Miss Billy

"Beside, Miss Blanche, you are labouring under a delusion. I assure you we enjoy our new home in Cherry Street."

"Oh, it's very pleasant," conceded Miss Blanche hastily. "By the way, what has become of that lovely little étagère of yours? I missed it the moment I stepped into the room."

Miss Billy threw patience and prudence to the winds. "It's stored in a storing-room," she declared. "The last time I saw it, there was a bird-cage and a foot-stool on top of it. We had to pack a good deal of our furniture. We haven't fourteen rooms now, you understand."

"Good-afternoon, ladies," said a voice in the doorway. It was Theodore, looking very mischievous. "I'm sorry I can't shake hands with you,—but I've been giving a hand in the erection of the conservatory on the south side—a fad of Miss Billy's."

Miss Billy gasped. A conservatory! He must mean the glass sash he had been fitting over the pansy bed!

"We've been at no end of trouble and expense since we moved here," went on Theodore. "You see it is the first 'place' we have really had. There's one hundred and fifty feet of ground here. Beatrice has planned for a sort of Southern California verandah from which she can serve afternoon teas, and mother wants the lawn wired with electricity for social purposes."

"How delightful," murmured the guests, looking a bit uncertain, while Miss Billy sat rigidly upright, trying in vain to catch Theodore's eye. Certainly, her mother had said that at the breakfast table, but it had been a joke, nothing more.

"I have a leaning toward an up-to-date stable and riding ponies, myself," went on Theodore airily, and looking at Miss Billy now as if to say: "No word of untruth in that!" "Still, there's the college grind to consider,—I shall be qualified next year, you know,—and a fellow gets precious little time for recreation."

"Are you—ah—still at Brown's drug store?" interpolated Miss Maude, looking mystified. "Sister Myrtle has spoken of seeing you there. The child thinks so much of you."

"And of ice-cream sodas," thought Theodore grimly. "Yes," he said aloud, "Mr. Brown wanted me to help him out on Saturdays for a little while. He's in the church, you know. But I shall give it up when vacation comes."

Beatrice was entering with a dainty tray. "You'll pardon the delay, won't you?" she said sweetly, as she offered the sparkling glasses. "You'll have some, Miss Billy?"

"No, I thank you," said Miss Billy, with heightened colour and a hasty manner. "If you will excuse me I'll see to my geraniums. Good-afternoon."

"And I," said Theodore, "shall betake myself to the bathroom to remove the unseemly signs of toil. I'll take my frappé with me, Bea,—may I? Good-bye, girls. Write me from gay Paree when you reach there," and Theodore followed Miss Billy into the dining room.

"Well?" he asked interrogatively, as he seated himself on a corner of the table to sip his frappé.

"It's far from well, Theodore Lee," snapped Miss Billy reproachfully, undecided as to whether to laugh or cry. "You told awful, unmitigated falsehoods! You know you did!"

“I have a leaning toward an up-to-date stable and riding ponies, myself.”

"My dear sister, I only enlarged upon truthful topics in a brilliant and society-like way. Beside, I had to hand them back the small change. I never in my life heard such stilted, patronising talk as they were giving you. And when they jumped on father,—well, that decided it. Good land, Sis,—what's the matter with this frappé!"

"Don't drink it if you don't like it," said Miss Billy, refusing to be friendly.

"Like it! Why it's awful! It tastes like spruce gum and carbolic acid and chloroform all mixed up. Smell it, Miss Billy."

"When you were little, mother used to wash your mouth with soap when you told falsehoods. It is probably some hazy recollection of that which is perverting your taste."

Theodore was taking another cautious sip. "It's a little like sauerkraut, but it has the effervescence of soda water. It's the most curious stuff I ever tasted."

Miss Billy unbent sufficiently to put her nose to the glass.

"Why, it smells like yeast," she said wonderingly.

"That's what it is," said Theodore, snapping his fingers triumphantly. "I knew it wasn't chloroform or carbolic, but I couldn't just name it. It's yeast!"

"But what can yeast be doing in the frappé?" questioned Miss Billy unbelievingly. Then as a sudden light broke upon her, she exclaimed, "Oh, Ted,—Beatrice must have gotten the yeast bottle instead of the Apollinaris water!—and for the Blanchard girls of all others! They are in there trying to drink it now. What shall we do?"

"Nothing," said Theodore decidedly,—"they've drank it by this time. You watch how they will 'rise' to go. 'Sweets to the sweet,'—likewise yeast to the yeasty. Dear girls,—how airily their feet will spurn the pave. And it will do Miss Blanche good! She's as flat as an oatmeal cracker."

"Theodore, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Miss Billy was almost crying now. "Think of father when he hears all this,—and Beatrice's feelings,—and the awful remarks they will make about us——"

"If you are looking for your handkerchief, you're sitting on it," said Theodore soberly. "Don't cry, Billy. I am going to father now and make a clean breast of the whole affair. There's no use staying to console Beatrice about the yeast. She'll have fifty sporadic spasms!"—and he strode from the room.

"Oh, dear,—this has been a day of nothing but troubles," sighed Miss Billy, wiping her eyes,—"and I lost my temper the very first thing over a shoe-lace, and everything has gone crooked ever since. Poor Beatrice,—she tries to be so nice and ladylike,—and I know she will never get over this,—never!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE STORY OF HORATIUS

THE sun had risen early to get a good start, and at nine o'clock was shining down with relentless fury on Cherry Street. Theodore was wont to declare that the rain was wetter and the dew damper and the sun hotter on this street than in any other portion of the inhabited globe; and it was certainly true that the rows of small houses, unprotected by trees or awnings, did look unusually torrid in the broad glare of light.

In the Lee house the shutters were closed and the green shades drawn down, but the heat seemed to radiate from the painted door, on the south porch, where a small red-headed boy was trying to ring the door bell. It was a long reach for the little arms, and after raising himself so high upon his tiptoes that he nearly lost his balance, he gave up the attempt, and thumped lustily upon the panel. There was no response. He waited a moment, his small bare feet squirming about uneasily upon the hot floor, and then rapped a second time and a third. At the last knock another small red-roofed boy appeared over the top of the board fence that separated the Canary yard from the Lee home.

"Try it again," advised the owner of Red Head Number Two.

"I have tried it lots of agains."

"But ye ain't makin' no noise. Mis' Lee might be deef. Kick 'er a little."

"Ain't got no shoes on," protested the little messenger.

He had just raised his hand for a final rap when the door was opened, and Mrs. Lee appeared upon the threshold.

"Good-morning, Fridoline," she said pleasantly.

Fridoline delivered himself of his message speedily: "Ma's got an indisposhun and says please will you come over to wunst."

"What is the matter with your mother?" inquired Mrs. Lee, puzzled by the queer statement.

"She's got rigours," responded Red Head Number One.

"And her stummick's upset," added Red Head Number Two, across the fence.

Mrs. Lee was already untying her apron. "Tell her I'll be over there right away," she said, as she left the door to explain her absence to Beatrice.

Miss Billy, coming in from an errand some time afterward, stopped short at the sight of Holly Belle, who, with tear-stained cheeks and red eyes, was emptying ashes into the street.

"Why what's the matter, Holly Belle?" she asked.

"Ma's sick," said Holly Belle, rubbing her sleeve across her eyes.

"Very sick?"

"I dunno. I guess she's pretty bad. She had highstericks this morning at dawn, but she wouldn't let me call your mother until she was sure by the smell of the coffee that you'd had your breakfast. I don't know what's the matter with her. I gave her all the kinds of medicine we had in the house, and there ain't none of 'em that seemed to do her a mite of good. Your ma's here now, and she seems to be a little better. But you know I heard the death tick in the wall, and I'm scaret to death." And the tears rose again.

"What's a death tick?" inquired Miss Billy, putting her arm reassuringly about the sorrowing little girl.

"It's a bug in the wall that always ticks when people are goin' to—to die," sobbed Holly Belle.

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Miss Billy. "You don't believe that nonsense, do you? I can't think your mother is as sick as that, anyway. Is the doctor there?"

Holly Belle shook her head.

"Well then!" said Miss Billy triumphantly. "Mother would have had him there long ago if your mother was dangerously ill. She'll probably be all right in a day or two. Now cheer up, Holly Belle, and tell me what there is that I can do for you."

A loud shriek from the back of the house answered the question.

"It's the children," said Holly Belle. "They've been going on that way for an hour steady. I could make 'em behave, if it wasn't for Launkelot. But he's got up a new game, an' of course they're all bound to see it through."

"May I borrow them for a while?" asked Miss Billy.

Holly Belle gave a visible sigh of relief. "I sh'd say you can," she responded heartily.

There was no difficulty in finding the children, for a great hubbub in the back yard indicated that the small Canarys were having a decidedly hilarious and enlivening time during their mother's enforced retirement. Miss Billy went around the walk to the back of the Lee house, and surveyed her charges over the fence.

The back yard in the Canary premises had been partitioned off into little squares by means of a boot-heel which had grooved the hard dirt. In the first square sat Ginevra

Her face and arms and bare legs were adorned with fantastic designs in coloured chalk; and a frayed rope, attached by means of a safety-pin to the hem of her dress, gave unmistakable evidence of a tail. She was waving her arms violently, and giving vent to wild, unearthly screams. Fridoline, in the next compartment, had wound his fat body with coils of rope, which he was painstakingly chewing. Tightly wedged into a dishpan in the third square, sat "Mixy" Murphy, in an airy costume of shirt and drawers; while Mike, the Baby, and the Other Baby were crawling about the ground in an abandonment of delight.

Miss Billy waited for a lull in the proceedings. When it came she made haste to ask:

"What in the world is all this?"

Launcelot, who was strutting through the enclosure, armed with a whip, took it upon himself to reply:

"We're havin' a street carnival," he explained. "Fridoline is playin' he's Bosco the Snake Eater, Jinny's Minnie the Wild Girl, an' Mixy is the High Diver. You have to pay five pins to see him dive from the fence to the tank. The Kids is camels, an' I'm boss o' the hull outfit. Frid, jest show Miss Billy how much rope you can swaller without gettin' black in the face."

Miss Billy hastened to prevent the heroic exhibition.

"Oh, no," she said, "you needn't mind, Friddie. I've got something else for you to do. Wouldn't you all like to come over and see me this morning?"

The Street Carnival Company gave vent to a wild yell of delight.

"Well, pick up your things first," cautioned Miss Billy, "and then come quietly so you won't disturb your mother. I'll be waiting for you."

"Picking up the things" was accomplished with neatness and dispatch, and five little Canarys, two Murphys, and Leo and Pius Coffee, picked up on the way, were seated in the shade of the Lee woodshed in solemn and somewhat embarrassed silence when Miss Billy appeared to welcome her guests. Her arms were full of scarlet and white reeds, a big basket swung from one arm, and a mysterious-looking cloth bag from the other. She glanced around the augmented group with such surprise that Launcelot felt called upon to explain.

"I brung 'em along," he said, with a lordly motion of his hand toward the unexpected guests. "If you was goin' to give us something to eat, an' there ain't enough to go round, they kin go home."

"Launkelot!" exclaimed Jinny.

"The Levis wanted to come, too," said Fridoline. "Their mother's goin' to the sin an' God."

"Goosey!" jeered Launcelot. "Sin an' God! He means synagogue. That's one on you, Frid."

Fridoline, moved to tears by his brother's taunts, set up such a wrathful outcry that Miss Billy began to fear for her reputation as a hostess.

"Never mind, Friddie," she said consolingly. "You may go and invite the Levi children to come now, if you want to. Hurry up, and we'll have something nice planned for you when you get back." Miss Billy deposited her burden on the ground. "I'm going to let you all help with my work," she said,—"every one of you, from Ginevra down to the Baby. These long strips are for baskets, and I'm going to show you how to make them for yourselves. The big basket is for a pattern, and the bag is full of flower seeds for the little ones to sort out, and take home for gardens of their own."

The guests fell upon the work with great alacrity.

"Wait a minute," protested Miss Billy. "We're not ready yet. We must always wash our hands before we begin to work."

This announcement dampened the ardour of the children.

"Them as sorts seeds don't need to wash, do they?" asked Fridoline.

"I choose to sort seeds!" came in a chorus from the smaller guests.

"Oh, yes, they do," responded Miss Billy decidedly. "Why not, Friddie?"

"Dirt makes seeds grow," argued Fridoline.

"Not till they're in the ground," returned the hostess. "We'll all go up to the back porch to wash. I've got some cool water up there."

A thorough and painstaking scrubbing took place on the back porch, for Jinny, who was appointed Inspector of Persons, performed her duties with impartial vigour and energy. Her delight in the toilet soap was extreme, and she modestly requested a bit of it "to take home for a sample."

Beatrice and Maggie watched the proceedings with disgust, and the children themselves did not look upon the occasion as one of unalloyed pleasure; but Miss Billy was resolute, and the entire throng were at least clean down to their necks and up to their wrists when they took their places on the grass.

Fridoline surveyed his hands gloomily. "If I'd 'a' known I had ter wash I wouldn't have came," he said.

"Friddie!" exclaimed Ginevra reproachfully.

"Fridoline doesn't think that's a very nice way to treat company," laughed Miss Billy. "He's like Horatius.

"What's Hurashus?" asked Ginevra shyly.

"Oh, he's a man in a story," responded Miss Billy. "The man who fought so bravely."

Launcelot pricked up his ears at the word "fought." "Who did he fight? Tell us about him," he commanded.

"Yes, please do," begged Ginevra.

"As soon as I get your work started for you," promised Miss Billy.

Her nimble fingers wove the bright reeds in and out for a few minutes. The children gathered near; Ginevra settled The Baby on her lap, and pulled the Other Baby close to her side. Then slowly and carefully, as if to find words suitable for her childish audience, Miss Billy began:

"It happened many years ago when Rome was the biggest and the finest and the richest city in the world, that there was a brave soldier and gallant knight named Lars Porsena."

"Two of 'em?" questioned Fridoline.

"No, only one. Lars Porsena was the soldier and the knight too. And because he was angry at one of the Romans he decided to lead a great army against them. You know what an army is?"

"Hoh! I sh'd say so! Soldiers!" replied Launcelot.

"I know you do," said Miss Billy, "but I thought the other children might not know."

"I'll explain it to 'em," said Launcelot loftily. "Kids, you remember Buffalo Bill's men that was to the Shooting Park?"

The little Canarys loudly proclaimed the excellence of their memory.

"Well, them's soldiers," said Launcelot. "Go on, Miss Billy."

"So he gathered his troops from everywhere—north and south and east and west—till he had a great big army. There were ten thousand horsemen, and twenty thousand men on foot. And with music playing and banners flying and the sunlight glittering on their spears, they set off towards Rome with Lars Porsena at the head."

"Just like Buff'lo Bill," said Fridoline.

"Sh," admonished Ginevra.

"Sh, yourself," retorted Fridoline defiantly.

"In the meantime the Romans knew they were coming, and they went down by the river gate to talk it over. The Tiber river flowed by the city, and there was a big bridge——"

"How bid?" inquired little Mike.

"I don't know how big, but it was very large indeed," went on Miss Billy, "so that the enemy had to cross it before they could get into the city. And there they waited until a messenger came flying up the hill to tell them that Lars Porsena and his great army were very near. They looked over to the west, and they saw the great cloud of dust coming up from the road."

"What was they goin' to do?" asked Jinny.

"Why bust into the city an' kill the Romans," answered Launcelot. "Go on, Miss Billy."

"And the Romans knew that they would kill them all if they once got across the bridge," continued the historian. "And they hurriedly talked about what it was best to do. And then one of them had a plan. He was a wonderfully brave and noble man, and he wasn't afraid of anything."

"Bet he'd been scaret of a hyena," said the oldest Levi boy.

"He was not afraid of anything. And this was his plan. He told the Romans that he would get two other men and alone they would cross the bridge and meet the enemy on the other side. This is what he said:

"Did they talk in po'try?" inquired Ginevra with awe.

"Sometimes," said Miss Billy. "And two other brave men volunteered to go with him. The three crossed the bridge together, and boldly faced the army on the other side." The little Canarys showed signs of restlessness, and the young Murphys yawned, so Miss Billy went on hastily. "Of course there was a terrible battle there. Every time a man set foot on the bridge Horatius or one of his companions would rush upon him and slay him."

"How? With a spearer?" inquired Aaron Levi with interest.

The story teller nodded. "Till seven men lay dead, and Horatius himself was wounded in the shoulder. The big army stood still. Their chief was killed, and no soldier dared to move. Meanwhile the Romans had been at work at the bridge with their axes, and it hung over the river just ready to fall. The three men knew they must get back before it dropped. They started, but the great bridge cracked, and went down with a crash like thunder. Two of the men had time to get over safely, but Horatius was too late. He had darted back, and stood all alone on the bank of the river, with the enemy before him, and the broad river behind him. And then what do you think he did?"

"Speared 'em some more," suggested Aaron Levi.

"Died fer his country," quavered Ginevra.

"Waded home," said Fridoline.

"No, the water was too deep. He sheathed his sword, and faint and weary though he was, plunged into the raging flood."

"Gee!" ejaculated Launcelot.

"The water was very high, his armour was heavy, and his wound pained him severely; but he kept on. The blood ran down upon his hands, and he sank again and again; but he still swam on till not only the Romans, but the great army on the other bank cheered him and prayed for him.

"And when he finally clambered out upon the shore, weary and weak and worn, they shouted and clapped their hands for very joy." The ringing words came involuntarily to Miss Billy's lips:

"And the big army didn't ever get in?" asked Frank Murphy.

"No, never."

"What did they do to Horashuss?" inquired Launcelot.

"Oh, they gave him a lot of land, for his own, and they set up a great statue of him."

"I seen statutes already," said Abraham Levi.

"You did not," said his brother Aaron.

"I did too. I seen 'em in the summitery."

"He means the grave yard," explained Ginevra. "Aaron, stop hitting your little brother."

"He's a-swipin' my seeds," complained Aaron.

"Well, stop it, both of you," said Launcelot decidedly, "or Miss Billy'll give you a bat in the eye."

The threat had the desired effect. Both of the little Levis subsided suddenly.

"You may take the seeds home and plant them yourselves," said Miss Billy. "There are nasturtiums and petunias to put into a bed and morning glories and flowering beans to train over porches. We'll all have gardens of our own."

"You've got a pretty yard," said Ginevra wistfully.

"It's getting green," responded Miss Billy. "The grass seed is all coming up over the bare spots. Now if you had a green lawn extending to ours, and that shabby old fence between us was down——"

"Why don't you pull it down?" inquired Launcelot.

"I know Mr. Schultzsky would never let me," said Miss Billy. "I wouldn't dare ask him. But it's so old and rotten that some day it will just fall down itself, and then we'll have a barberry hedge there, and the yard will begin to look like something."

"What's a berbarry haige?" inquired Launcelot.

"A nice little row of bushes trimmed evenly, so that it makes a low fence," explained Miss Billy. "Listen, children, some one is calling."

Mrs. Lee, who had come around the walk, smiled down at the little group on the grass, whose full hands and happy faces bore testimony of a pleasant morning. "Your mother will be all right in a day or two," she said, "and Holly Belle wants you to come home for dinner."

The children rose with reluctance.

"Kin we come again?" asked Ginevra wistfully, as she gathered her little charges.

"Of course you can," said Miss Billy. "I'd love to have you here, if you like to come. How would you like to spend two hours with me every Saturday morning?"

"What 'ud we do?" inquired Launcelot.

"Oh, lots of pleasant things: We can sew and read, and play games, and sing. I can find enough for you to do, never fear."

"How much do we have to pay?" inquired Aaron Levi cautiously.

"Not a cent," laughed Miss Billy. "The only price is clean hands and face. We'll meet out here in the yard, and I'll raise children as well as flowers. You'll be my child garden, you see. Come at nine next Saturday, and we'll have another good time."

The children filed happily around the corner of the house, all talking at the same time, but their voices lowered as they passed out of vision. They held a whispered conversation as they passed the rickety fence, Launcelot expressing some iconoclastic sentiments in a husky undertone. They were still whispering as they entered the Canary yard, and edged mysteriously along the side of the house between the porch and the fence.

"It'll be just like playing Horashuss," urged Launcelot.

"But what would Miss Billy think?" asked Ginevra doubtfully.

"You heard what she said. She'd think it was brave!" said Launcelot in his most lordly tones.

"But s'pose some one would see?" quavered Ginevra.

"Aw pshaw! They ain't no one a-goin' to see. And if they do, what then? Go in if you're afraid."

Ginevra hesitated.

"Miss Billy'd like it," went on the tempter. His sister flung prudence to the winds. "I'll help," she said.

Holly Belle's voice rang out impatiently a second time:

"Child-run, din-ner."

"We'll be there in a minute," called Launcelot impatiently. "Now hurry up, kids. Take a-hold, here. No, not so near together. Now, I'm going to count. When I say three, you all pull like the dickens, and then run, lickety split. Get out of the way there, Mike."

The children grasped the rotten palings.

"One—two—three," counted Launcelot.

The little army gave a mighty tug. The rotten wood splintered, split, yielded; the fence fell with a crash, and a sorry mass of decayed boards covered the yard.

The children waited to see no more, but rushed about the house as though old Mr. Schultzsky himself was in their wake.

Launcelot and Ginevra turned at the basement steps to help little Mike, who had fallen upon his face in the stampede. From his place of vantage Launcelot glanced around to see if they were being pursued. There was no one in sight, and all was still.

"Now," said Launcelot boldly, "Miss Billy can have her berbarry haige."

CHAPTER IX

BEATRICE

GOOD-BYE, Miss Billy."

"Good-bye, Beatitude. You're a dear to help me off in this way. I won't forget it in a hurry."

"All rightie. See that you don't."

"And Bea, don't vex your soul over that mending basket. It's only one stitch in nine that saves time, you know."

"I won't, but you'd better make haste; you'll miss the boat."

"A miss wouldn't be as good as a mile then, would it? Good-bye, again. Yes, mother, I have a handkerchief. Also a corkscrew for the olives. Also my rubbers. Good-bye, everybody."

Miss Billy was going to a picnic, and in her usual way. The whole house had been in an uproar since six o'clock. There had been a hurried dressing, a hurried breakfast, and a hurried packing of lunch; and it was not until the blue linen suit disappeared around the corner that a lull fell over the home, and the household paused to take breath.

There were still the remains of the preparations for lunch to be cleared away, the study to be made clean, and the disorder which was left in Miss Billy's wake to be remedied. Her sister's work added to her own took Beatrice longer than usual, and it was ten o'clock before she came languidly into the garden with the mending basket under her arm. She tumbled out a large bundle of ragged stockings, and set to work.

It was hot and deserted on Cherry Street. Even in the shade, where Beatrice sat, the air was sultry and close, and the garden seat warm to the touch. The children seemed to have melted away from sidewalk and gutter. The absence of Miss Billy and Theodore had left the place unnaturally dull and forlorn, and the incessant tick-tick of the little creatures in the grass was the only sound that broke the stillness.

Beatrice's thoughts flew with her needle. Last year at this time the whole family were at Gordon's Lake for the season. And it had been such a gay summer. A summer of boating and dancing; of driving and golfing, of pretty clothes, and new friends and good times. A summer of long, jolly, merry days, and of long, cool, restful nights. A summer that seemed made for the merriment that only ended when the last good-byes were said.

And now everybody else was going away; the Seabrookes, and the Van Courtlands and even the Blanchards; and they were to be left at home. It was all right for the rest of the family; Theodore hated "resorts," and Miss Billy never seemed to care for anything so long as she had her beloved books and flowers and children. "But I care," thought Beatrice bitterly, "more than I ever thought I should care for anything."

It was easy enough to be good when one was happy, when good friends and pleasant times and pretty clothes were one's birthright; but when poverty and hard work was one's portion, when one's clothes were shabby and when one lived on Cherry Street——! A hot tear baptised Theodore's gay striped sock, and Beatrice, forgetful of her age and dignity, put her head down on the garden seat, and like little Cinderella, "let the tears have their way."

The stout, rosy-faced man who came up the front walk and rang the door bell did not look like a fairy godmother, but the most beneficent fairies go about disguised. Beatrice was so busy wiping her eyes that she did not notice his arrival, and as she went bravely back to work she little guessed the surprise that was in store for her. Not even the glad note in her mother's voice when she called her into the house made her suspicious.

The rosy-faced man was leaning up against the door of the study, smiling benignantly at Mr. and Mrs. Lee. He beamed even more delightedly as Beatrice entered.

Mrs. Lee scarcely waited for their greeting. Her eyes shone as she put her hand on her daughter's shoulder, and her voice was very happy as she said:

"Guess, dearie, what Mr. Van Courtland has come for. He wants you to go abroad next week."

The self-possessed Beatrice lost her dignity. She grew rosy with delight and gasped speechlessly for a moment before she ejaculated brokenly:

"Me? To go abroad? Oh, mother!"

That "oh, mother!" settled the matter, Mrs. Lee decided at once that she must go.

"It will not be a very long trip," explained Mr. Van Courtland. "We did not intend to start until later, but that bugbear 'business' stands like a fence between me and the rest of the world. Be thankful, Lee, that you are not a banker. Mrs. Van Courtland and I shall sail on the 16th, land seven days later, and go immediately to Cologne for Margaret. We hope to be in Germany long enough for the Rhine trip, but shall probably sail for home immediately afterwards. We planned to borrow Miss Billy to take with us, but Mrs. Van Courtland says that the sea breezes will be just the thing for Beatrice's pale cheeks. She ought to see you this minute, young lady. You're anything but pale and wan now."

Beatrice did not even notice the compliment. Her brain was moving faster than Mr. Van Courtland's words. Europe, sea breezes, the Rhine! To leave the heat and dust of the city, the shabbiness and noise of Cherry Street, for the enchanting country across the sea. It seemed like a glorious dream of white-capped waves and cool breezes, from which one must wake up to the swarming Canarys and the loud-voiced Hennesys on Cherry Street.

"And if she goes, she goes as our guest. Mrs. Van Courtland dreads the trip, and I confess a lingering longing for a young piece of humanity when I am aboard ship. As for our own Margie,—why she will jump out of her beloved Germany with joy when she sees a glimpse of her home friend. We will consider it a great favour if you'll lend us your girl for a while."

The matter was hurriedly decided. Mrs. Lee looked over at her husband with a quick glance that showed how much motherly love and anxiety for her daughter was at stake. The minister answered with a nod and a smile that seemed to say, "We must manage it."

Mr. Van Courtland departed satisfied, and Beatrice returned to the garden seat to dreamily wind the darning cotton into a snarl, and whisper joyfully to herself, "I am going abroad."

There was a family council after supper that night. Beatrice had rather dreaded to tell Miss Billy the glorious news, feeling that the trip was originally planned for the younger sister, but Miss Billy sternly frowned upon her sister's reticence.

"The idea!" she said scornfully, "of thinking that I should be so mean and small about a thing like this. You would have been delighted if this trip had come to me,"—Beatrice made a small mental reservation—"and it belongs to you anyway. You need it more than I do."

If she felt any disappointment she failed to show it either in action or word, but went on making extravagant plans, and most elaborate suggestions for the trip. She offered to lend Beatrice anything and everything she possessed, from her cut glass vase to her ice cream freezer, and the last thing the elder sister heard that night was a recipe for sea sickness and an idea for making over a travelling suit out of Miss Billy's brown gown.

It was daybreak when Beatrice awoke. The house was very still and quiet, and the light morning breeze blew aside the white curtains at the windows. Beatrice raised herself on one elbow and looked out at the little glimpse of water visible between the high roofs. The sun was rising, away out on the breast of the lake, and each little ruffled wave was touched with a crest of gold.

Beatrice was not often affected by her surroundings, but just now, in the light of her new happiness, the day seemed symbolic of her life, and the sun that gilded the grey waves like the pleasant plan that had made her sombre life glad. Yesterday's grief seemed very far away, and to-day's joy was very near and dear. She clasped her hands, and whispered earnestly: "Help me to deserve it, Lord." The sounds of the two whispered voices which came from the next room did not disturb her, and she lay dreamily happy in her own thoughts, until the sound of her own name aroused her. It was her father's voice that said:

"Well, Beatrice needs it. We must manage it some way."

The girl turned her head, and listened intently as he continued:

"How much money is it going to cost us?"

Mrs. Lee's estimate was not discernible, but her husband's reply betrayed its tenor:

"I wish a hundred dollars came as easily to me now as it did six months ago."

"I don't see how we can do it for any less," said Mrs. Lee. "Bea's wardrobe is scanty, and she will require more clothes than she needs when she is at home. Beside, she will have to have money for incidentals. Mr. Van Courtland is very generous, but we don't want to impose on him, or embarrass Beatrice."

"Oh, no, she can't get along with any less. Still, it will be a little hard to spare just now. I feel our poverty most when it touches the children."

"It is a good deal, but I think it's worth the sacrifice. Beatrice has looked white and worn lately, and we can't afford to let her be sick."

"I hadn't noticed it," said Mr. Lee anxiously. "Do you think she's not well?"

"It's heart sickness as much as anything else. Bea has never seemed happy since we moved onto Cherry Street. She misses the old home and the old friends. She was not so easily reconciled as Wilhelmina and Theodore."

"Then I think more than ever that we must manage it. I shall not regret the effort if she comes back physically improved. After that I'll trust the mental and moral indisposition to take care of themselves. Bea is not naturally pessimistic."

"But I don't see exactly how we are to arrange it. We are living so near to our income just now; and I don't know how to economise more closely than I have been doing."

Mr. Lee made a suggestion that Beatrice did not hear, to which his wife replied decidedly:

"No, dear man, you can't get along without that. A minister can't afford to go shabby. We'll find some other way of saving. I can let Maggie go home for a month or two. Beatrice's going away will make the family smaller, and I'm sure Wilhelmina and I could do the housework."

"No indeed." The minister's voice was most emphatic. "That would be extravagant economy. You would be sick in a month. I can spare the money, I'm sure, but I shall have to give up a cherished plan to do it. I hoped to be able to rent a horse and buggy for you two days a week this summer. You don't get enough of out of doors, and it tires you so to walk."

There was a glad little note in Mrs. Lee's reply that went straight to Bea's heart.

"Oh, if that is all!" she exclaimed. "Why John, I'd rather never drive again than to have Beatrice miss this opportunity. It will mean so much to her. Beside, dear, do you think I would enjoy driving around in state while my husband was shabby?"

"No, it doesn't sound like you," said Mr. Lee. "Still, I would like to do it for you," he added wistfully.

"Well, dear, don't say a word to spoil Beatrice's pleasure. She seemed so glad to go! And I think we all would be willing to sacrifice ourselves a little for her sake."

The conversation ended there. The father and mother went back to sleep, and the eavesdropper returned to her pillow with wet eyes. Her soul, as well as her body, was wide awake, and perhaps for the first time in her life, Beatrice realised the beauty and divineness of self sacrifice. In the light of the whispered conversation the melancholy of the day before seemed petty and unworthy, and the girl who sternly choked back the tears of disappointment was not the girl who had wept in the garden. Nobody ever knew of the struggle which took place in the little white bed, nor was any the wiser for the puddle of tears that made a miniature lake in the pillow; but Beatrice was victor in the battle with herself.

As the clock struck five, a slim little figure in white crept silently out of bed, and tiptoed over to the desk, that Miss Billy should not be wakened. A stranger would not have appreciated the depth of the struggle; but to Beatrice it was the tragedy of a lifetime, and there was real heroism in the letter which read: