’t like short notice about anything; and—and—it’s an awful long way
there—and—here comes Bella.” To her great relief in came that young lady, resplendent in a new
blue hat quite perky, with a grown-up air that was matched by Bella’s manners as she drew on a
white kid glove.
Grace deserted her shady corner, and flew at her. “O Bella, do hurry,” as she threw her arm around
her; “it’s dreadfully late; do be quick; we ought to go.”
“There’s oceans of time,” said Bella with a drawl, and smoothing out the little finger in a
painstaking way. “Mamma isn’t half ready yet—at least she hasn’t her bonnet on. Oh! do you
know my cousin Charley Swan?” indicating with a nod the sharp-eyed young man.
“We’ve entertained each other for a good half-hour or so,” observed Charley, not particular as to
exact statements. “Say, Bella, if Aunt Isabel isn’t ready, I believe I’ll run around to Miss
Willoughby’s, and get her to let Jenny and Francina off to go with us. Stupid in me not to think of
it till I saw Miss Strange come in.”
“Er—ow!” Grace gave a sharp nip to Bella’s plump arm. “Stop him,” she whispered tragically.
Bella pulled out a hair-pin from some mysterious quarter under her hat, and set it in again, before
she condescended to answer. “No, you must not, Charley,” she said, pursing up her small mouth,
and then falling to on her glove again. “Button it, will you?” presenting it to him. “You see,
mamma will be very angry; for she’s just as likely to settle her bonnet right the first attempt. I’ve
known her to. And although Tom’s no doubt wrestling in the agonies of tying his necktie, yet it’s
just like him to hop down without the least warning before you could possibly get back. Then
think of me!” She spread her white gloves dramatically out, as if words were unequal to the
occasion.
Just then Tom whistled his way in. “Whew, you ready in your togs, Charley! Well, it takes you
Western fellows to be spry. Where’s the mother?” turning to Bella.
“Here’s Miss Strange, Tom,” said his sister, clutching Grace’s arm; “haven’t you any manners?
Angela, this is my brother Tom.”
Grace started at the word Angela, and forgot to bow, as Tom doubled up like a jack-knife and
made her his best obeisance. Then it was too late when she remembered; and she stood there
blushing under the hired bonnet, till Charley remarked in a way that did not help matters any, “Oh,
so I am an older acquaintance of Miss Strange than you, Tom.”
“How did you ever tell such an awful story as to say my name was Angela,” cried Grace in a
whisper as they hurried off to the carriage, Mrs. Drysdale at last appearing.
“I didn’t say so; stop pinching me; I’m black and blue already,” retorted Bella. “I’ve a right to call
you what I’ve a mind to. And I’m going to call you Angela the rest of this blessed afternoon. So
mind you act as if you’d heard the name before. If you don’t, I’ll tell everybody who you are.”
This had the effect of throwing Grace into such a panic that she answered Mrs. Drysdale’s kind
attempts at conversation with her at random, and the twenty miles to Badgertown were made in a
whirl of emotions possessing her, till by the time the train paused at the little station, she had a
confused notion of either telling her whole story and throwing herself on the mercy of the
chaperone, or of picking up her long skirts, and fleeing over the country meadows toward home.
Instead, she was saying, “Thank you; yes, I’d rather walk,” to Cousin Charley. Bella and Tom said
the same thing. Mrs. Drysdale was helped into one of the carriages that always ran back and forth
on Mrs. King’s reception days—a bevy of ladies and gentlemen filling the others; and off they all
set, to meet in the dressing-rooms at “The Oaks.”
CHAPTER V. MRS. JASPER KING’S RECEPTION.
CHAPTER V. MRS. JASPER KING’S RECEPTION.

“WE’RE in an awful hole,” gasped Bella, pulling Grace off to the farthest corner of the dressing-
room. “Er—do get away from that maid; you don’t want her sharp eyes all over you. No, we don’t
either of us want any help;” over her shoulder at that functionary. “Now, Grace, er—Angela,
you’ve gone and got me into this scrape, and I shall never hold up my head again in all this
world.”
Poor Grace’s head couldn’t droop any more than it did, as she mumbled miserably, “I know it. Oh,
dear me!”
This was worse than all, and Bella took fresh alarm. “For mercy’s sake, hold up your head and
look big, as if you were somebody.” It was now her turn to pinch Grace.
“I can’t; because I’m not somebody,” sighed Grace. The frizzes even seemed to droop miserably
on her brow; and she looked like a wilted flower, all her smart hired glory gone suddenly out of
her.
“What a horrible scrape!” cried Bella between her teeth. “Oh, dear me, Grace, you must behave!
Dear, dear!” as some ladies hovered near.
“I think your mother wants to go down now,” said one; “she is trying to signal you. Introduce your
young friend to me, will you?”
“Oh, I can’t go down-stairs!” cried Grace in a spasm of terror, and catching Bella’s arm in a way
to make her faint, as that young lady looked over to the knot of ladies by the door, one of whom
was waving her fan frantically.
The lady who had requested the introduction, extending her hand in a winning way, Bella twitched
away from the clutch, and said quickly, “Miss Grace Strange—I mean Miss Angela Tupper. Oh,
dear me! I don’t feel very well, and mamma wants me. Come on.” She fairly hauled Grace out
through the ranks of elegant women, regardless of their dismay at her haste. “See what you have
done,” her black looks said when at last she permitted Grace a glimpse of her face.
“You young ladies must attend to my movements, and not expect me to signal you,” said Mrs.
Drysdale, her face only sweetly black, like a becoming thunder-cloud, as Miss Willoughby’s
parlor boarder was one of the offenders. She could scold Bella easier at home. Just then a stout
lady trying to get by, with a good deal of jet trimming about her person, sent out one of the
octopus threads, and hooked Mrs. Drysdale in the most vulnerable point,—the choice old lace on
her sleeves.
“Excuse me,” panted the stout lady, pulling at the entanglement. “There, break it, I’m sure I don’t
care.”
“I’ll get it out,” cried Mrs. Drysdale in a terror, laying a quick hand on it.
“Step out of the doorway, please,” said some one. And the stout lady and Mrs. Drysdale edged off
as one person, and everybody in the vicinity fell to helping; even Grace was brought out of her
misery enough to take her turn. As she bent over her task, some one’s elbow gave her French
bonnet a knock. Out fell a hair-pin from her frizzes, and she felt rather than saw the curious eyes
of the lady next to her upon her hair. So she deserted the jet and lace, making Mrs. Drysdale say
with some asperity, “I think you have not bettered it any, Miss Strange.” Then she looked up into
the face of her next neighbor. She was the lady who had asked Bella to introduce her.
Grace darted behind a tall fern, and hid her hot, distressed face.
Grace fled out into the wide upper hall, fragrant with its wealth of blossoms, and darted behind a
tall fern, where she hid her hot, distressed face, and tried to stop the throbbing of her heart.
“Well, now get Miss Strange,” Mrs. Drysdale was saying as she emerged into the hall. “It is the
last time I shall ever allow you to ask a friend to go with you, Bella. Where in the world is she?”
peering about.
Bella flew back into the room. “Grace, Grace,” she cried in a loud voice.
“Here I am,” said Grace miserably, and creeping out from behind the fern. “I was so hot, and it’s
cool out here,” feeling the necessity for words with the audience that now hung on the scene, and
the throng of ladies coming and going to the dressing- room, and whose passage they were
blocking up.
Mrs. Drysdale did not vouchsafe a word, only gave her one look, stepped back, and called her
daughter in a tone that scared Bella more than all the rest, and the three sailed down-stairs. That is,
the lady sailed; but Bella went with the tread of an angry young lion, while the parlor boarder at
Miss Willoughby’s slipped after as best she could.
The next thing she knew, she was being introduced to a radiant vision, and feeling the warm touch
of a kind hand, and looking into clear brown eyes, and hearing Mrs. Jasper King say, “I am very
glad to see you, Miss Strange.” And then, despite the crowd pressing her, and that Bella was
picking her by the sleeve, the kind hand retained her trembling one, “I want to see more of you.
Come up and speak to me later,” said Mrs. King, and she smiled; and that cut deepest of all.
Grace broke away from her friends, and made a dive for oblivion. Anywhere—perhaps behind a
sheltering palm, till the Drysdales were ready to go home; she could watch and slip out then.
Instead, however, of reaching such a haven, she ran against a tall young man in the hall, and not
stopping to beg pardon, rushed on.
“Hello!” exclaimed Mr. Charley Swan startled out of his politeness, and following her after the
rebound, “anything I can do for you, Miss Strange?”
The sound of this name only added to Grace’s terror, and he had some difficulty in gaining her
side.
“If you please, I’d advise you to stop. People don’t run about in this way, you know, at receptions;
knocking folks down, and all that. Now, what’s the trouble?” He stood squarely in front of her,
and between annihilating with his looks a curious youth who was taking this all in, and preserving
a calm exterior for the rest of the throng surging through the hall, he still gave her a penetrating
glance.
“Oh, I’m so wretched!” gasped Grace, all caution thrown to the winds, and clasping her hands.
“Not altogether festive,” said Charley Swan, “that’s a fact. Well, now that orchestra’s going to
play, thank Heaven for that. You just take my arm—Miss—Miss Strange, and we’ll get out of this
mob.”
He had to slip Grace’s hand himself within his arm. There it lay, and shook like a leaf. Charley
piloted her into the large conservatory opening into the library, and somehow she found herself in
a quiet corner with just room enough for another person on the rattan seat.
“Now, that’s what I call comfort,” he said, not looking at her, to give her time to recover herself.
“Mrs. King is a perfect marvel in the flower line, and her music. Did you know that all these
orchids are given her by Mr. King the father? Gracious! don’t I wish some old gentleman would
take a fancy to me, and pet me with bank-notes and smother me in orchids. Look around a bit,
Miss Strange.”
“I can’t,” said Grace in a low voice; “I’ve no right to.”
“Hush! here comes a perfect old harpy for news, I know by her pinched-up nose, and the way she
sets her lorgnette. Hold your tongue, Miss Strange,—beg your pardon, but it’s a desperate case,—
till she gets away. Yes, as I was saying, these orchids are surely the rarest specimens I’ve ever
seen.”
The “old harpy” drew near, and levelled her glances behind her lorgnette at Grace. It was the lady
who had asked Bella to introduce her young friend.
“Are you ill, Miss”—she hesitated, and then laughed unpleasantly, “Tupper—or—Strange?” she
asked sweetly, and drawing near till she stood over the two.
Charley Swan surveyed her coolly as Grace stammered out something.
“Thanks,” he drawled. “Miss Strange was faint; but as she is a great friend of our family and came
with us, I believe I can take care of her. Anything I can do for you, Miss—” he hesitated, just as
she had done, looking her squarely in the face; so that, without supplying the name, she murmured
something about the beauty of the flowers, and moved off.
“Are you ill, Miss Tupper—or—Strange?” and she laughed unpleasantly.
“Old reptile,” said Charley between his teeth.
“Oh, don’t!” protested Grace, with a little shiver; “she’s right. She sees I’m a humbug.”
Mr. Swan did not seem to be at all surprised at this confession, but stood up suddenly.
“Look here,” he said; “you keep your seat. Don’t say a word; she won’t come back, and you don’t
know any one else, I’ll be bound. Anyway, don’t talk. I’m going to get you an ice.”
“No, no,” cried Grace, the color flooding her face; “not a single thing; I won’t take it. I can’t.
Why, I’ve come here all dressed up as one of Mrs. Willoughby’s parlor boarders. I’m only Grace
Tupper—you don’t know. It would choke me.”
“It’s pretty bad, I’ll not deny,” said Charley, sitting down; “but if everybody told how they got to
receptions, you wouldn’t be alone in humbuggery, I’ll venture to say.”
“But I’ve disobeyed my Au—Aunt Ath—Atherton,” said Grace, battling with her sobs, and
twisting her fingers to keep from crying like a baby, “and—I—hired this bonnet, and—and”—
“And you’ve spoiled yourself with those horrid eyebrows,” finished Charley; “and if I were you,
I’d take off that monstrosity of a frizz, and put the thing in your pocket.”
“Oh, I can’t!” gasped Grace, raising her blue eyes in terror to his face; “why, Aunt will know me
then.”
“Is she here?” demanded Charley with a whistle. He couldn’t help it; this last was too much even
for him.
“Yes — that is, she was coming. Oh, dear me! and I suppose I’ll be expelled from Miss
Willoughby’s school, and I’ll go home, and it’ll kill father and mother and Jimmy and the baby. I
never thought of that.”
“At least I believe we’ll save Jimmy and the baby,” said Charley in a tone of encouragement.
“And Mrs. King smi—smiled at me.” Grace broke down, and cried into her handkerchief, so that
Charlie jumped up. “See here,” he said abruptly, “I want to take you down to see some of the
greenhouses; they’re wonders.” He made her get up, and take his arm again, while he hurried her
off over the grounds. But they hadn’t gone far, when she saw a lady in advance walking with two
gentlemen.
“There’s Aunt!” she cried; and before Charley could say anything, she broke away from him, and
rushed down a side path.
It was worse than useless to follow her, as the attention thus drawn to her would be disastrous. So
Charley sauntered along, first getting a good view of “Aunt” in her lavender bonnet, so he would
know her again, and then hastening to the mansion, if perchance he might befriend Grace once
more.
“Charley Swan!” exclaimed Bella, running up, “where is—er—Angela Strange?”
“Miss Tupper has just left me,” said Charley gravely, and pausing abruptly.
“Miss Tupper? Oh, my good gracious!” cried Bella with a little laugh, “you mean Miss Strange.”
“She says her name is Tupper,” said Charley. “I really suppose she ought to know.”
“Oh, dear, dear! then she has told you,” said Bella with a long sigh. “Well, I’m glad. Such an
afternoon as I’ve had!”
“See here, Bella,” said Charley. “You get her; she’s run down that path,” nodding in the direction
of Grace’s flight; “and you and I will take her home. She took fright because she saw her aunt. Be
lively now.”
“Dear, dear!” cried Bella in vexation and alarm. “Well, I’m sure, precious little comfort I’ve had at
this reception!”
“Hurry up, now. I’ll go in and make our excuses to Aunt Isabel.”
But when Bella reached a turn in the shrubbery, she found a little heap on the ground, a group of
people bending over it, conspicuous in the front being the lady who had asked her to introduce
Grace, now using a lorgnette most vigorously.
What happened next, Bella never could tell. She only knew that the gardeners lifted Grace, and
carried her into one of the back doors, giving her up to the care of the housekeeper, whom they
called Mrs. Higby, and that some of the ladies and gentlemen followed, proposing various
remedies, the lady with the lorgnette pressing after most assiduously.
“She tripped on her gown and fell just as we were coming along,” said this lady sweetly. “She
seems somehow unused to a long gown. Let me bathe her face.”
“Here comes Miss Phronsie,” said Mrs. Higby. “Now that blessed dear has heard of the accident.
Make way for Miss Phronsie.”
Phronsie came softly up in her beautiful white gown. She laid down her bunch of lilies-of-the-
valley on the table, and bent over the young girl, laying a quiet hand on the cold one. “Poor thing,”
she said, and she dropped a kiss on the white cheek.
To everybody’s surprise, two tears gushed out and rolled down the white face. “Leave her to me,”
said Phronsie gently. “Now, if everybody will please go out, Mrs. Higby and I will take care of
her.”
“You would better let me stay,” the lorgnette lady had the temerity to say.
“We do not need you,” said Phronsie, coolly regarding her. “Will you please go out with the
others?”
When Charley Swan came stalking in by the back door, it was to see Miss Phronsie Pepper with
her arms around Grace as they sat on the lounge in the housekeeper’s dining-room, and Bella
Drysdale crouched on the floor, with her hands clasped in Phronsie’s lap.
CHAPTER VI. GRACE.
CHAPTER VI. GRACE.

“DON’T cry,” Phronsie was saying; “because if you do, I cannot help you.”
“She has told everything—just every single thing, Charley,” announced Bella, tragically turning
around to him.
Charley Swan stood like a statue, with no eyes for any one but Phronsie. She turned a grave face
on him. “I’m afraid she’s badly hurt,” she said. “I think you will have to get Dr. Phillips, Mrs.
Higby.”
“It’s only my foot,” said Grace with a little moan.
“Let me go for him,” begged Charley, coming out of his frozen state.
“One of the men’ll go,” said Mrs. Higby. “La! don’t you stir a mite.” She went to the door, gave
the message, and came back with a sigh of relief. “You poor child, you,” bending over Grace’s
foot. “You must have turned it clean over itself. There, there, the cold water’ll be the best we can
do for it till the doctor gets here. My!” as her glance fell again on the dark circles under the blue
eyes, and the elaborate frizzes; then she fell to coughing, and speedily betook herself to the farther
end of the room.
“I’ll hold her,” she said presently, coming back. “Miss Phronsie, you’re wanted every single
minute in the best room. Let me sit there where you be.”
Bella sprang to her feet, and blushed rose red. “I forgot you’d left the reception. Oh, do excuse
me! And please, Miss Phronsie Pepper, don’t stay here any longer.”
“I shall stay,” said Phronsie, “till I see that she is better.”
“Where’s Phronsie? Mrs. Higby, do you know where Miss Phronsie is?” cried old Mr. King,
putting his head in the doorway. “Oh, my good gracious!” as his eye caught the group.
Grace hopped off the lounge, and hobbled along on one foot. “Oh, sir! it’s my fault,” she panted;
then she fell flat on the floor.
When she came to herself, she was lying on a bed whose white hangings she could dimly see as
she opened her eyes. Her foot felt heavy and queer.
“I’m sure I cannot apologize enough to you, Mrs. King,” said a voice that she was quite familiar
with. “This school-girl prank is quite unforgivable, I know, but I hope you won’t lay it up against
me.”
“We ought not to talk here, Mrs. Atherton,” said Polly gently; then they went out into the other
room.
“I don’t think Bella Drysdale is just the right companion for her,” said Mrs. Atherton. “I have
thought so for some time. Now I shall do my best to break up the intimacy.”
“Ugh—O Aunt Fay!” shrieked Grace, trying to raise herself in bed. But she only succeeded in
falling back heavily with a groan.
“Dear me, that girl has quite upset me,” cried Mrs. Atherton, trembling nervously.
“Do you stay out here, Mrs. Atherton,” said Polly brightly, with a gentle hand putting her on the
sofa; then she went into the room where Grace lay, closed the door, and stepped softly up to the
bed.
“Now, little girl,” she said, just as if Grace were six years old instead of sixteen, “you must stop
crying, and do not move. If you do, your foot may be injured for life.”
“I can’t help crying,” said poor Grace, covering her face with both hands.
“You can help doing anything that is wrong,” said Polly gently. Then she brought a brush and
comb, unpinned the frizzes, and laid them on the white toilet-table, and began to brush the soft,
straight, shining hair.
“It wasn’t Bella at all,” sobbed Grace. “She didn’t want to do it, but I made her. Oh! I can’t give
Bella up, Mrs. King.”
“You shall tell your Aunt all about it when you are better,” said Polly. “Now we must not talk
about it. You are going to stay with me until your foot is well enough for you to be moved.”
“What, here in this house with you?” cried Grace, almost speechless with astonishment.
“Yes,” said Polly; “you see, you’ve given your poor foot a terrible wrench, and Dr. Phillips isn’t
willing that you should be moved just yet. And he can come and see you so much easier here,
Grace.”
“I shall get my Mamsie,” cried a small, determined voice.
“O Mrs. King!” Grace rolled her head on the pillow to look at her, “you don’t know how wicked
I’ve been. You can’t know, or you never’d keep me here in all this world. Why, I disobeyed my
aunt to come here.”
“Yes, I do know,” said Polly gravely. “I know it all. But I said we wouldn’t talk about it now.”
Then Polly sat down on the edge of the bed in her beautiful reception-gown, and Grace felt too
wicked to touch it with one finger, although she longed to; and Mrs. King held her hand, and told
her stories about her own girlhood,—how the Peppers lived in the little brown house just around
the lane, “where you will go when you are able to walk, dear;” and how Joel was the pastor of a
big church in New York, and where Ben and Davie were; and how the dear mother had gone
abroad with Father Fisher because he was tired and needed rest, and wanted to visit the hospitals
again, and some foreign doctors; and then she told about Johnny, and the railroad accident that
took his mother away to heaven, and how good Mrs. Fargo had adopted him for her very own boy,
and they were there at Badgertown for the whole summer. And how Mr. Higby, in whose
farmhouse the people were all carried who were hurt, had sold his farm, and was now their head
gardener, and good Mrs. Higby was the housekeeper.
“Yes, I think she is quite good,” said Grace, snuggling up to the kind hand; “she didn’t scold me a
bit, but she looked so sorry for me, Mrs. King.”
“And Johnny’s just the dearest dear,” said Polly, who always believed him but little short of a
cherub; and then she told how he was thrown from the donkey just the week before, but “it didn’t
hurt him a bit, and”—
“If you please, Mrs. King, the children are ready to go to bed,” said Katrina, putting her white cap
in the door.
“And now I must go to my chicks,” said Polly, getting off the bed. Then she bent over, and set a
kiss on the pale cheek. “Don’t you worry about anything,” she said. “I shall ask my sister Phronsie
to stay with you.”
“Mrs. King,” cried Grace, nervously clutching the brocade dress, “there is one thing,—if you
could keep Aunt Fay from writing this to my mother. Oh, please do, dear Mrs. King!”
“She won’t do it,” said Mrs. King quietly; “don’t be afraid, Grace.”
Grace gave her one look, and relaxed her hold.
“I shall get my Mamsie,” cried a small, determined voice; and Elyot rushed in in his nightgown,
followed by Barby in hers, hugging a dilapidated black doll. “Mamsie,” cried Barby, stumbling
over to her arms.
“Don’t you go in there,” commanded King, coming last, in his nightgown. “Sister Polly, I couldn’t
help it, I came to keep them out.”
“Oh, dear me,” cried Katrina, who had gone back after delivering her message, now hurrying in.
“Children, how can you!”
“Bad, naughty Katty,” said Barby, shaking her curls at her, “to keep me away from my mummy.
Go ’way, Katty.”
“O Barby!” said Polly gently, and nestling her little girl up to her.
“Oh, what a cunning little thing!” cried Grace in a rapture. “Oh, do let her stay, Mrs. King!” as
Polly made signs for Katrina to take her.
“What you in my bed for?” cried King sturdily; “say, and who are you?”
“O King!” said Polly; “why, that isn’t like my boy.”
“Oh, have I taken his bed?” asked Grace in dismay, and making another effort to rise.
Elyot perched at the foot, where he surveyed Grace at his leisure.
“He calls it his because once when he was sick he left the nursery and came in here to sleep,” said
Polly. “Now come, children, say good-night to Miss Grace, and then we must fly to bed.” Elyot
had one of her hands now; and he clambered up on the bed, where he perched on the foot, and
surveyed Grace at his leisure.
“Is that her name because she says grace at the table?” he asked after a pause.
“No, dear, that was her baby name; isn’t it a pretty one?”
“Was she ever a baby?” asked Barby, looking with intense interest at Grace’s long figure under the
bedclothes.
“Yes, indeed; she was once a little baby just like all you children.”
“O mamma! not a little one,” said Elyot incredulously.
“Not a wee, wee, teenty one,” said Barby, shaking her head.
“I guess she was as long as that,” said King, measuring off a piece on Grace’s frame, that he
supposed a suitable length, “just about as long as that.”
“Take care, dear. You may touch her lame foot,” said Polly.
And then the children, who had been in the little brown house when the accident occurred,
clamored to know all about it. But Polly was firm; and telling them they should hear how it
happened on the morrow, she held Barby down for a good-night kiss, a proceeding all the others
imitated, till the three swarmed around Grace’s pillow.
“Good-night,” said Barby, with a sleepy little hum; “do you say ‘Now-I-lay-me-down-to-seep’”?
“No,” said Grace. How long ago it seemed since she had felt too old to repeat that prayer!
“Mamsie, she doesn’t say ‘Now-I-lay-me-down-to-seep,’” said Barby, trying to open wide her
eyes.
“Come, dears.”
“What do you say?” cried Elyot, pulling the bedspread, “say?”
“Elyot!” said his mother. He took one look at her face, and then scuttled off, picking up the
nightgown to facilitate progress.
So Polly went off, her baby on her arm. Barby, whose eyes drooped at every step, dropped the
black doll out of her sleepy hand; Katrina picked it up, and helped the boys along.
Just then Phronsie came in with a pleased expression on her face to see how cheery everything
was.
“Your aunt has gone,” she said; “but she is coming out to-morrow to see how you are.”
So Polly went off, her baby on her arm.
Grace achieved a sitting posture, impossible as it had seemed before. “Oh, dear Mrs. King!” she
screamed, “now I know she will write to mamma this evening.”
Polly set Barby in her little crib, then sped back. “No, Grace,” she said, “she won’t write; you can
trust me, dear.”
“She always writes evenings when she’s anything on her mind,” said Grace; “and she’d hurry
about this.” But upon Mrs. King’s assuring her that she would take the care of this upon herself,
Grace cuddled down again, and let Phronsie comfort her.
And by and by, while Polly’s messenger was speeding to the city with just such a letter as she
knew how to write, addressed to Mrs. Carroll Atherton, Mrs. Higby herself came up with Grace’s
supper; and when she saw how cheery things were, and how everything was beginning to mend,
she put her arms akimbo, and said, “My land! but you’ll be as spry as a cricket in a week.”
“I brought you some flowers,” said Phronsie, laying down a little bunch where Grace’s fingers
could reach them.
Grace looked at them, but did not offer to touch them.
“What is it?” asked Phronsie.
“Might I just have one little sprig of those you held in your hand when you came after I was hurt,
Miss Phronsie?”
“Why, yes, you may. Mrs. Higby, will you get them? You may have the whole bunch,” she said to
Grace.
“Oh, only just one sprig, please,” said Grace eagerly.
But the whole bunch of lilies-of-the-valley was brought; and Grace held them in her hands, and
buried her face in them, and then she opened her mouth obediently, while Mrs. Higby, after
tucking a napkin under her chin, fed her from a generous plate of milk-toast, and everything was
getting quite jolly.
“She looks better already, don’t she, Miss Phronsie!” exclaimed Mrs. Higby in admiration of the
effect of the treatment. “My! but ain’t this nice milk-toast, though! I guess I know, for I made it
myself. There, take this, poor dear.”
“I’m sorry to make you all so much trouble,” said Grace penitently, with her mouth half full.
“Don’t feed her too fast, please, Mrs. Higby,” said Phronsie, looking on with the deepest interest.
“My land! she ought to eat to keep her strength up,” said Mrs. Higby, plying the spoon
industriously. “Just so much milk-toast such as this is, and every hour you’ll see that leg of hers
getting well like lightning.”
And then old Mr. King had to come and stand in the doorway, and say how glad he was that the
foot was hurt no worse, for it had given him a dreadful fright to see her fear of his displeasure.
And when Grace saw his handsome face light up with a smile for her, her last fear left her; and she
gave a sigh of relief as he went off, obediently finished the toast, and settled back on her pillow.
“Land, how weak she must be to eat like that! she feels the need of victuals,” said Mrs. Higby.
“Now I’ll run down and make you another slice,” nodding to Grace, “you poor dear, you.”
“Oh, don’t let her!” begged Grace in alarm. “O Miss Phronsie! I couldn’t eat another morsel.”
“She doesn’t want any more, Mrs. Higby,” said Phronsie; “truly she doesn’t.”
“But just s’posin’ she should be weak and faint in the night,” said Mrs. Higby. “I’d better make
just one little thin slice, hadn’t I, Miss Phronsie,” standing irresolute in the doorway.
“No,” said Phronsie firmly. “I don’t think you had, Mrs. Higby. There, I’m going to tuck her up
now, and then I shall stay with her.”
“Will you, Miss Phronsie?” cried Grace in delight.
“Yes,” said Phronsie, “I shall stay just as long as you want me to.”