Betty's Happy Year

“I’d like that, I think,” Constance said; “you can have lovely fairs and garden-parties and all sorts of things for charity.”

“We won’t have a garden-party just yet,” said Lena, as she drew closer to the blazing fire.

“No,” returned Constance, a little shortly; “I didn’t mean to. But I suppose the club will last through the summer.”

“Of course it will,” said Betty, who always interrupted when Lena and Constance began their sharp little speeches. “And before summer comes we’ll have an entertainment in the house.”

It was now the first week in March, and, as the weather was raw and disagreeable, the girls were glad to gather in Betty’s cozy library, and nestle in soft, cushioned chairs drawn up to the big fireplace, with its crackling logs.

The four girls had come over for the express purpose of forming a club of some sort, though the details of the plan were not yet thought out. Of course, Jack had been promptly excluded from the conference, as it was to be a girls’ club.

“All right,” he said, as he went unwillingly away; “we boys will get up a rival club, and it’ll be so jolly you’ll want to disband yours and join ours.”

“All right; when that happens, we’ll do it,” sang out Lena, as the door closed behind the reluctant Jack.

But after it was decided to have the club a charitable one, no one could think of just the right form that it should take. “Mother went to a concert last night for the aid of the Orphan Asylum,” suggested Constance, and Lena promptly responded:

“Then they don’t need our help. Let’s think of something else.”

“How about the Fresh Air Fund?” said Jeanette.

“Just the thing!” cried Dorothy. “I’d rather work for little children than anybody else.”

“All right, then; our object is settled,” said Constance; “now what shall we name the club?”

“Oh, wait,” said Lena; “first we must elect officers and all that.”

“First,” said Betty, “we must decide on our members, We five, of course, and I’d like to ask Martha Taylor, too.”

“Then you can leave me out,” said Constance, promptly.

“Nothing of the sort!” said Betty. “You’re perfectly silly, Constance. I don’t see why you don’t like Martha. And she’d feel slighted to be left out of a thing like this.”

“Nobody likes Martha Taylor,” observed Jeanette. “I don’t think we need ask her, Betty.”

“Well, I do! And if you don’t, you may leave me out, too!”

“Oh, Betty! Betty! Of course we wouldn’t leave you out! Why, there couldn’t be a club without you.”

“All right, then. It’s Martha Taylor, too.”

It was not often that Betty asserted herself so strongly, but when she did the others generally yielded the point. Martha Taylor was not a favorite; although a member of the girls’ class, none of them liked her, and she had no chum and almost no friend. There was no especial reason for this, for Martha was not ill-natured or disagreeable; but she was heavy and uninteresting, and never seemed to understand the others’ jokes and fun.

But Betty felt sorry for her, and, seeing she was neglected by the other girls, she stood up for her and insisted on having her for a member of the club.

“Well, you’ll have to look after her,” said Lena. “I never know what to say to her. She only says ‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ or ‘I don’t care,’ when you ask her anything.”

“Well, she won’t make any trouble in the club, anyhow,” observed Jeanette. “I don’t see why Betty wants her, but if we have to have her, we have to, I suppose.”

“Yes, we have to,” said Betty; “and I’m going to telephone her now, and ask her if she wants to come.”

Whatever they may have thought, no one objected outwardly, and Betty called up Martha on the telephone and invited her over.

Needless to say, the invitation was accepted, and soon Martha appeared, looking greatly pleased.

“Hello, Martha,” said Betty, most cordially, and made a place for the new-comer by her side.

The others spoke pleasantly enough, but without enthusiasm, and then the business meeting was begun.

After some discussion Betty was made president and Dorothy vice-president, Lena Carey was treasurer, and Constance was recording secretary, with Jeanette for corresponding secretary.

This gave each an office with the exception of Martha, and as soon as Betty saw how things were going, she calmly created an office for her friend.

“I nominate Martha Taylor for auditor,” she said, in her most decided way.

“What’s that?” asked Lena.

Now Betty wasn’t quite sure herself what an auditor was, or whether it was a usual office in a club, but she didn’t care. It made an official title for Martha, and so kept her from feeling slighted.

“An auditor?” responded Betty, airily. “Oh, that’s the one who looks over the books and accounts of all of us, to see if we’ve added up right, and all that.”

This wasn’t a specially pleasing idea to the treasurer and the two secretaries, but they understood Betty’s determined expression, and they submitted with good grace.

So matters went on pleasantly, and Martha was greatly elated at being chosen to fill what she considered a most important office.

“But I don’t always add right myself,” she said conscientiously.

“Never mind; I’ll help you,” said Betty, smiling at her. “Now, girls, for a name. I don’t like a high-sounding name. Let’s have something plain and straightforward.”

“The Fresh Air Fund Club,” suggested Lena.

“The Fresh Air Club is shorter,” said Constance.

“The Fresh Club is shorter yet,” said Dorothy, laughing, “and the boys will call us that, anyhow, when they hear about it.”

They decided on “The Fresh Air Club,” and then, all business matters being settled, they proceeded to plan their first entertainment.

“Let’s have something really nice,” said Martha. “We can get Hetherton’s Hall to hold it in, without paying anything. My uncle is one of the managers, and I know he’d let us have it for a charity.”

This was a most advantageous offer, and, had it come from any one else, it would have been hailed with enthusiasm. As it was, nobody said much, except Betty, who exclaimed:

“Why, Martha, that will be fine! If we don’t have to pay for the hall, we can make a lot of money, for that’s generally the biggest item.”

“Yes,” agreed Constance; “all the things to sell will be given to us, or we’ll make them ourselves. You mean a sort of fair, don’t you, Betty?”

“Yes; only a special kind, you know—a bazaar, or something like that.”

“What is a bazaar?” asked Martha, with such an air of blank ignorance that Constance frowned at her.

“A bazaar,” began Lena, “why, a bazaar is—it’s just a bazaar. Anybody knows what a bazaar is.”

“Oh,” said Martha, not much enlightened, but realizing that she was supposed to be.

“Lena didn’t explain it very clearly,” said Betty laughing. “I’m not sure I know the difference myself between a bazaar and a fair.”

“Neither do I,” said Constance; “I think they’re about the same, only bazaar is the new-fashioned name.”

“And a bazaar is bigger,” said Dorothy, “more elaborate, you know, with booths and flags and things like that.”

“And you dress up in costumes at a bazaar,” added Jeanette.

“Good!” cried Betty. “I love dressing up in fancy costumes. What sort do they wear?”

“Oh, sometimes all sorts of costumes, and sometimes just flower-girl dresses and things like that.”

“If you mean that sort of a fair, I read about one not very long ago that might be very nice, I think,” suggested Martha, a little timidly.

“What was it?” asked Betty, as no one else expressed any desire to know.

“Well, it was a bazaar of the months. Only you have to have boys in it—six girls and six boys, and each one has a table and sells things belonging to that month. Flowers for May, you know, and fans for August, and all sorts of things for Christmas, the December one.”

“It sounds lovely,” said Dorothy kindly; “but it would be funny to sell Christmas things and valentines and fans in March.”

“Not at all,” said Betty. “People could buy their valentines and Christmas presents, and hide them away till next year. I think it’s a fine idea. Then each one of us could dress up in a costume to fit the month, such as the Queen of May or the April Fool.”

“Yes,” said Martha, “but you have to have boys for Fourth of July and April Fool and Santa Claus.”

“Well, we will,” declared Betty. “We’ll ask six boys to be honorary members of the club and help us with the bazaar. Let’s call Jack in now.”

They all agreed to this, and Jack came in, much pleased to help with the great project.

As the young people talked it over, it seemed to assume grand proportions, and Betty proposed that they lay the whole plan before her mother before they should proceed further. Mrs. McGuire listened with great interest as the purpose of the Fresh Air Club was explained to her.

“Excellent!” she said at last “I’m sure it will be a lovely bazaar, there’s room for such pretty decorations and costumes. Have you chosen your parts?”

They hadn’t, but, with Mrs. McGuire’s assistance, they undertook the matter at once.

Everybody agreed that golden-haired Constance must be the May Queen. She was just right for it, with her blue eyes and fair, pretty face.

“Do I have a booth?” she said. “What shall I sell?”

“Not exactly a booth for you,” said Mrs. McGuire, “but a bower, a real May Queen’s bower. And you must sell flowers, of course—not only nosegays, but potted plants and ferns and things like that.”

“And wild flowers and pond-lilies! Oh, Constance, your booth will be the prettiest of all!” cried Dorothy, a little enviously.

“You won’t find many wild flowers or pond-lilies in March,” said Mrs. McGuire, smiling; “but the florist will help us out with many blossoms, and we may have to use paper flowers for the bower. Dorothy, you are just the one to be the Summer Girl; that’s the one for August, you know.”

“Oh, I will! And I know just how I’ll fix my booth! I’ve just thought of it. I say, girls, suppose we don’t tell all about our booths, but surprise each other! Just choose our parts, you know.”

“All right!” said Betty, “choose away. Jeanette, what month do you want?”

“I’ll take June,” said Jeanette, who already had a pretty plan in her wise little head.

“I want October,” declared Lena, her eyes twinkling as she thought of Hallowe’en possibilities.

“September was represented by Diana in the bazaar I heard about,” said Martha; “I think Betty ought to be that. She’d make a lovely Diana.”

“So you would, Betty!” said Constance. “Do take that.”

“Very well,” agreed Betty. “What do I sell?”

“Grapes,” said Lena; “but as you can’t get grapes in March, you’ll have to sell grape jelly!”

“I can get hothouse grapes,” said Betty. “But this leaves only November for Martha. What can you be, Martha—a turkey?”

“November isn’t much of anything,” said Martha. “It’s sort of uninteresting.”

“Well,” said Constance, tossing her head; “it’s the only one left.”

Betty’s eyes flashed at this, but she only said:

“All right, Martha, you take November. I’ve a good idea for it; I’ll tell you afterward. Now let’s fix up the boys. What month do you want, Jack?”

“Well, since you ask me, I’ll take January. I’m great on January.”

“All right; and we’ll ask the other boys and let them choose. Oh, I hope they’ll all do it! Won’t it be fun?”

It was fun, but it also proved to be a great deal of work. Indeed, if the grown-ups hadn’t helped them out, the young people could scarcely have carried the affair through. Grandpa Irving took a great interest in it from the beginning, and planned so many improvements and additions that the bazaar soon became a really large enterprise.

It was called “The Palace of Time,” and Mr. Irving agreed to assume the character of old Father Time and preside at the bazaar.

His principal aids were four ladies who represented the four seasons, and who were to wear appropriate costumes to designate Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. Each of these ladies presided over the three booths which belonged to her season, and thus the success of the young people’s booths was made more sure.

The other boys had proved quite as pleased as Jack to take part in the affair, and all of those who were to take part, as well as many of their friends, worked hard during the few weeks of preparation.

One thing Betty resolved, and that was that Martha must have an attractive booth and one that should somehow prove to be among the most popular. After she told her grandfather how the other girls felt toward Martha, Mr. Irving also declared that he, too, would look out for her.

“Never you mind, Betty,” said her grandfather; “we’ll just fix it so that Martha’s booth will be crowded with people all the evening.”

And so, though nobody knew exactly what Martha was going to do, it was soon known that hers would be the supper booth.

Lemonade was to be served by July; ice-cream by August; flowers, of course, would be sold by May; and candy would be found in the February booth.

But November being the month of Thanksgiving and plenty, it was deemed appropriate to have the more substantial refreshments on sale there.

Martha was delighted with the plan Mr. Irving proposed, and, with the help of Miss Connington, the young lady who took the part of Autumn, she made ready for her November booth.

When the night of the bazaar came, everything was in readiness, and hundreds of people were waiting for the entrance-doors to open.

And when at last they were admitted, the beautiful scene was greeted with great applause.

At the end of the room was the throne of Father Time. This was on a raised platform, behind which was a large sheet painted with the figures of the zodiac.

Time himself, who was, of course, Mr. Irving, was robed in long white garments, which fell in classic folds about his tall and stalwart frame. A white beard and “forelock” added to the effect, and he carried a scythe and hour-glass.

But his genial smile and cordial words of greeting were not much like the grim old gentleman who is represented as going about and cutting down all, both great and small. Not wishing to shirk his part of the real work of the evening, Mr. Irving had some small articles for sale on his “throne.” There were hour-glasses and smaller sand-glasses; clocks and watches; diaries and calendars; and even a metronome, which, he said, he was particularly anxious to dispose of, because it beat Time! As all these articles had been donated, and as they were quickly bought from the entertaining old gentleman, the funds of the Fresh Air Club were considerably added to, that night, by Father Time.

The young ladies who represented the four seasons were dressed as if they were models for the pretty modern picture calendars. They did not sell things, but hovered round the booths that were under their supervision, and took care that everything went right.

The booths themselves were marvels of elaborate ingenuity.

January was what looked like a snow palace. It was really a little mosque-shaped house, built of a light framework covered with cotton-wool. This was sprinkled with diamond-dust, and scattered bits of tinsel frosting, and glass icicles. It was electric-lighted, and a more fairy-like palace could not be imagined. Jack presided over it in the guise of Jack Frost. His suit was white Canton flannel sprinkled with tinsel frost, and his peaked cap and roundabout jacket were trimmed with ermine—or what looked like it.

He had on sale anything and everything that had to do with January—skates, sleds, sleigh-bells, warm caps and mittens, New Year’s cards, year-books, and even soap-stones and foot-warmers for sleighs. His booth was a gay and cheery place, with a bright fire of gas-logs blazing, and red-shaded lamps all about.

Mrs. McGuire had assisted, and many visitors thought Jack’s booth the finest of all.

Harry Harper, as St. Valentine, presided over the February booth. He was dressed like the pictures of the old saint, and in his booth were many cupids and doves.

The decorations were garlands of paper roses tied with blue ribbons, and red hearts and gold darts of all sizes. He had a real little post-office established, and did a thriving business with the tender missives he had in stock. He also had the candies, as they were “sweets,” and then Harry, with a view to making more money, had declared that he was entitled to use all the holidays that belonged to his month, so he added a small tableful of souvenirs appropriate to Washington’s Birthday and Lincoln’s Birthday. There were little hatchets, and bunches of cherries, and portraits of both Presidents, and these favors sold as well as his valentines.

The next booth was March, and this was a funny one. It represented a lion’s den, and was a sort of cave which was built partly of real rocks, and partly of huge boulders made of wood and covered with brown muslin and moss.

Bob Carey was the lion, and as he had procured a lion’s “make-up” from a theatrical costumer’s, he was a fine animal. He said that, as March, he had to be either a lion or a lamb, and he preferred the lion’s part. It was not easy to find articles for sale appropriate to March, but he had succeeded in getting donations from the shopkeepers of garden implements, such as rakes and spades and hoes, which are useful in that month; also packets of flower and vegetable seeds, and (which made every one smile) a huge pile of sheet music, consisting only of popular marches. He had, too, funny little souvenirs for St. Patrick’s Day, and so humorous was Bob himself, in his character of the Cozy Lion, that he had many visitors.

April was in charge of Elmer Ellis, and he was an “April Fool.” His costume was that of a court jester, and the bells on his cap and on his bauble jingled merrily as he played pranks on all who came his way. He had no booth, but was under a huge umbrella, as, he explained, it might rain at any minute in April. He sold umbrellas, rubbers, rain-coats, sprinkling-cans, garden hose, and also he had a stock of what were known as “April Fool candies.” These he sold readily, for they are harmless fun and cause great merriment. Also he sold bundles carefully tied up with contents unknown, which “fooled” the buyers.

Constance Harper was the May Queen and held court under a beautiful arbor of vines and flowers. She wore a white frock with flower garlands, and a long white veil crowned with flowers.

She held a gilded scepter, and pages stood at either side to wait on her Royal Highness. Her little slippered feet rested on a satin cushion, and pretty Constance certainly was the most attractive picture in the hall that night.

She sold flowers of all sorts—lovely growing plants and ferns, and dainty baskets of blossoms, as well as tiny nosegays and boutonnières. Altogether, it was probably the most beautiful booth of all, and it received great admiration.

June was Jeanette Porter. She had not taken the idea of the “month of roses,” but chose to represent a “Sweet Girl Graduate.”

Over her white frock she wore a black silk gown, and on her head a “mortar-board.”

She looked like a fair, sweet Portia, and her wares were all books. She did a fine trade, for Jeanette was a general favorite, and the books found a ready sale.

July was in charge of Fred Brown, and he represented “Young America.”

Although a big boy, he dressed himself in the garb of a little one, and blew his tin trumpet and waved his flag with all the boisterousness of a child of ten on Independence Day.

His booth was a mass of flags and bunting and fireworks, and he sold anything he could find that was patriotic, from copies of the Declaration of Independence to a package of torpedoes.

He also had the lemonade for sale, as that seemed to him to be a Fourth of July beverage. He had persuaded a few men, the best speakers he knew, to deliver occasional short orations, so, with these attractive novelties, it was no wonder that his booth was well attended all the time.

August was left to Dorothy Bates. She was one of the prettiest of all, though one of the simplest in her costume and manners.

She was a Summer Girl; and dressed in a white duck outing-suit, her sailor-like blouse turned in at the throat and turned back at the wrist, she was a charming picture.

She had no booth, but sat in a hammock beneath a cleverly contrived shade-tree. About her, on what represented grass and sand, were camp-stools, and her visitors were served with ice-cream and little cakes. Also, she sold fans and parasols, and so gay and winsome was pretty Dorothy that the camp-stools were always occupied, while others stood waiting their turn.

September was Betty’s month. She had had a beautiful Diana hunting-costume made for her, and in the dark-green cloth, with its black braid and gilt buttons, Betty’s slim, straight young figure looked very picturesque. Her booth was a sort of tent, with the flap turned back, and she sold sporting goods of all sorts.

Some kind shopkeepers had donated fishing-rods and reels, trout flies, game-bags, bows and arrows, and many such wares. Betty was happy and gay, and her dark curls clustered round her merry, rosy face as she wheedled her patrons into making further purchases of all sorts of wares.

October was Lena Carey’s choice. She used all the traditional features of Hallowe’en, and in a semi-darkened tent she told fortunes to gullible victims. Dressed as a witch in a red robe, a black cape, and a red peaked hat, she fondled her own pet black cat, though old Tabby would not look weird and mysterious.

The interior of Lena’s tent was scarefully decorated with bats and strange devices, and was adorned with lighted Jack-o’-lanterns.

Lena was clever at fortune-telling, and, as her clients were not exacting as to methods, she managed to satisfy them all with most pleasant, even if most improbable, promises for the future.

Next came November, which was Martha’s. At first it had not seemed easy to think of a character for Martha appropriate to November. But as Betty looked at the round, stolid face, full of wholesome good nature, but not piquant or fascinating, she exclaimed:

“Good gracious, Martha! You’re just like your grandmother. Do chirk up and giggle sometimes!”

Then her own speech gave her an idea. “Martha,” she cried, “that’s just it! You shall be your own grandmother! November is the Thanksgiving month, and the very spirit of the Thanksgiving feast is the Grandmother.”

So chubby-faced Martha was transformed into the dearest old lady you ever saw—white hair, cap, and spectacles; plain gray gown, with kerchief crossed on her bosom, and knitting work beside her; everything of old-fashioned style, even her reticule and black silk mitts.

Mr. Irving, true to his word, assisted with Martha’s booth. It was indeed a realistic old-fashioned New England kitchen, with its settings represented as faithfully as possible. And the homely old New England supper viands that were served there were so good and delectable that Martha’s booth was crammed with people from opening to closing time.

December, as you’d doubtless guess, was a Christmas tree.

Although it was really March, so splendid was the great tree, decorated, and lighted elaborately, and so jolly was Ralph Burnett, who stood by as Santa Claus, that it was difficult not to think it was Christmas eve.

On the tree everything was for sale. The wares first, and, when they were gone, the decorations, and even the electric lights and candles were sold.

Indeed, everything in the whole place was sold. As the evening wore on, all the supplies gave out, and the frantic “months” ran around to each other’s booths trying to beg or borrow something to sell. The cash-boxes were full of jingling coins, yet the buyers were unsatisfied. The Fresh Air Club had not expected such a large and generous audience, and they stood in their dismantled booths, resolved to have even a larger and finer bazaar, next winter.

“And, you see, Grandpa,” said Betty to Mr. Irving, “Martha did have a successful part as November, and her full share of custom. Why, Martha’s kitchen was full of people all the time. Constance was perfectly lovely, sitting in state on her throne, but, now and then, there weren’t many people around her booth.”

“Well, Betty, sometimes people would rather eat than buy flowers.”

“Yes; that’s why I felt sure Martha’s booth would be a success. But, of course, I sha’n’t say anything to Constance about it.”

And Constance never mentioned the subject, but Martha was never slighted by the girls again.

VI
BETTY’S PRACTICAL JOKE

One evening, soon after the bazaar, the McGuires were dining with the Irvings, and naturally were discussing the very successful entertainment.

“And I think,” Mr. Irving remarked, “that the young chap who took the part of ‘April Fool’ was one of the hits of the evening. He was so merry and good-natured, and yet so full of quips and pranks, why, he nearly fooled me two or three times!”

“Oh, pshaw, Grandpa,” said Betty, saucily, “it would be easy enough to fool you; you’re so—so honest and good-natured, you know.”

Mr. Irving looked at the roguish, smiling face with pretended severity.

“Indeed, Miss Curlyhead! So you think it easy to fool your simple-minded old grandfather, do you? Well, little lady, you’re greatly mistaken! In fact, you’re quite wrong! Fool me! Humph! Why, when I was in college, the boys said I was the only one they could never play a practical joke on!”

Mr. Irving looked very proud of his record for shrewdness, but his eyes twinkled as he saw Betty’s incredulous smile.

“All right, Miss Mischief,” he went on, “if you doubt my word, try it. I’ll wager you a hat you can’t get off a joke upon your unsuspecting old grandfather that I don’t see through before it reaches its climax. Fool me, indeed!”

“I don’t want to fool you, Grandpa,” said Betty, demurely, “only I think I could—that’s all.”

“You little rogue, you do, do you? Well, the burden of proof rests with you.”

“You know you wagered a hat,” said Betty, smiling; “did you mean it?”

“Well, my child, I’ll own up that I said ‘wager a hat,’ because that’s a slang phrase—or at least it was in my youth—that doesn’t mean anything in particular, and I said it without thinking. But I’ll stand by it. You shall have the prettiest hat in Boston if you succeed in playing even the mildest little joke on your old grandfather.”

“Now, Father,” said Mrs. McGuire, “I don’t think practical jokes are nice at all; and I don’t think you ought to put Betty up to such nonsense.”

“As a rule, my dear, I agree with you; and I don’t want Betty to get the habit of doing such things. But this is an exceptional case. And, too, a good-natured joke does no harm, especially if the victim invites it himself.”

“I think you’re safe, Grandfather,” said Jack. “I don’t believe Betty or anybody else could fool you. You’re too quick.”

“Thank you for that compliment, my boy,” said Mr. Irving; “and then, too, remember that I am forewarned.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Irving, laughing at the conversation; “I think your chances for a new hat from Grandfather are slim, Betty dear.”

“I really don’t need a new hat—just now,” said Betty, thoughtfully, “but, all the same, I’d like to win that one, and I’m going to try.”

Betty’s dark head wagged in a determined fashion, and, after a little further chaff, the subject was dropped.

But the next day Betty took it up again with Jack.

“I want to play a perfectly splendid joke on Grandpa,” she said, “one that he will remember all his life.”

“Well,” returned Jack, “you’re modest in your desires, aren’t you!”

“But I do want to, Jack. Think what fun it would be! Now, help me think of something, do!”

“Let me see; I can’t think of things in a minute, you know. But here’s one thing; next Friday is the first of April—you might play an April Fool Joke.”

“Oh, yes,” cried Betty, gleefully, “that’s just the thing! Anything is allowable on April Fool’s Day. Now, what shall it be?”

“Betty, if you want a really fine affair, we must give some thought to it. Neither do we want any simple joke that we’d make up ourselves. But let’s try something classic. Now there’s an old story called ‘Trajan’s Jest,’ or somebody’s, and I’ll look it up, and perhaps we can adapt it to modern times.”

“Oh, Jack, I don’t want any old Roman performance, with togas and sandals!”

“No, goosey, not that. But just wait till I think it all out. Oh, Betty, it’ll be fine! Just you wait!”

So Betty waited while Jack looked into some reference books, and when he found what he wanted, they soon had their heads together over the volume. After an hour of reading, chattering, laughing, and planning, Jack said:

“And so, you see, it’s all clear sailing, if you girls can only carry it out in the right way.”

“Oh, we can!” cried Betty. “Dorothy is so very dramatic, and Jeanette will be lovely in her part. Mine is the hardest.”

“Of course it is; but it’s your joke, you know. Shall we tell Mother about it?”

“I’d rather not—till it’s over. It’s all right, you know; she wouldn’t disapprove, but she’d think we couldn’t do it.”

“It seems as if you ought to tell her.”

“Oh, I’ll tell her that we’re going to play the joke. Here she comes now. Come in, Mother!”

Mrs. McGuire came into the library where the children were. “What is it, dear?” she said.

“Why, we’ve planned the joke for Grandpa,” said Betty, her eyes dancing with fun, “and it’s going to take a lot of acting. And, Mother, I don’t want to tell you about it till it’s all over. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, child; that is—I suppose, of course, it’s nothing wrong or impolite.”

“Oh, no; it’s all perfectly correct and proper. Dorothy and Jeanette and I are to do it, but Jack planned it all. And, Mother, we’ll want the big carriage on Friday afternoon.”

“All right, deary; now, mind, you are quite sure, aren’t you, I wouldn’t disapprove?”

“Yes, Mother,” and Betty’s honest eyes were clear and frank. “It’s a jolly joke, but there’s nothing wrong about it, is there, Jack?”

“Not a thing,” said Jack, chuckling. “I’ll look out for the girls, Mother. The whole affair won’t take an hour.”

“Very well, then; go on. Your grandfather will be as pleased as yourselves if it succeeds.”

There was much more planning, and then, when the whole affair was explained to Dorothy and Jeanette, they entered into the scheme with glee.

“It’ll be just like amateur theatricals!” cried Dorothy, clapping her hands. “We must rehearse our parts. Oh, won’t it be fun?”

“Can you dress up to look like a young lady?” said Jack. “Not a disguise, you know, but just make yourself look as if you were eighteen or twenty years old?”

“Oh, yes,” declared Dorothy. “I’m almost sixteen, anyhow. And I’ll wear one of sister Ethel’s dresses, and do my hair up high. I’ll wear a hat of hers, too, one of her prettiest ones.”

“Oh, not too fancy, you know,” warned Jack. “You must dress plainly.”

“All right; I’ll wear a small hat and a dotted veil. Oh, I’ll look grown up; never fear.”

“Jeanette will, too,” said Betty; “she looks older than she is, anyhow. What’ll you wear, Jean?”

“I’ll wear one of Mother’s gowns,” said Jeanette, smiling. “She’s so small and slender, her things just about fit me. Black, I think, with white collar and cuffs.”

“I’ll wear a long cloak,” said Betty, “and a thick, dark veil, so Grandpa can scarcely see my face at all.”

“And glasses,” said Jack. “I’ll get you a pair of dark spectacles, so he won’t see your eyes at all. Now let’s write the letter.”

Then, all suggesting, but Jack doing most of it, the following letter was composed, and was copied by Jeanette:

Mr. William Irving,

Dear Sir: Although I have been in more fortunate circumstances, I am now quite poor. I desire a position as secretary, and I apply to you, because my great-uncle Roger Arundel used to be in your class at college, and I have often heard him speak of your kind heart and generous disposition. I will call at your office, to see you about the matter, this afternoon at three o’clock. Please let me speak to you, even if you cannot give me a position.

Yours truly, Frances Arundel.

“Was there a Roger Arundel in Grandpa’s class?” asked Betty, looking admiringly at the letter.

“I don’t know of any,” said Jack; “I made up the name.”

“Then of course there wasn’t,” said Betty. “Why didn’t you choose a name from his class list?”

“Oh, I didn’t quite like to do that. It didn’t seem right. But it won’t matter. You girls will have to manage the Roger Arundel item. Now, are you sure you understand your parts? Come on, let’s rehearse. I’ll be Grandpa.”

They rehearsed for an hour or more, and declared they understood their parts perfectly.

“But you must disguise your voice more, Betty,” said Jack. “Talk as if you had a cold in your throat.”

So Betty tried again and succeeded in achieving a hoarse, harsh whisper.

“That’ll do,” said Jack, approvingly. “Talk like that and you’ll be all right.”

At last the first of April came, and the other girls came over to Betty’s to start off together on their escapade.

Mrs. McGuire had been taken into the secret at the last moment, thus having had no chance inadvertently to give a hint to the unsuspecting victim.

She helped the three girls to make themselves look as much as possible like full-grown young ladies. And, indeed, the fact that they all wore long dresses and had their hair done up high so changed their appearance that little further disguise was necessary.

Dorothy wore a tailor-made suit of her sister’s. It was of dark-blue cloth and somewhat worn, an old one having been chosen on purpose. A small blue straw hat, with a few roses, was very becoming, and the effect of it, with its carefully adjusted veil, was to make her look fully nineteen or twenty years old.

Jeanette, in a plain little black suit and white shirt-waist, looked a very demure young lady. Her trim black hat showed no touch of color, and her sad little face assumed a pathetic expression that made Jack laugh.

“You’ll do, Jeanette!” he exclaimed; “you’re just a picture of ‘a young lady in reduced circumstances.’”

But Betty was the most disguised of all. This was necessary, for Mr. Irving scarcely knew the other two girls, anyhow, and the success of the scheme all depended on his not recognizing Betty.

She wore a plain, dark dress borrowed from Dorothy’s sister. Over this was a long coat, rather loose and full, of tan-colored cloth.

Her hair was drawn tightly back and done in a knot, and she wore large, dark spectacles. Already there was no resemblance left to Betty, but Mrs. McGuire added a thick, dark-brown veil, which was draped loosely over her face in old-fashioned style, and tied bunchily around her neck.

“He’ll never know you in the world, Betty!” declared Jack. “You’re just all right! Now let’s hear your voice.”

“Is this Mr. Irving?” said Betty, in such hoarse, raucous tones that they all shrieked with laughter.

“That’ll do,” said Jack, critically; “but don’t overdo it. Remember, you don’t want Grandfather to suspect you. Now come on.”

Jack and the three girls got into the carriage and were driven to Mr. Irving’s office in the city.

It was half-past two when they reached the building. “Just right time to a dot,” said Jack, looking at his watch. “Go on up, Dorothy; are you nervous?”

“Not a bit,” returned Dorothy, smiling, as she left the carriage. “Be sure to send the others in time.”

“Trust me!” said Jack, and Dorothy entered the big building and went up in the elevator.

She went to Mr. Irving’s offices, and was admitted by a clerk, who said Mr. Irving was in his private office, and asked the visitor’s name.

“No name is necessary,” said Dorothy, in very grown-up tones. “I am expected.”

She walked past the clerk and into the inner office. Mr. Irving looked at her in perplexity as she entered.

“Miss Frances Arundel,” said Dorothy, looking a little shy, as she approached the desk. “Didn’t you get my note?”

“Oh—’m—yes,” said Mr. Irving, hastily turning over some notes and letters before him.

“I am a bit early,” went on Dorothy; “I wrote I would be here at three o’clock, but I was so anxious to secure a position, I came earlier. Can you employ me, sir?”

She looked imploringly at Mr. Irving, who, to tell the truth, had quite forgotten the note he had received an hour or so before. He had read it hastily and intended, when the writer came, to turn her over to his clerk; but Dorothy’s earnest face arrested his attention, and he paused as he was about to ring the bell for his attendant.