Kittyleen / Flaxie Frizzle Stories

CHAPTER IX.
PRIMROSE BOWER.

Flaxie did not hear this conversation, or she would have built various castles in the air in regard to "going to Congress." It is true, people often talked before her of the coming "election," and spoke of Dr. Gray as a "candidate;" but the words were mysterious, and soon faded out of her mind.

The snow and mud had disappeared. Dandelions were shining everywhere in the tender grass, and Ethel said, gleefully,—

"Oh, see the dandy-diddles!"

The birds burst forth into song and the trees into leaves. Flaxie pointed to the soft, fresh leaf-buds slowly unfolding, and said to her mother, "Miss Pike calls them the beautiful thoughts the trees have kept all winter shut up in their hearts. Miss Pike is so funny!"

Summer came, and by the last of June Grandpa and Grandma Curtis and Grandma Hyde arrived from Kentucky. This made three grandmothers in the house at one time. The Gray family were remarkably rich in grandmothers; and there was still another, a fourth one, who might have come if she had not been too feeble, and that was dear Grandma Pressy.

The two from Kentucky were entirely unlike, yet each in her way was excellent and charming,—tall, queenly Grandma Hyde, wearing gray silk and a turban, and always piecing together a silk patch-work quilt; roly-poly Grandma Curtis, clad entirely in black, and always knitting children's stockings with needles that clicked. But they were alike in one respect; they both remembered everything they had ever seen or heard of, and everything that had ever happened since the world began. Yes, and they were both gifted with wondrous powers of story-telling. Tiny Grandma Gray, with her sweet, low voice, had hardly a chance to speak; for the Kentucky ladies were talking morning, noon, and night.

It was delightful to hear them, and Grandma Gray listened and laughed, her white cap-strings fluttering, and said she was renewing her youth. But by-and-by it began to tire her head, for she was very delicate indeed, and she complained that she could not sleep. Still she would stay in the parlor, she enjoyed the talking so much; and Mrs. Prim came one day, and declared she should carry her off.

"You must stay with me a while and be quiet," said Mrs. Prim, who liked to manage everything, "and Mary shall come with you to take care of you."

Flaxie did not spring up and exclaim, "Oh, Auntie Prim, thank you, thank you, I'd be so glad to go!" for the truth was she did not wish to go in the least. At the same time, she felt it a high honor to be invited to Mrs. Prim's to take care of Grandma Gray. She could remember the time, not so very long ago, when she had been sent away from home because Grandma Gray could not bear the noise she made.

"I'm growing a great deal stiller and a great deal better as I grow up," thought the little girl, with a throb of pride, "but I didn't suppose Auntie Prim knew it."

"We don't like to spare our dear little Mary," said both the Kentucky grandmothers in a breath; and then Flaxie felt prouder than ever.

"Oh, she can come home every day to see you, and you will be surprised at the number of pillow-cases she will make; she always sews very steadily at my house," replied Mrs. Prim. "Run now, Mary, and get your hat."

Mrs. Prim had the finest house and grounds in Laurel Grove, but it was very still there, oh, altogether too still! The gardener never talked, except to himself, the chambermaid was rather deaf, and Kitty, the cook, did not like any one in her nice, orderly kitchen. Flaxie thought it a very dull place, except at the hours when Mr. Prim came home to his meals.

One day she sat in the parlor, sewing "over and over" upon a pillow-case. Out of doors it was a lovely June day. The trees, and grass, and birds, and flowers, were nodding at one another, and having a gay time, and Flaxie longed to be with them. But no, at "Primrose Bower," as Mr. Prim called his home, it was necessary to stay in the house; for Auntie Prim thought a little girl nine years old ought to "sew her seams," and then she might play, perhaps, if she found any time.

Strange there shouldn't be any dog at Primrose Bower, or even a cat; but Grandma Gray was there, and that was a comfort. The more Flaxie waited upon the silver-haired, sweet-voiced, fairy grandmother, the better she loved her; only dear Grandma Gray was always going to sleep on the sofa, and then you had to keep still enough to hear a pin drop for fear of waking her up.

"Well," said Auntie Prim, coming into the parlor with her bonnet on, "I gave you work enough to last a good while, didn't I, Mary?"

"Yes, 'm, ever so long," replied Flaxie, with a sorrowful glance at the pillow-case.

"So you won't mind staying in the house with grandma, will you? I'm going to the stores to buy a calico dress and various things; but when I come back you may run home, and stay as long as you like."

"Yes, 'm," said Flaxie, meekly.

She thought Auntie Prim spent a good deal of time at the stores, and was afraid if she bought "various things" it would be pretty late by the time she came back; and Flaxie did want to ask Grandma Curtis a few questions about Venus, the colored girl who lived at her house in Kentucky, and she wanted a ride before dark on Preston's pony.

"Let me see," said Auntie Prim, thoughtfully, "perhaps it would be better for you to promise me not to leave this room while I'm gone. You mean well, Mary, but you're so fond of running! Yes, on account of Grandma Gray, I think I should feel easier if you were to make me a promise."

"Yes, 'm, I will promise! I'll stay right here. I'll not go out of this room," replied Flaxie, so sweetly that Mrs. Prim never suspected the child's sensitive pride was wounded.

"She thinks I'm a horrid little girl. She thinks I'm just awful," said Flaxie to herself, as she looked out of the window and watched her aunt walking away with a gray-fringed parasol in one hand and a shopping-bag in the other. "My mamma would have trusted me without any promise! She'd know I wouldn't run off and leave Grandma Gray!" Very soon Grandma Gray came in and said she was going to try to get a nap on the sofa, and hoped Flaxie would keep pretty still. "Yes, 'm," sighed Flaxie; and after this she breathed as softly as possible for fear of making a noise.

Grandma was asleep in two minutes, with her handkerchief over her eyes, and that made the room seem more lonesome than ever. Outside a stray cat came and sat on the window-sill, begging to come in; and as she opened her mouth to mew, she looked, Flaxie thought, like a wee, wee old lady, whose little teeth were more than half gone. Flaxie loved cats; why not let her in?

But no! The window had a fly-screen, and besides, Auntie Prim didn't approve of cats. "It's no, no, no, all the time. I don't like Primrose Bower," thought poor Flaxie, dropping her work and stealing on tiptoe to the mantel, to smell the flowers in the bronze vase.

They were lovely roses and lilies, but they looked as if they longed to be out of doors, where they could bend their tired heads. The chairs seemed rather uncomfortable, too, standing up so stiff and straight against the gilded walls. Even the gilded fireboard looked as if it was set in the fireplace very hard, and had no hope of ever coming out.

"Oh, it's so still here, and so shut up! I wish there was something alive in the room," thought the little sewing-girl, going back to her task.

She did not know that close behind her there was something alive—dreadfully alive—a cross, disappointed, hungry bee! How had he got there, into that shut-up room where even the little flies never dared come?

But there he was, and he would not go away without doing mischief. Perhaps he had had some family trouble, which had soured his temper; or perhaps he mistook Flaxie for a new variety of blush rose, of great size and sweetness. At any rate, he flew straight toward her, and without the least ceremony stung her on the wrist. Poor Flaxie! Was it not rather severe? Particularly as she dared not scream. "I must scream, I will scream," she thought in agony; "I will, I will!"

But no. For grandma was fast asleep. She must not wake grandma, though the sky should fall.

"I'll run out-doors. I'll run home to mamma. I must go where I can scream."

But no! She couldn't even go into the entry. Hadn't she promised? And you must know Flaxie belonged to the sort of little girls who hold a promise to be as sacred as the oath of a queen.

So she stayed where she was, and bore the anguish in silence. She could not possibly help hopping up and down, but she hopped softly; she could not help groaning, but she groaned in whispers; she could not keep the tears back, but she sobbed them noiselessly into her handkerchief. I don't know what you think of this, little reader, but I think it was truly grand and heroic.

Are you nine years old, and have you ever borne the sting of a bee, or the drawing of a tooth, without uttering a sound? Ah, you have! Then I would like to see you, and shake hands!

Grandma Gray woke presently, and saw Flaxie shaking with sobs, her head buried in the cushion of Uncle Prim's chair. You may be sure she was not long in learning what the matter was, and in calling Kitty from the kitchen to bathe the poor puffed wrist with arnica.

"Ah, thin, and a bee always knows what is swate," said Irish Kate, bathing the wrist softly.

"The blessed little darling!" murmured grandma, not referring, of course, to the bee. "To think you shouldn't have made one bit of noise to disturb your grandmother! I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd screamed with all your might."

"But, grandma, I promised you I wouldn't make a noise."

"So you did, precious child. I forgot that."

"And I promised Auntie Prim I'd stay in this room. Oh, how I did want to go out and scream!"

"Little Mary," said gentle Grandma Gray, taking Flaxie in her arms, "I'm proud of you, my dear!"

"Ah, wasn't it worth all Flaxie had suffered to hear such words as these? When had anybody been proud of her before?"

The pain was over, but the little wrist was still "a sight to behold" when Auntie Prim came home with her calico dress and "various things" in her bag; and grandma said, in a ringing voice,—

"Mrs. Prim, we have a little girl here who is quite a heroine. Yes, a heroine, I say!"

"Do you mean our little Mary? Why, what has she done?" asked auntie, coolly, as she put away her bonnet and parasol. But she wasn't quite so cool after she had heard the story.

"Why, you good, high-minded little girl! A grown woman couldn't have been braver," said she, and actually kissed Flaxie.

"It is a great pity I bound you by a promise; I needn't have done it. Some little girls can be trusted without any promises," she added, looking at grandma with an approving smile.

Flaxie blushed for joy. She had always had a vague feeling of being looked down upon by Auntie Prim, as a wild little girl who was "so fond of running"; and now to have this stern, good woman praise her so!

"But," said auntie, unrolling the dotted brown calico and laying it across her lap, "how came that bee in here, with the doors shut and the fly-screens all in?"

As she spoke, two bees buzzed and circled slowly above her head. In her surprise I must confess Mrs. Prim screamed. Flaxie was delighted. Mrs. Prim, however, was a little ashamed, for the minister, Mr. Lee, at that moment entered the door.

"Ah, what's this?" said he, laughing; "are you hiding away my bees?"

"Your bees?" cried Mrs. Prim; and she looked up at Mr. Lee, who stood, hat in hand, his bald head shining, as Flaxie had once fancied, like the ivory ball on Julia's parasol.

"Yes, ma'am, my bees! They swarmed this afternoon, and your gardener told me he suspected some of them had come down here, and settled in your chimney. He saw them flying over the roof of the house."

Mrs. Prim was a good woman, and had a high respect for her pastor. It seemed very strange and very improper that she should set a trap for his bees; but she laughed, and they all laughed, and she said Stillwater, the gardener, should go out on the roof through the sky-window, and look down the parlor chimney, and see what was going on inside.

Stillwater did so, and reported that a fine family of bees had begun housekeeping in the chimney.

"Yes," said Mr. Prim, who came in just then, "and they are making themselves too much at home altogether! Why, they think they have a right not only to the chimney, but to the whole parlor, and mean to creep out around the edges of the fireboard, and peep at us whenever they choose.

"But they needn't have stung my good little Mary, and they must not sting her again," said Mr. Lee, patting her head. He had been very much pleased of late by Flaxie's attentive behavior at church; and he thought now, as he looked at her fine young face, that she was improving faster in character than any other little girl he knew in Laurel Grove.

And to prevent further mischief from the bees, the fireboard was fastened in very firmly. Uncle Prim did this with little wads of gilt paper; and even Auntie Prim, who was so particular, declared no one could have made it look better.

"I'm glad you like my beehive, ladies," said Uncle Prim, with a low bow. "And now I hope the bees will do their duty, and fill it with the very nicest honey, from the very sweetest flowers that grow in Primrose garden; and Mr. Lee is heartily welcome to every drop!"

"Thank you, sir," returned Mr. Lee, "but if the honey is going to belong to me, I shall take pleasure in presenting it to little Mary. She has well earned it by being such a martyr this afternoon."

Flaxie had no clear idea what a martyr meant, but was sure from Mr. Lee's tone it must be something he approved. Therefore, she ran home in the finest spirits, to relate the stirring events of the afternoon to her family, and the two admiring grandmothers.

"And mamma," asked she, as soon as she saw her mother alone, "may I give the honey to Sadie Stockwell next Christmas? Let me go my own self, please, with Blackdrop and the little sleigh, and carry it."

"Perhaps so, my dear. But it is quite uncertain where you will be next Christmas," replied Mrs. Gray, who had strong reason to think she might be in Washington.

Flaxie, however, had forgotten all about Washington. "Oh, perhaps I'm going to Hilltop," thought she. "But that wouldn't be quite so splendid as to have Milly come to my house. If she can come to my house next winter, and go to school to Miss Pike in the pink chamber, I'll be perfectly happy."

The little girl's dreams that night were of going to some wonderful country she had never seen before. It must have been somewhere in fairyland, for

CHAPTER X.
THE LAST FEATHER.

Things happen to us sometimes that are even better than we have dreamed. To be with Miss Pike in the pink chamber again had seemed happiness to Flaxie; but to be with Miss Pike in Washington, going everywhere and seeing everything, this was bliss indeed!

Dr. Gray was elected to Congress; Preston was sent to boarding-school; Julia stayed with Grandma Gray at Mrs. Prim's; and Mrs. Gray went with her husband and the three youngest children to board in Washington for the winter.

Flaxie had never before seen so beautiful a city, though she had travelled much more than ordinary girls of her age. For days she never tired of looking down from the window of her fourth-story room, upon the clean, white avenue, and watching the horses, carriages, and people passing to and fro. High, high above the heads of the people was a network of telegraph wires glistening in the sun, and Flaxie thought if the wires would only go higher yet, and bind the stars and the earth together, how grand it would be. She called this chamber her "sky-room," and shared it with her "favorite friend," Miss Pike. At the same hotel were Mrs. Garland and Kittyleen, and Kittyleen's cousin Cora, a girl of Flaxie's own age. Truly, as little Ethel had said, Kittyleen did "go everywhere"; but who would have thought of her following the Grays to Washington? But then, this was Mrs. Garland's native city, and she had come here to spend part of the winter, and take lessons in painting.

Kittyleen was just as pretty, and dear, and sweet, as ever,—and just as troublesome. Her room was next Miss Pike's, and of course Miss Pike or Flaxie could not stir without her following them, for Kittyleen adored Flaxie; and besides, her mamma was always busy painting.

She followed them to the Capitol, when they went to look at the statues and pictures; she followed them to the stores, when they went shopping. Little Ethel never cared to go anywhere without her mother, and Phil had some larger boys for playmates; but Kittyleen felt that she belonged to Flaxie. Mrs. Garland laughed, and said she ought to be tied to Flaxie's side by a blue ribbon, like a little Skye terrier.

And here I think I must tell you how Kittyleen went to the White House to the President's reception, where she was as much out of place as a humming-bird in a flock of crows. But it was not the child's fault. Her mother was very thoughtless, or she would not have asked Miss Pike to take her; and Miss Pike had no idea what she was doing, or she would not have consented.

But first I shall be obliged to speak of Flaxie's vanity. You may have observed long ago that she was fond of looking in the glass; and I regret to say the habit still continued. In most respects she was constantly improving; but Doctor Papa said he really feared the nice new clothes she wore at Washington had a bad effect upon her mind. The strange ladies at the hotel sometimes said in her hearing as she passed by, "Who is that pretty little girl? Isn't she lovely?"

This was unfortunate; for now she never went anywhere, and saw people looking at her, but she fancied they were thinking, "Isn't she lovely?" And on the Saturday afternoon when she was going to the President's reception she wished to look as pretty as possible, so that the people at the White House, and perhaps the President himself, might admire her.

"Mamma," said she, "may I wear my crushed-strawberry dress, and my long-button gloves, and my bonnet with the red bird?"

"Oh, no, my dear, they are quite unsuitable. I am very sorry now that I promised to take you at all, for I'm afraid there will be a great crowd."

"But I never saw the President, mamma, and I like a great crowd. And I'll be so careful of my best bonnet!" pleaded Flaxie in a whining tone, very irritating to her mother, who was dressing in haste. It sounded like the troublesome teasing Flaxie of two or three years ago.

"My little daughter," said Mrs. Gray, pausing as she pinned her collar, "you cannot believe that I know better than you do how you should dress? Very well, I will allow you to wear your best bonnet on this condition: If that scarlet bird gets broken, you are not to have another bird this winter, no, nor even a feather!"

Flaxie hesitated. Much as she wished to look "lovely," she did not like to do anything her mamma disapproved. Still, how could she hurt her bonnet, just wearing it to a party?

"Make haste, child, here are Miss Pike and Kittyleen," said Mrs. Gray.

And the little girl finally laid aside her every-day hat she had been holding in her hand, put on her best bonnet with a blushing, downcast face, and walked slowly behind her mother. Little Ethel threw kisses after them, though quite disturbed in her small mind because "Kittyleen went everywhere," while she and Phil had to stay with Mrs. Fry.

Mrs. Gray and Miss Pike did not consider what a foolish thing they were doing, till they walked up the gravel path to the White House, and saw the long line of carriages.

"This is no place for children; it is a great crowd," said Mrs. Gray, nervously.

Mounting the front steps, they saw seated on one side of the large entrance hall a band of musicians, all in uniform, playing bugles, fifes, cornets, and drums. There were no children to be seen, and none of the vast number of people who had entered, or were entering the hall, seemed to take the slightest notice of Flaxie's beautiful clothes. They all stood in a line, three or four abreast, and if they could be said to be looking at anything it was at the beautiful windows straight before them,—not glass windows, the panes were lovely gems of various shapes and sizes, and nearly all the colors of the rainbow; and of course you could not look through them into the White House.

"Keep fast hold of my hand, Mary," said Mrs. Gray. "The people are crowding in behind us."

"Keep fast hold of my hand, Kittyleen," said Miss Pike, "or I shall lose you."

"Where are we going?" asked little Kittyleen, who might have been going up in a balloon for all she knew to the contrary.

"We are trying to go through a door, but you can't see the door, there are so many people ahead of us."

"Well, when we come to the door and get through it, then we shall see the President, sha'n't we?" said Flaxie. "But oh, dear, I don't care so much about him as I did! It takes so long, and the people push so."

By this time, the little party of four were wedged in very tight. They could not move one step, except as they were pushed. Flaxie's crushed-strawberry dress was crushed quite out of sight, and nothing was to be seen of her but two bewildered blue eyes, a tuft of flaxen hair, and—sad to relate—a broken-winged bird of Paradise!

And where was little Kittyleen? By looking down, down, among the ladies' cloaks and skirts, Miss Pike could just espy the top of the little girl's bonnet, and the end of her nose.

"It isn't very comfortable, is it, Kittyleen?" said Miss Pike, pitying, but not knowing how to help her. "No'm, it isn't very com-fi-a-ble," replied the darling, catching her breath.

The crowd had been moving very, very slowly, but now it stopped altogether.

"The people at the front, who got in first, are halting to shake hands with the President," said a man in the crowd; "and we must wait for them to move on."

They waited perhaps fifteen minutes; and all the while the people behind could not stand still, but kept pushing.

"Don't they know we can't move? Why do they push?" grumbled Flaxie, indignantly. "Do tell them to keep still, mamma; tell the people behind to keep still."

Mrs. Gray only laughed.

"Mamma, they don't obey the Golden Rule, or they wouldn't push so and hurt." Flaxie was always talking about the Golden Rule.

"My daughter, we are here and must bear it. Try to be brave and not cry."

"Oh, mamma, I don't mean to cry; but they squeeze so hard that they squeeze the tears right out of my eyes. I just know I shall die!"

Flaxie's wail was piteous, indeed; but it was little Kittyleen—ever so much shorter and younger and frailer; dear, patient Kittyleen—who was in far more danger of being hurt. She must have been almost suffocated by this time, for absolutely nothing, not even the crown of her bonnet, was to be seen. In real alarm Miss Pike exclaimed, "How shall I get this child up to give her some air?"

"What, a little child here? Can't you lift her up, ma'am, and set her on my shoulder?" said a gentleman just ahead.

Mrs. Gray and Miss Pike plunged down for Kittyleen, and succeeded in drawing her up from her dangerous hiding-place among the cloaks and skirts, and setting her aloft upon the kind stranger's shoulders. She gave several little shuddering gasps, and her eyes were full of tears; but when Miss Pike asked, "Darling, how do you feel now?" she answered, with a pathetic little smile,—

"I feel more com-fi-a-ble."

But Flaxie was still crying. It was not only for the discomfort. She saw now what a silly girl she had been to wear her best clothes; and the broken wing of the bird of Paradise dangling before her eyes added the last feather to her weight of misery.

The crowd began to move again by half-inch steps. The open door was reached at last. Now they were fairly inside the White House; yet still there was one room to cross, in order to reach the President. But Flaxie's feelings were greatly changed. She no longer expected the President to admire, or even look at her. Why should he, so forlorn and dilapidated as she was, and so very, very small?

But she had little time for these humble reflections. As they entered the door of the White House a current of warm air met them, and Mrs. Gray grew instantly faint. A strange lady in the crowd caught a fan from another strange lady, and gave it to Miss Pike. Miss Pike fanned Mrs. Gray a moment, and then she and some one else dragged her out from the narrow line of people who were pushing toward the next room, and extended her upon the floor before an open window.

Mrs. Gray was perfectly colorless, and her eyes were closed. "She has lost her consciousness," said some one, just as Flaxie broke through the crowd and rushed toward her.

"Oh, mamma, mamma, are you dead? Speak to me, speak to me, mamma," wailed the child.

And Mrs. Gray opened her eyes, and smiled. She was obliged to smile in order to reassure her little daughter, but she was of course too weak yet to go back to the dreadful crowd. She needed and must have rest and quiet and fresh air.

"Children, do you care much about seeing the President?" asked Miss Pike. "He looks very much like other men; he doesn't wear a crown."

"Oh, doesn't wear a crown?" echoed little Kittyleen. Perhaps she had fancied he did, or, at any rate, that he was in some way a very grand and radiant being.

"Well, I don't want to see him,—not with my things all torn off and looking like this," said Flaxie, in deep discouragement.

She was nearly as anxious to leave the White House as she had been to enter it. But when and how could they ever get out?

"Ladies," said a gentleman who had left the crowd in disgust, and stood by the wall with his arms folded,—"ladies, if you are ill and want to go home, I can put you out of the window. Will you allow me?"

It sounded very funny, and Miss Pike laughed; but he was quite in earnest. "Would you like to have me put you out, madam? Here, mount this stool."

"Indeed, I would like it; but can you do it, sir?" asked Miss Pike. "I'm pretty heavy."

The polite gentleman answered by lifting her up by the shoulders, so that she found no trouble in climbing out of the low window, and alighting upon the piazza.

"Oh, thank you, sir," said she. "Now I will stand here, and help down the other lady and the children."

This was easily managed; and soon all the little party were safely drawing long breaths, and laughing in the pure air outside; and Miss Pike said, "Here we are at the back of the house, and if the servants should spy us they would take us for a set of tramps. But, Mrs. Gray, I don't care for that, I'm so very thankful to have got you and Kittyleen out alive."

They hastened down the steps of the back piazza, and got around to the front door, and into the gravel path, and thence to the street, as fast as possible.

When Doctor Papa came home to early dinner, his wife related the adventure.

"We made a great mistake in taking the children," said she, "but dear little Kittyleen was wonderfully patient and reasonable."

Flaxie twisted uneasily in her chair, feeling that all praise of the little one was a rebuke to herself.

"Yes, papa, Kittyleen was very good. I don't see how she could be so good. But you see I—why, I had a dreadful time. I was so afraid about mamma. Why, I wasn't sure when I saw her there on the floor that she was really alive! She lay there as much as ten minutes, I think, without any conscience at all!"

"Oh, not half a minute," laughed Mrs. Gray. And then she laughed again as she held up a fan, a pretty painted one with ivory sticks. "I'm afraid the owner of this fan will think I never had any conscience! It was given to Miss Pike to fan me when I fainted, and we couldn't tell who gave it, and so we had to bring it home."

"You might have left it with one of the porters at the front door," said Doctor Papa.

"Oh, we never thought of that! What a pity!"

As they were going down to dinner, Flaxie saw her now ruined bird of Paradise lying in the basket of rubbish, ready for Lena the chambermaid to carry away. Her mother had put it there without saying a word. Flaxie knew she had lost her pretty bird and could not have another one, "no, not even a feather"; and though it seemed a hard punishment, she felt that it was just.

A few days after this all the Grays and Miss Pike, with Kittyleen and her cousin, Cora Garland, went to Mount Vernon to see the tomb and the old home of General Washington. It was delightful; and the next spring, when Congress had risen and all these gay times were only a memory, Flaxie never tired of telling Grandma Gray how she had played on the tiny piano that once belonged to Lady Washington, and how "just exactly" it had sounded like her own doll's piano in the back parlor at home.

Grandma Gray listened kindly to these reminiscences, and so indeed did all Flaxie's playmates at Laurel Grove, though I wonder they did not sometimes smile at the constant refrain, "Last winter, when I was at Washington." One little story, the adventures of the runaway rings, you will find in the next chapter, in Flaxie's own words, as she related it to Grandma Gray.

CHAPTER XI.
THE RUNAWAY RINGS.—FLAXIE'S STORY.

"Oh, dear, the old man is out! Why, grandma, don't you know what I mean? I mean the rain-man! He always comes out of that little weather-house on the mantel, and looks around, you know, before it begins to rain.

"And there, just see, it's pouring this minute, and there are lots of people going by with umbrellas. It makes me think of that time last winter, when it rained so hard, and I lost those rings. Do you want to hear about it? Well, you just lie still and I'll tell you, and we'll have a beautiful time. Isn't it a perfect state of bliss to think I've got home, and can take care of you?

"But I did like to be at Washington. It didn't seem like winter, with the rain a-raining, and the sun a-shining, and no snow hardly ever, and the streets as clean as a floor.

"Besides, you know how I love Miss Pike; she's my favorite friend. And a hotel is splendid, there are so many children in it. Only they're not all alike. Some are ever so nice, and some would be nice if they didn't have temper.

"Now, there was Cora Garland, Kittyleen's cousin. She had a temper like this: see me walk across the floor, grandma, with my head thrown back,—so. That was the kind of temper she had. But she didn't have it very often, and she was good to Ethel and Kittyleen and Phil. I liked Cora; I mean, almost always I did. And I never saw a girl with so many rings and earrings and gold bracelets and things. Did you ever see an honest, true diamond, grammy, hard enough to scratch on the window-pane, and bright enough to put your eyes out—almost? Well, one of Cora's rings was a diamond. I suppose it came out of a mine. And one of her rings was red; I forget the name of it; fiery, rosy red, and all of a twinkle, with a row of pearls around it, like little white currants.

"Well, I used to borrow Cora's rings and bracelets sometimes, and she used to borrow these old silver bangles. I don't see what she wanted of them. You see they are just bands of silver, with five-cent pieces dangling down! But mamma didn't approve of my wearing Cora's things.

"'Little Mary, I don't approve of borrowed finery,' said she.

"So she wanted me to take them back. And I always did take them back; but sometimes I forgot, and borrowed them over again. I don't remember now how I happened to forget.

"Oh, I thought I wasn't telling the story right. We lived up, up, up, away up on the fourth floor! Did you ever go up in an elevator? You wouldn't like it, but I did. Our room was large and ever so pretty, with two windows in it, where you could look right out on the avenue. And there was a fireman, who used to come in and fix the fire in the grate.

"I slept with Miss Pike, and sometimes I wouldn't wake in the morning till ever so late, and she would go down to breakfast without me. But she didn't care; she said she didn't expect me to get up when I was asleep, for how could I, you know? And by and by she always came back and curled my hair, and let me go down to breakfast with Ethel and Kittyleen and Phil and Cora.

"But before I'd go down, and before Miss Pike would come back, and while I'd be asleep, the fireman would come in with his bucket and fix the fire. I ought to tell about this, so you'll understand better when I get to the rings. You never knew whether there was coal-dust on the fireman's face or not, for he was always as black as could be, and couldn't be any blacker. His name was Lijar, just as if he came out of the Bible and had been fed by ravens; but somehow I didn't think he was very pious. No, I seemed to think he was rather un-pious, because he rolled his eyes around so much, and kept laughing to himself.

"And there I'd be fast asleep on the bed; but sometimes I'd just peep out under my eyelashes, and he'd be taking down some of the pretty things from the mantel and looking at them and laughing to himself. I thought it was very impolite. He oughtn't to have touched a single thing, now ought he, with his hands so black and dirty? But I never once thought of his stealing,—not then.

"Well, one night, after I'd borrowed those rings back again,—the diamond ring and the red one with white currants round it,—I put both the rings in a blue box, or I thought I did, and set the box on the bureau right under the looking-glass. And Lena stood at the door and saw me.

"Why, I forgot to tell you about Lena! She was the chambermaid, that went around all day with a pink handkerchief tied on her head, and a broom, and a pail. She was French. She always walked into my room before I was up, same as Lijar did. And she laughed, and shook the feather-duster at me sometimes. I suppose she wished I wasn't there on the bed, for she wanted to take off the sheets. She didn't know how to talk the American language very well, and I didn't blame her; for of course French people have to learn to talk, just like babies. But she was a pretty girl, and I supposed she was a great deal better than Lijar. She told me one day she could say her prayers in French, and so I never once thought of her stealing,—not then.

"That night—the night I lost the rings—she was there in the hall, and I was coming along, waltzing a waltz. She set down her broom and pail, and took those rings and put them on her little finger. I let her do it. And she said, 'Oh, wee, wee,' and kept smiling.

"I remember it was in the evening, and I had just come up from playing in the public parlor, and I had on my crushed-strawberry dress and an orange in my hand, and Lena said I was as pretty as her little sister, and I asked if her little sister wore curls. And she said, 'No, she don't ever does.' That was the best Lena could talk.

"Then she gave me back the rings, and I was going right to bed, so I put them in the box on the bureau,—or I thought I did,—and Lena stood at the door and looked at me the whole time. I remember there was pink cotton in the box, and the sweetest picture on the cover. It was Miss Pike's box; she has got it now.

"Then I went to bed, and Miss Pike set up the screen between me and the gas-light, and she read, and I went to sleep. How I did sleep! I'd been playing blind-man's-buff, and was so tired; and I never woke up next morning till after Lijar had been in to fix the fire, and Lena had been in to bring the clean towels. The first thing I knew I opened my eyes, and there were Miss Pike and Cora and Kittyleen all laughing at me.

"'Come, you little sleepy girl,' said Miss Pike; and she kissed me on both cheeks. I never once thought about the rings, but got up and let her curl my hair. She said it was Washington's birthday, and curled a curl and laughed, but I knew Kittyleen and Cora were very hungry waiting.

"After breakfast they came up with me, and so did Ethel and Phil. And I remember how it rained, harder than it does now, ever so much. And we stood by that beautiful window, and looked out to see the soldiers parade.

"They didn't mind the rain, dripping on their pretty caps and uniforms and white gloves. First they put out one foot, and then they put out the other foot, and at the same time, to the music. Cora said it was like wooden dolls, with joints in their knees.

"She didn't see that I hadn't any rings on my fingers, and I didn't see it myself. We were watching the soldiers on the street, and the people on the pavement following on after the soldiers. The people all had umbrellas. You couldn't see their heads; all you could see was umbrellas.

"The children wanted to dress up their dolls like soldiers. They were girl dolls, with Kate Greenaway dresses, but Miss Pike said they could be woman's-rights soldiers, why not? And she is so kind! She made some shiny black soldier-caps, and we tucked up the dolls' curls; and so cunning and brave as they looked!

"Afterwards I remember Miss Pike went to the next room to read to Mrs. Garland, and I waited for her; and the children went down to lunch with mamma. But oh, when they were all gone, then I thought of those rings, and went to the box on the bureau. But just think, grandma, they weren't there! There was the pink cotton in the box, but not a ring to be seen!

"A perfectly awful feeling went over me. I know I must have turned pale, for I had to pour my handkerchief wringing wet with cologne. Why, just you think! Did you ever have anything so terrible happen to you? Why, those rings cost more money than I had in this world! And Cora's grandfather gave her the red ring, that died!

"I hunted and hunted, under the bed and under the rugs, and pulled the things out of the drawers. And I knew papa would have to pay for them, and he'd think I was very expensive! He would have to cure ever so many sick people for it, and ride in the night for days and days to pay for those rings! 'Specially the beautiful red one with white currants round it. And she thinking so much of her grandpa that died! I knew she'd never forgive me, but always go around with her head thrown back; and how I should feel!

"I wished then I'd obeyed mamma, and not borrowed what didn't belong to me. It was just awful to have mamma and Miss Pike know it. I wished I needn't be obliged to tell."

CHAPTER XII.
THE HUNT.—FLAXIE'S STORY, CONTINUED.

"When Miss Pike came in from reading to Kittyleen's mother I was crying in the bed.

"First I wanted to say I was crying about my silver mug that Kittyleen dented all up, hitting it against the grate; and so I was—a little. I could always cry about that! But my truly tears were for the rings, and I wouldn't let myself be so mean as not to tell the truth. Besides, I wanted Miss Pike to help me find them, you know.

"Then I told her; I made myself tell. And she said, 'Ah, little Mary, you've been borrowing again!'

"I knew she was displeased, because she was so cool in her manner, and said 'little Mary.'

"'Oh, please don't blame me,' said I. And I told her I was sure Lena had stolen the rings, for she knew where they were, and saw me put them in the box. 'Oh, little Mary, is that all the reason you have for saying so?' said she. She thought it wasn't any reason at all, unless I knew it was true.

"'But I do know it, Miss Pike,' said I. 'Lena always wanted those rings for her little sister; and when she came in this morning, and found me asleep, she could take them as well as not. I always thought she had a horrid face; she looks as if she'd steal!'

"I spoke so sure and certain that I expected Miss Pike would believe me and ring the bell for Lena; and I was going to hide under the bed when Lena came in. But instead of that, she only stood there looking displeased, and said 'Oh, little Mary' again.

"Then she talked about the Golden Rule, and of course I didn't want to hear about that, not just then. 'Was it kind to s'pect people,' she said, 'was it right?'

"And I knew in my heart it wasn't, but I thought Lena took those rings just the same.

"Then Miss Pike began to hunt everywhere; in all my pockets, and in my doll's pockets, and in the waste-basket, and in the books, and under the table. The more she hunted the worse I felt. Every time she didn't find the rings I kept thinking she'd say, 'Little Mary,' again, and talk about 'hoping this will be a lesson to you, little Mary.' But she didn't. She was just as sweet! She went with me to early dinner, and let me have lady-fingers and ice-cream, and three nuts and six raisins, just as she always did.

"And after dinner she hunted again. She took all the clothes out of the closet, and shook them and put them back again; and oh, I don't know what she didn't do, and it was no use.

"'Oh, shall I have to tell Cora?' said I. And she said yes. I'd have to tell her and mamma; but I needn't do it quite yet; not till we'd hunted a little longer.

"Then she kissed me as if she loved me after all, on both cheeks; and I sat down and read 'Wonders of the Deep,' and cried.

"I remember how homely Lena looked to me when I met her in the hall, and how I despised her. I couldn't eat much supper, and I didn't drink a drop of water, because I'd been reading 'Wonders of the Deep.' Now, water is all full of little live things. I never used to know it, you see. I used to swallow 'em, and not think.

"But no matter for the insects now. I was talking about despising Lena; but you don't know yet whether she was bad or not, grandma. I'm telling it by degrees, to make it sound like a story.

"Now we will go back to Lijar. Something queer happened next morning. He didn't come to fix the fire till it all went out, and then a new man came. Lijar didn't come at all. Miss Pike asked where he was, and the new man said, 'In the lock up.' He said he had been put in the lock-up for stealing. Miss Pike thought it was very strange and couldn't believe it, because she always liked Lijar. 'What did he steal?' she asked. And the new man said, 'A gold watch and chain.'

"'Then he stole those rings,' said I, as quick as a flash. Miss Pike couldn't hush me. I spoke right out before the fireman, and told how Lijar took things off the mantel, and looked at them with his dirty fingers when I was asleep.

"I said I was so sorry now to think I'd s'pected Lena, for I knew Lena was a good girl, and 'twas Lijar that stole all the time.

"'Do please write a note to the President,' said I, 'and ask him to make Lijar give back those beautiful rings.'

"But Miss Pike never stirred. She said, 'Little Mary, you don't know any more about Lijar to-day than you knew about Lena yesterday. You're hasty again.' 'I don't think I'm hasty, at all,' said I. 'Lijar is a horrid thief, or what did they put him in the lock-up for? If he'd steal a big watch, wouldn't he steal little rings? If he'd steal one thing wouldn't he steal everything?' said I. 'And I think the President ought to know it.'

"But Miss Pike didn't pay the least attention, only laughed. You know she has such good judgment, and Doctor Papa says so himself. I was glad afterward that she didn't write to the President, for mother said it wasn't the President's business to go to the lock-up, and I suppose a letter would only have bothered him. Besides, if he had gone,—well, just you be patient, grandma!

"Miss Pike curled my hair, and I went down to breakfast with the children; I wasn't to say anything to Cora,—not yet. Miss Pike was going to hunt again.

"I thought she was a very queer woman to keep hunting when she knew it was no use. I came back after breakfast feeling very bad, for it seemed as if Cora had been looking at my hands all the while I was eating. I opened the door of our room, and what do you think? There stood Miss Pike, smiling, and she had both those rings on a knitting-needle, holding them up for me to see.

"'Look at your runaway rings,' said she. I screamed right out, I was so happy.

"It wasn't Lijar, and it wasn't Lena.

"Miss Pike had found them in that room, and you can't guess where.

"She had hunted in that bureau five hundred and sixty times, and taken the things all out. But this time she took out one of the drawers, and sat down on the floor to look it over. It was the next to the upper drawer that she took out, and she happened to look up at the empty place in the bureau where the drawer belonged, and there she saw something shining through a crack. It was those rings, both of them. They had got pushed into the crack and stuck there,—stuck on a splinter.

"Miss Pike said of course I had put them in the upper drawer, instead of the box. It was because I was so sleepy. I don't see how she ever found them, though, and she don't see; for they were sticking to that splinter very tight, and might have stuck there for years and years, if she hadn't happened to sit on the floor and look up, and catch them shining.

"Oh, grandma, I tell you there wasn't a feeling in me that wasn't happy! I went right into Mrs. Garland's room, and laughed right out before I could speak.

"'Here they are, Cora, your runaway rings,' said I. She didn't know what I meant till I told her how terribly they'd been lost. And I said I'd never borrow them any more. I didn't want to be an expensive girl, and my papa such a poor doctor. And Mrs. Garland laughed and said, 'That is right,' only she thought my father wasn't such a very poor doctor.

"I wished Mrs. Garland had said Kittyleen should stop borrowing, too. For Kittyleen—oh, well, I try to be patient with little Kittyleen!

"I met Lena coming out of our room, smiling the pleasantest smile.

"'I did been to your room, Miss Mary,' said she. She didn't tell about bringing a bunch of violets, but that was what she brought. She called them 'vi'lets,' when she gave them to Miss Pike to put in water for me. Why, it made me feel so cruel and unkind and ashamed to smell those 'vi'lets.' She bought them herself, Lena did. Oh, she never knew what I'd said about her stealing those rings for her little sister!

"There, that's pretty near the end. Oh, no, I forgot about Lijar. He hadn't stolen a watch, or touched one. He hadn't stolen anything. And he hadn't been put in the lock-up, either. Perhaps somebody had been put in the lock-up, but it wasn't Lijar. Lijar had broken his leg, and that was all that ailed him.

"Miss Pike went to his house to see him, and I went with her. It was a queer old house full of children,—oh, ever so many children. Lijar was in awful pain, so Miss Pike said, but he didn't groan any, and of course he couldn't possibly look pale, so you wouldn't have known how much he was in pain.

"He thanked us for the oranges, and his wife said he was always good and kind, and then she put her apron to her eyes and cried, and told Miss Pike she'd rather be hurt herself than to have her 'old man' hurt. Then I felt cruel and unkind again, to think how I'd called him horrid, when he wasn't horrid at all, and it was another man that stole.

"There, grandma, I wouldn't tell this story to anybody but you. But it's the very last time I'll talk so about people, unless I know it's certainly true. If Miss Pike didn't say, 'I hope this will be a lesson to you, little Mary,' it will be a lesson all the same, I just about know.

"And now, grandma, if you can spare me, I must go out and talk with mamma and Miss Pike about Ethel's party. Yes'm, it will be Ethel's birthday to-morrow, the 20th of March, and ever since we got home she has been wanting a party. Mamma wasn't going to let her have one. She said it would be too much trouble, for her friends are such little bits of things that their mammas would have to come, too, to keep them in order; and then I said, 'Oh, mamma, if you are willing, you could let me ask my little girls to a party, the little girls of my age! Ethel likes them just as well as her little girls, and she'd be ever so pleased; and she does want a party so much!'

"Mamma thought it was a queer idea, but I'm pretty sure she'll consent. It isn't for my sake, you know, it's for Ethel, and we can call it Ethel's kettledrum."

CHAPTER XIII.
ETHEL'S KETTLEDRUM.

Not long after this, "homely Miss Pike" sat by the window in the back parlor, drawing her thread in and out, in and out, of a piece of pretty pink silk. Little Kittyleen, who had returned from Washington, and as usual spent most of her time at Dr. Gray's, had been lying on the rug, gazing up wonderingly at Miss Pike's large, wide mouth.

At last she broke forth suddenly, as if thinking aloud,—

"Most everybody has whiskers, don't they, Miss Pike?"

"Why, have I any whiskers, Kittyleen?"

"No'm; but you've got some growing."

Miss Pike laughed softly to herself. She had always known she was very plain, and of course she was aware of the rather thick, dark beard on her upper lip. Kittyleen's little speech amused her, and yet the tears sprang to her eyes.

"If I had had my way about it," thought she, "I should have had a form like this perfect wax doll I am dressing, and very much such a pink and white face, with wavy, soft hair, the color of old gold; sweet, red lips, straight nose, not a spot or a freckle anywhere. Then the whole world would have admired me, and I fancy it might be pleasant to be admired.

"Ah, but the One who made me knew what is best! If I can't be beautiful, I can try to be good; and I'm not going to cry about my homely body, for I'm sure to leave it behind me one of these days when I'm called up to Heaven."

Then with a happy smile the excellent young lady took the tape-measure out of her work-basket and measured the slender, round waist of "little miss," as she called the doll.

"Oh, Miss Pike, where did you get that? She's larger than my Princess Aurora Arozarena, and I do believe she's handsomer," cried Flaxie, rushing in from the kitchen, where she had been stoning raisins. "Ethel told me you were dressing an elegant doll, and I couldn't wait another minute to see it."

"Well, I'm glad you think she's handsome," replied Miss Pike, trimming the silk basque carefully. "I think myself she's almost a perfect beauty. I fell in love with her last winter when we were in Washington, and bought her instead of buying myself a new bonnet."

"Why, Miss Pike, how funny! I didn't know young ladies ever wanted dolls. Though why not?" she thought next minute. Could anybody in the whole world be so "grown up" as not to love that exquisite "little miss," who sat up in Miss Pike's lap with the most knowing of smiles, as if she were just going to speak?

"Oh, yes, young ladies love dolls," said Miss Pike, embracing the waxen image tenderly, as she fitted on the pink basque. "But I think I shall give up mine. In fact, I did not intend her for myself. I thought I would buy her and give her to some poor little girl, who never knew what it was to have a good time. And now I'm hurrying to get her dressed in season for Ethel's party. Don't you think she'll look well there? And of course there'll be some poor little girl among your guests, or perhaps a sick little girl; and I'll give her the doll."

"Oh, is that it?" said Flaxie, more surprised than ever. She had not issued invitations yet for her party,—or Ethel's party,—and Miss Pike's words set her to thinking.

Why, there were no poor little girls or any sick ones who ever went to parties! The children she played with were all well and happy. They had pleasant homes—not quite as pleasant as Flaxie's—and plenty to eat and wear. But of course there were other children in town.

"Let me think. Oh, there's Sadie Stockwell. She is a poor girl."

Sadie was not exactly sick, but she was lame. Something dreadful had happened to her when she was a baby, and her head seemed to be driven down between her shoulders, as if she had no neck. She made you think of a flower growing on a leaf-stalk without any stem. Her face was sweet, but sad and pale. She was shorter than most little girls of her age, and walked slowly and painfully with a pair of crutches. Sadie was a good little girl. Why wasn't she ever invited to parties? Flaxie did not know why, only "somehow she never was." She lived ever so far away from the other girls; perhaps that was one reason.

Brother Preston was in the shed with Rover, cracking walnuts for to-morrow's candy. Sister Julia was in the kitchen, finishing the raisins Flaxie had been stoning for cake; and Dora Whalen stood by the ironing-table, ironing the finest and best damask table-cloth for Ethel's party, though the table-cloth might have been as coarse as the pony's red blanket and it would have been all the same to the baby.

Flaxie walked about from room to room in deep thought. Finally, she paused at the open door of her mother's chamber, and looked in. On the floor beside Mrs. Gray stood a basket piled with very small dolls, which she was dressing with strips of bright ribbon, and bows of narrow taste. One of these tiny dolls was to be placed under each guest's plate, and carried home as a memento of Ethel's first party.

"Mamma," asked Flaxie, still in a brown study, "how many dollies did you buy, and how many girls am I going to invite?"

"Well, Mary, here are twenty dollies. I thought you and Ethel would each want one, and I meant you should ask eighteen little girls."

"Could I ask one more, mamma?"

"Eighteen is a large number, Mary; isn't it enough? Oh, do you want little Kittyleen?"

"Kittyleen, mamma? Why, no, indeed! She'd spoil everything. I don't want Kittyleen! I mean Ethel wouldn't want her; it's Ethel's kettledrum, of course."

Flaxie was careful to say repeatedly, "It is Ethel's kettledrum," lest she should forget it was not her own.

"Well, dear, who is the 'one more,' if not Kittyleen?"

Flaxie did not answer directly.

"Mamma," said she, "what do you suppose Miss Pike said? She said of course I'd have some poor girls and sick girls. Must I, mamma?"

Mrs. Gray felt a sudden pricking of conscience. Why hadn't she thought of that herself?

"Poor girls, Mary? Sick girls? Why, of course, as Miss Pike says, they are the very ones to enjoy your party, my daughter."

"Then, mamma, please buy another dolly, and I'll ask Sadie Stockwell. She won't take up a great deal of room. She never goes anywhere except to school, and never has any good times. I don't know what we could do with her, though," added Flaxie, with a puzzled look, "and I'm afraid the other girls won't like it, for she can't play."

"But the girls must like it, my daughter. You have all done wrong not to invite her to your parties long ago, for she is an excellent child, and never rough or ill-mannered. As for entertaining her, you and Julia can talk to her and show her your playthings and picture-books, can't you? I'm sure, Mary, you'll all be happier if you have Sadie."

"So I think, too," cried Flaxie, and skipped away joyfully, her light curls flying as she ran.

Sober little Sadie, who lived with eight brothers and sisters in an old, worn-out house, dressed in old, worn-out clothes, and looked old and worn-out herself,—how her solemn little face brightened at the unexpected honor of an invitation to Flaxie's—no, Ethel's—party! Mrs. Stockwell, too, was very much gratified, especially as Mrs. Gray had sent Sadie one of Flaxie's dresses, a pretty blue cambric, which could be altered over to fit her, as well as anything ever could fit her poor, crooked little figure.

Happy Sadie! She rode next day with Preston Gray in the little basket phaeton, after Blackdrop, the pony, and she felt like rubbing her eyes to make sure she was awake. She smiled beamingly at the cunning little steed and his silver-mounted harness, and at Rover, trotting now here and now there. She smiled at her crutches, which lay across the floor of the phaeton; she smiled at the very mud-puddles which winked back at her sleepily from the side of the road. If there had been any grass, she would have thought it was emeralds; if there had been ice, she would have thought it was diamonds.

When Preston lifted her from the phaeton at his father's gate, and Mrs. Gray and Flaxie both came out to meet her, followed by Kittyleen, who was there, of course, she hobbled up the path with a sparkle of joy and expectation in her sad brown eyes.

The people of Laurel Grove had always been kind to her, and given her mother plenty of half-worn garments to "make over" for all the family; but there are things that poor children prize even more than old clothes, and nothing had ever seemed quite so desirable to poor, lame Sadie as a little girls' tea-party.

This was chiefly because parties were unknown joys. She had dreamed of them, but never seen them. How the little guests amused themselves, and what they had to eat, it would be worth a great deal to know. Still, until to-day she had as little expectation of ever going to a party, as of mounting an owl's back and flying up to the moon.

Yet here she was. What a beautiful house! What lovely pictures and books and playthings and flowers! How very happy the people must be who lived here all the time!

It is true she was a little frightened at first, being a sensitive child, and not really sure whether the party had begun or not. The little girls kept arriving, one after another, and they were all extremely kind; but nobody thought to tell her the precise moment when the party would begin.

By and by, however, Miss Pike, who seemed in gay spirits, sprang up and said,—

"Let's all play 'Button, Button,' and immediately bashful little Sadie felt quite at home. Who would have thought of such a game at an elegant party? And Miss Pike hadn't gone half around with the button before she let it fall, softly and slyly, into Sadie's own hand."

This was another surprise.

Then, when the company were playing blind-man's-buff, Miss Pike took Sadie into a corner and began a long story, with Ethel in her lap and Kittyleen by her side. Sadie listened in rapture. No matter for the blind-man's-buff; she didn't wish to play. No matter for the "Magical Music," the "I Spy," the "Marching on to Old Quebec." Miss Pike's stories were better than all the games in the world.

Besides, Flaxie and her friends never seemed to forget Sadie, but kept coming up between the pauses to say something pleasant. They all agreed among themselves that it was the nicest party they had ever attended, and Kittyleen didn't spoil it; and they said this to Flaxie.

"Oh," said Flaxie, delighted, "then it's Miss Pike that makes it so nice."

But she was mistaken. It was Sadie, though nobody suspected it. They were all trying to give the lame girl pleasure, and we never make others happy without feeling happy ourselves.

But the best was to come. Supper was served, and all the girls were summoned to the dining-room to a feast such as one of the party had never seen before. Sandwiches, cakes, tarts, pyramids of candy, glasses of whipped cream; but what was that in the middle of the table? A little "Lady Bountiful" in a small chair. She was as large as a child two years old, but no baby of that age ever had such long, fair ringlets, such starry eyes, such rosy cheeks, such a sweet-smiling mouth, made up for endless kisses.

Her pink silk dress was trimmed with rich lace, and bore a sweeping train. You could just see in front the points of her tiny pink boots; and as for her gloves, they were long tan-colored kids,—the height of fashion,—and buttoned from wrist to elbow.

Just before this marvel of beauty stood a small light-stand, bearing a birthday cake on a silver tray; and the beauty was pointing sweetly with both hands at the cake, which was a very large one, heavily frosted, and marked in letters of cedar, "Ethel." But no one thought of the cake for looking at "little miss." She was so wondrously bewitching, so "alive looking" that they all exclaimed in chorus, "Oh, what a beauty!" They wanted to rush upon her and embrace her; but being far too well-bred for that, they took their seats in perfect order, only murmuring over and over again to one another,—