They were up in the nursery the next morning, having a wedding. A doll had opportunely lost her wig, and that always meant a good deal of excitement for the wigless one, for she was at once put to bed, and given medicine through the opening on top of the head, or made into a boy doll.

This last happened now; poor cracked and dead Billy Boy's wig was jauntily glued on the wigless head, and the late Janet became Lord Jimmy, and was in the process of being wedded to Arabella, the walking, talking doll from Paris.

They were propped up in the doll house, and Beth was marrying them.

"Lord Jimmy," she said, "wilt thou marry Arabella and nobody else and be her quilt in time of trouble—?"

"A quilt!" said Ethelwyn. "What's that?"

"A comfort then," said Beth with dignity, "or something like that. Anyway I wish you wouldn't talk in the middle of the wedding—and give her clothes, and things to eat, eh? Make him nod 'yes,' sister." So Ethelwyn, reaching out an energetic hand, clutched the bridegroom by the waist and made him bow so low, that his freshly-glued wig came off.

"O, for goodness sake, sister," said Beth, in an exasperated tone, "I never knew any one that could upset things like you—"

But their mother was heard calling them, in a way that meant something nice, so the poor bald-headed bridegroom and his wig were left at the feet of the haughty Arabella, who stared rigidly at the landscape outside, and tried not to see him.

"We are going to drive out to Grandmother Van Stark's to spend the day, and perhaps a little longer," said mother.

"Oh won't that be the nicest thing!" they cried in a breath. "Who can go on the pony?"

"Ethelwyn may ride out, and Beth back," said mother.

"I've always been so thankful to think you weren't born a no and don't mother," said Ethelwyn, hugging her. "Are we going right away?"

"Right away."

Sure enough there was Joe leading Ninkum, their own pony. Mother and Beth were to go in the phaeton.

All the way out they played games with the trees and flowers. Ethelwyn rode alongside the phaeton.

They counted the spots they passed that were purple with thistles, and they were many. Others were pink and white with clover and daisies. Their mother told them the story of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, when they drove down the lane bordered with golden Spanish needles.

But they enjoyed the missing word game the most, because it was new.

"It's your turn to make up a game, mother," said Beth.

"I will give you lines that rhyme, only I will leave off the last word, after the first line," said mother, "and you must guess what that word is."

"Hill," cried Beth.

"Yes; now let sister guess the next."

"Rill?" asked Ethelwyn, after thinking awhile.

"Yes."

"Fill."

"Jill."

"Will."

"Bill."

"Pill."

"Ill." Mother had to tell them that, because they both guessed sick.

"Kill."

"Quill?" Ethelwyn guessed after a long time.

"Till," and again mother had to tell them this.

"Still."

They had both missed one, so they each had to pay a forfeit or get up a game.

But they were now within sight of Grandmother Van Stark's fine old colonial house, and there on the porch stood grandmother herself, who had seen them coming, so had come out to meet them.

"Oh isn't our grandmother pretty though?" said Ethelwyn, as they turned in at the circular driveway. She had snow white hair, dark eyes and a very stately carriage.

She welcomed them warmly, and invited them into the grand old hall with its white staircase and mahogany rail.

Modern children seemed almost out of place in this old-time house.

"I always seem to think you need short-waisted frocks, and drooping hats like Sir Joshua Reynolds's, and the Gainsborough pictures," said their mother laughing.

"O may we go up to the attic and dress up?" begged Ethelwyn.

"After while," said grandmother. "It is luncheon time now. I am glad you came to-day, my daughter, for Nancy, the housemaid, has gone home for a week's rest, and there is a meeting of the women of the church this afternoon to arrange about a rummage sale, and a loan exhibition, and they are rather depending upon me to contribute to both; but as Nancy is away, I cannot well leave for I am a little overtired with more duties than usual. So I have made a list of things that I will lend, and give. I should like you to take it down."

"Yes, mother, I will, but what about the children—?"

"O mother, please let me stay," begged Beth. "I will take excellent care of grandmother, and I will take Nancy's place, so grandmother can lie down; I know how, I've watched Nancy lots of times. You can take sister."

This was the final arrangement, and soon after luncheon they drove away to town. Grandmother disappeared up the beautiful staircase after shutting the blind doors, and shading the hall from the afternoon sun.

Then Beth arrayed in a red sweeping cap, instead of Nancy's white one, which she and cook failed to find, and armed with a huge silver salver for cards, instead of Nancy's small one, took up her position in the hall, on the bottom stair, to await visitors: but the hall was full of slumberous shadows, with sunshine flecks dancing down from the blind doors to the polished floor. It is not strange, therefore, that by and by the red sweeping cap began to droop over the silver salver, until finally they all settled down together, and the new parlor maid was sound asleep, to the music of the tall old clock in the corner of the hall back under the stairway.

Then some one came up the walk, and rapped briskly with the end of his riding whip on the blind doors.

The parlor maid suddenly awoke, stumbled to the door, and fumbled with the fastenings, but it was no use, she couldn't open them; thereupon she turned the slats and looked through at the young clergyman standing there.

The red cap nodded affably.

"Could you climb in through the window, s'pose?" she asked.

This was such a new and startling novelty at the Van Stark homestead, that the visitor laughed, while the parlor maid patiently waited for his decision.

He had shone in athletics at his college, so when he stopped laughing, he put his hands on the stone window-sill leading into the library, and vaulted in so lightly and easily, that Beth was delighted to think she had thought of it.

She then went back to adjust her sweeping cap, which had dropped off, and to pick up the salver, which she had put down to free her hands.

"Put your card there," she instructed him, bobbing her head towards the exact centre of the salver, and thereby completely covering one eye with that abominably big and wobbly cap.

The reverend gentleman gravely complied, whereupon the maid swung herself around, but with caution, somewhat after the manner of a boat carrying too much sail.

After Mrs. Van Stark had come down, the parlor maid reappeared without her badges of office, and was duly presented to the rector of the church, who made no sign, save a twinkle of his eye, of having met her in another, and humbler capacity, but shook hands and talked to her without that insufferable air of patronage which elder people at times seem to delight to bestow upon their juniors.

As he was taking his leave, he explained that he was going down into the grove for a little while to read and to take pictures.

As he went out, they met, coming in, an old lady whom Grandmother Van Stark greeted with rare cordiality, kissing her on both cheeks and calling her Tildy Ann. She called grandmother Jane Somerset, and explained that her son, going to town, had brought her that far on his way, and would call for her on his return.

She had brought her knitting in a beautiful silk bag, and explained that she was making a long purse of black silk and steel beads, for the sale at the church.

Beth brought grandmother's bag down to her, and grandmother produced silk stockings that she was knitting for the same purpose.

They sat down for a comfortable chat, and Beth, feeling that it was too prehistoric an atmosphere for her, by and by stole up-stairs to the attic and went on a rummage for old clothes in which to dress up.

She found an old figured silk gown, with short sleeves. By much rolling up and pinning, she made the skirt the right length. Then she pulled out an old green silk calash and set it on her head. This she felt was a finishing touch, so she softly crept down the stairs and past the old ladies, who had entirely forgotten her, and out on the lawn; then she walked down the circular driveway and out into the road, where presently the clergyman, striding along to where his pony was tied, overtook her.

He looked with astonishment at the quaint little figure in the silk frock, but when the disguised parlor maid looked out from the depths of the great bonnet, he went off into peals of laughter again.

"You seem to laugh a great deal," said Beth.

He at once stopped and said:

"It is a weakness of mine, and now let me beg a favor of you. Will you come back to the porch, and sit in a Chippendale chair, and let me take your picture for the sale at the church?"

"Yes, I don't mind at all," said Beth promptly, turning around and putting her hand in his. "You see Mrs. Tildy Ann and grandmother were having such a long-way-back time, I had to dress up to match everything."

"I see," said the minister. "But she may presently miss you and be worried."

"O that's so," said Beth. "Let's hurry. I promised to take care of grandmother," she added, in a remorseful tone.

But nothing had happened, and the picture proved a great success, many of them being sold at the fair.

"I don't like it much," said Beth, when she saw one, "for it reminds me of how I forgot to take care of my Grandmother Van Stork."

"It will do you good, I trust," said her mother.

"It'll improve my thinkery, I hope," said Beth.

When they started to return the next day, Beth in triumph mounted Ninkum. She had a little difficulty in turning around to wave a farewell to dear grandmother on the porch, because the pony took this opportune time to munch the grass at the road-side, and Beth nearly went over his head.

"Dear me, Ninkum, you are very rude," she said, much vexed. "You try to spill me off, besides making Grandmother Van Stark feel as though you didn't have enough to eat while you were visiting her!"

There was another disturbing feature also, and that was sister, whose countenance kept peering above the phaeton top, and who shouted exceedingly unwelcome advice, until silenced and firmly seated by the maternal command.

However, these were small things, compared with the bliss of galloping down the smooth road, bordered by flowers and green fields.

"I am very fond of wild flowers," said Ethelwyn by and by, "because they come right from God's garden, and they keep things so cheerful and bright out in the country."

"I remember some verses about wild flowers and woods that a friend of mine wrote," said mother, "and I intend sometime to put some of them to music."

"O say one, mother," said Ethelwyn, who loved verses. So Mrs. Rayburn began:

"I've wondered if they do get out of the seed with a little cracky pop," said Ethelwyn.

"What, sister?" asked Beth, coming up on Ninkum.

"Flowers and things."

"I've wondered how things know how to make themselves flowers, and not potatoes, or something like that," said Beth; "but I suppose God tells them."

"And I've often thought what was it that makes part of them stalk and leaves, and then all at once end in a flower," said Ethelwyn. Then, after a moment's silence, she proposed, "Let's have another game."

"Yes, mother, you think of one."

"I was thinking of one this morning," said mother, "for I thought likely you would be asking me to make up one, though it isn't my turn."

"O, but motherdy, you are so much smarter than we are!" said Ethelwyn.

"That is one way to get out of it," said mother, laughing. "Well, I will tell you a story, and leave a blank occasionally, which you must fill up with the name of a tree.

"There were two little girls who dressed exactly alike, and, as they were very near the same age, it was difficult to tell which was the—"

"Elder?" said Ethelwyn, after a hard think.

"Yes."

"I didn't really know there was such a tree, but I had heard something like it, and thought there wasn't a younger tree."

"One of the little girls was named Louise and the other Minerva, and people grew to calling them by their initials, which together made—"

"Elm," said Beth.

"They were very good children, and people used to say what a nice—"

"Pear," they both said at once.

"They were. They had cheeks like a—"

"Peach."

"It was spring, and they were invited to a sugaring off party, and they saw the men tap the trees to make—"

"Maple sugar," cried Beth, who knew that, if she knew anything.

"So, when they went home, they tapped a tree in the front yard, and invited a party to come and eat maple sugar; but they tapped the wrong tree, and their father was vexed, saying, 'I ought to take a —— to ----'"

But mother had to tell them these words for they had never heard of birch, or of yew. "'I wonder if you will be ——'"

"Evergreen," said Ethelwyn, after a little prompting.

"'All your life.' 'I thought,' said one, 'that maple sugar parties were very ——'"

"'Pop'lar? (mother had to tell them this also), 'at this time of year.'"

"—— laughed their father."

"Haw, haw," said Ethelwyn, who had been thinking of the tree under which they played at home.

"'I'll have to take you to the seashore to play on the ——'"

"Beech," said Beth in triumph.

"Then he lighted a cigar and knocked off the ——"

"Ash," said Ethelwyn.

"And walked down street, whistling a song from 'Mikado.' Tit ——"

"Willow," they both cried at once, for they knew that song as well as the tree.

"You have done well," said mother, "but you each have two fines to pay, and it really is your turn next time; so you must remember to think up a game. But here we are at home, and there is 'Vada coming out to meet us."

"O, 'Vada, what has happened since we went away?" said Ethelwyn, climbing out.

"Mista Bobby gwine to give a party this ebenin'; it's his birthday, and his uncle brought him some fiah works like those you all had las' yeah," said 'Vada.

"O goody! did he invite us?"

"Nome, not to say invite. But he's been in to see if you all was expected home."

"O, it won't matter," said Beth easily; "we'll go anyway. Of course he knew we would come."

When Nan came over, she brought her invitation with her. It was very formally enclosed in a small envelope, and informed his friend that Bobby would be at home on that very evening.

This struck Beth as very silly.

"Of course he'll be at home if he's going to give a party! Just as though he'd be anywhere else!" she remarked.

They wished to go over immediately and tell Bobby that they were home and all ready to be invited, but their mother would not allow this.

"He will come over by and by," she said. But the day went by and no invitation came, although great preparations were going on, as they could see, for they kept very near the window that looked out on Bobby's lawn. A slow drizzling rain was falling, or they would probably have been much nearer. But Bobby was evidently very busy getting ready. They caught only flying glimpses of him, and their hearts grew heavy within their breasts.

"O dear! I shall never, never get over this, never!" said Beth, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"I wouldn't have thought Bobby could have done it," said Ethelwyn, also swallowing.

After their bath, they begged for their best slippers, silk stockings, and embroidered petticoats, and on having their hair done in their dress-up-and-go-away-from-home style. "Because," said Ethelwyn, "something may happen yet to make him think of us."

So mother let them have on what they liked, for she was very sorry for them.

In the evening, after dinner, when the electric lights came flashing out, it was worse, because, still standing forlornly by the window, they saw the orchestra come, with their instruments, and presently the sounds of music came floating up to them. Then the ice cream man came, and Beth, who had almost melted to tears at the sight of the orchestra, shed them openly when the ice cream went around the side of the house. Having no handkerchief, she wiped her eyes on Soosana, her big rag doll. She always loved Soosana when she was unhappy, for she was so squeezy and felt so comfortable.

"I hope Bobby will be sorry when he has time to think about it," she remarked in a subdued tone.

"Look at that!" said Ethelwyn in such a hopeful voice that Beth at once emerged from her eclipse behind Soosana, and looked with all her eyes.

There was Bobby, resplendent in a new suit and slippers with shining buckles, running across the lawn.

Ethelwyn and Beth at once pushed up the window, in order to meet him half-way.

"Do you want us, Bobby?" called Beth encouragingly.

"Yes; why on earth don't you come?" cried Bobby. "We are all ready to dance and Nan and everybody but you, are there, and I wouldn't let 'em begin till you came, so hurry up."

"We will," they cried in a breath, "and we would have come a long time ago if you only hadn't forgotten to invite us till so late. What made you, Bobby?"

"Why I didn't!" said Bobby in a surprised tone. "I took your invitation over to your front door and—and—your bell is pretty high up—"

"Yes, I can't reach it at all," said Beth breathlessly; "go on."

"So I shoved it under the door—"

Ethelwyn disappeared like a flash, and, sure enough, under the carpet's edge she could see sticking out the little white corner of the envelope. She knelt down and pulled it out, then ran back.

"We'll come right over in a minute, Bobby," she called happily. "We're pretty nearly all dressed for fear you'd remember you had forgotten—"

"All right, hurry up," called up Bobby.

Down on the floor went Soosana, all damp with tears, but she still smiled broadly at the ceiling in the dark. She probably did not, if the truth were known, quite enjoy being used as a handkerchief, but she felt it was her mission in this life to act as comforter, and so she bore it with cheerfulness. The next morning she was told by happy, though sleepy, Beth that it was a "beyewtiful party, with fireworks, and ice cream, and dancing, and games, and souvenirs. I should never have been so happy again, Soosana, if I had missed going, I know," she concluded, kissing Soosana with such fervor, that she put a dent in that portion of her doll's head where she had been kissed; but this time Soosana was sure she did not care.

There had come an interesting mail that morning, for it began with another letter from Cousin Gladys, who was in London now for the winter, and there was also one from Aunty Stevens and from Grandmother Van Stark. While the two children ate their oatmeal and cream, they read their cousin's letter. This was it:

"DEAR COUSINS:

"We have seen the Coronation, and my eyes ached, there was so much to see and do. It was worse than a circus with six rings.

"The King is not pretty, but I suppose that won't hinder him from being good, and nurse is always saying, 'Pretty is that pretty does, Miss Gladys.' I think she thinks that the two hardly ever go together. The dear Queen is pretty, however, and so young-looking and sweet that even nurse has to give in about her.

"I will tell you all about it when we come home, but it tires me now even to think about it. One morning I begged to go back to the hotel and rest, and nurse was so disappointed that I told her she could go out and I would stay alone. I dug around in my trunk and got rather homesick, looking at the things I had at home. I found some jacks but no ball, so I thought I would go down to a near-by shop, and buy one. I slipped down and out, before I had time to think about mother making me promise not to go anywhere alone. I turned a corner or two, but didn't find the right kind of a shop. It was cloudy, and sort of foggy, and crowds and crowds of people were pushing along. I knew all at once that I was lost, and I began to feel a lump in my throat, bigger than any ball you ever saw, and just then I saw a tall man coming towards me. I saw only his legs, but they looked so Americanish that I rushed up, and said, 'Please take me to the L—— Hotel,' He stopped at once and said, 'Well, I certainly will; I am going there myself.' He was a minister from New York. He laughed when I told him about the jacks, and then he talked to me in such a nice way about going out alone, that it made a great impression on me. I found mother and nurse in such a state when I got back. I was kissed and then put to bed to eat my supper, but the minister came to call in the evening, and when I had promised never to do such a thing again, they let me get up. He was so nice, and brought me a ball. I play jacks every day now, and think of America and nice 'things like that. I shall be glad to get there again.

"Yours truly,

"GLADYS.

"P.S.—I can probably beat you at jacks when I get back, I practice so much."

"I'll get mine out to-day," said Ethelwyn, "and we'll see whether she can or not. When will she come home, mother?"

But mother was reading Aunty Stevens's letter, and did not hear.

"The Home is getting on beautifully," she said presently. "There are ten pale little children out there now. Dick is quite well and strong again, and helps with the work in every way. They are very anxious that we shall come on this summer."

"O let's; for my birthday," said Ethelwyn. "Can't we, mother?"

"I will see. But Grandmother Van Stark would like one of you to come out and stay with her for a few days. Peter is coming in this afternoon and will take one of you out."

"O me!" they cried at once.

"Let's pull straws," suggested Ethelwyn; so she ran to find the broom. It was she who drew the longest straw, and Beth drew a long breath, saying with cheerful philosophy, "Well, I am thankful not to leave mother. I'd prob'ly cry in the night, and worry dear grandmother." So every one was satisfied, and Ethelwyn, dimpling delightfully under her broad white pique hat, bade them good-bye, and took her place beside Peter in the roomy old phaeton.

"Are you any relation of St. Peter's?" she asked politely, after they were well on the way.

"Nobody ever thought so," said Peter, looking down at her with a twinkle in his eye.

"Well, I didn't know," she said. "I thought I'd like to ask you some questions about him if you were. We have had a good deal about him at Sunday-school lately. I'm studying my lessons nowadays for a prize; they are going to give a sacrilegious picture to the child that knows her verses the best by Easter, and I think maybe I'll get it, for I'm only about next to the worst now."

"How many are there of you?"

"O, a lot; but if I do get it, I shall ask for a goat and cart instead. We have plenty of pictures at home, but we are much in need of a goat and cart."

Peter had a peculiar habit, Ethelwyn afterwards told her grandmother, of shaking after she had talked to him awhile, and gurgling down in his throat. She felt sorry for him. "He was prob'ly not feeling well; maybe what Aunt Mandy calls chilling," she said.

She found grandmother making pumpkin pies, for the minister and his wife were coming to dinner the next day. Grandmother was famous for making pumpkin pies, and never allowed any one else to make them.

"It's my grandmother's recipe," she said, and Ethelwyn nearly fell off her chair trying to imagine grandmother's grandmother.

"I shouldn't suppose they would have been discovered then," she said, after a struggle. "Pumpkin pies don't go out of style like clothes, do they, grandmother?"

"Mine never have," said grandmother proudly. "I suppose Mandy never makes pumpkin pies."

"Yes she does, but they don't grow in yellow watermelons; they live in tin cans."

"Pooh!" said grandmother, "they can't hold a candle to these."

"No, but why would they want to?"

"Hand me that japanned box with the spices, please, dear. Now you'll see the advantage of doing this sort of thing yourself; here are mustard and pepper boxes in this other japanned box, but I know just where they always stand, so I could get up in the night and make no mistake."

Just then grandmother was called away from the kitchen.

"Don't meddle and get into mischief, will you, deary?" she said. And Ethelwyn promised.

She intended to keep her word, but while she was smelling the spices, it struck her that it would be a good joke to season the pies from the other box. "Like an April fool," she thought; so she took a spoon and measured in a liberal supply of mustard and red pepper; then she went out into the yard.

It was fortunate that the minister and his new wife were not coming until the next day. Ethelwyn, however, spent a very unhappy afternoon. That night she woke up sobbing, and crawled into grandmother's big bed.

"What's the matter, child?" said grandmother, sitting up in bed with a start. "Are you sick?"

"Yes, grandmother, awful! You'll never like me again, I know." And then she told her about the pumpkin pies.

"Well, child, I am thankful you told me," said grandmother with a sigh, "for when you are as old as I am, and have a reputation for doing things, it goes hard to make a failure of them, and I should have been much mortified. Fortunately there are plenty of pie shells, and there is more pumpkin steamed, so that I can season and put them together in the morning. But I am glad, dear child, that your conscience wouldn't let you sleep comfortably until you had told; be careful, however, never again to break your word. Remember the Van Starks' watchword, 'Love, Truth, and Honor.' Now cuddle down here and go to sleep."

Ethelwyn, feeling much relieved, slept in the canopy bed with grandmother, until long past daylight. When she came down-stairs, the great golden pies were coming out of the oven, and the minister and his wife violated propriety and made Grandmother Van Stark proud and happy by eating two pieces each.

There came to Grandmother Van Stark's one day, a forlorn black tramp kitten, mewing dismally.

Ethelwyn, who loved kittens devotedly, was melted to the verge of tears by his wailing appeals in a minor key; so she cuddled him and fed him on Lady Babby's creamy, foamy milk. In the intervals of eating, however, he still wailed like a lost soul.

"The critter don't stop crying long enough to catch a mouse," said cook, eyeing the disconsolate bundle of grief with strong disfavor.

"He almost did this morning, Hannah," said Ethelwyn in his defense. "I saw him watching a hole, and he's so little yet, I grabbed him away. Besides, I don't like mice myself, and I was so afraid I'd see one or two."

"No danger; his bawling will keep them away," said Hannah, grimly.

"O, well then, his crying is some good, after all," returned Ethelwyn, triumphantly. "That's a good deal nicer than killing the poor little things."

"Humph!" said Hannah.

But Grandmother Van Stark had given orders that Johnny Bear—so named from one of Ernest Thompson-Seton's illustrations, which Ethelwyn thought he resembled—was to be treated tenderly and fed often, because Ethelwyn loved him, and she herself loved to feed hungry people and animals.

But one morning there was a great commotion over the discovery that a mouse had been in Grandmother Van Stark's room.

"This is a chance for Johnny Bear to make a reputation as a mouser," said grandmother. "We will take him up-stairs to-night and he shall have a chance to catch that mouse."

"O grandmother, I'm sure he will," said Ethelwyn, earnestly; so she talked to him that afternoon about it.

It had rained in the afternoon,—a cold drizzly rain, so Nancy had lighted a little snapping wood-fire in Grandmother Van Stark's sitting-room. Into this opened the sleeping room in which was Ethelwyn's small bed, and the big mahogany tester bed, where Grandmother Van Stark had slept for more years than Ethelwyn could imagine.

Ethelwyn put Johnny Bear and his basket in front of the grate. It was so "comfy" that he stopped yowling at once and began to purr.

"How does middle night look, Nancy?" said Ethelwyn, as she lay in her little brass bed, watching the dancing shadows on the wall.

"Like any other time, only stiller," replied Nancy. "Go to sleep now, Miss Ethelwyn."

So Ethelwyn presently fell asleep and woke up with a little start just as the clock was striking twelve.

Johnny Bear was stirring around uneasily in the other room. He had been very still; his stomach was full, and his body warm, so that there really was no possible excuse for making a noise. In fact, there was a faint scratching in the closet that concentrated his attention, and froze him into a statue of silence.

Presently he pounced, and a little shriek, piteous and faint, told the story. Then Johnny Bear played ball with his victim, and ran up and down the room as gaily as if he had never known what it was to cry.

But all at once something went wrong; a crackle in the grate sent a glowing coal over the fender and on the rug, where it smoldered and smoked, and then ran out a little tongue of flame. So Johnny Bear began to mew again loudly and uneasily, the clock struck twelve, and Ethelwyn awoke.

"Hush, Johnny Bear, dear," she said softly from the other room; "you'll wake up grandmother."

But grandmother was awake, and lifted her head just in time to see the tongue of fire.

She was over the side of the bed in a minute, and, snatching up a pitcher of water, dashed it over the rug.

Ethelwyn jumped up too and snatched Johnny Bear in her arms.

"I don't think twelve o'clock at night looks stiller, do you, grandmother?" she asked. "Aren't you glad Johnny Bear came to live with us, and—oh! oh!" he cried, for she had stepped on a soft little mouse, lying quite still now on the floor.

"O Johnny, how could you?" she said sorrowfully, quite forgetting her instructions to him in the afternoon.

"But he is brave, isn't he, grandmother?"

"Very," said grandmother, "and he shall have a saucer of cream in the morning. But come now, chicken; I've put out the fire, and covered the other, so I think we can sleep in peace."

So they both went to sleep, and Johnny Bear from that time on wept no more.

The next morning, Ethelwyn joyfully told Hannah and Peter all about it. Their praise was unstinted enough to suit even her swelling heart, and she proudly took the saucer of cream to Johnny, saying, "There, darling, everybody loves you now, even Peter and Hannah and Nancy, because you did your duty so nobly. I knew you would, so I loved you all the time."

"Miss Ethelwyn," said Nancy, appearing, "there are callers in the drawing-room, and your grandmother wishes you to come in."

Ethelwyn went in, and was presented to several of the ladies of the church, who had come to see about a reception to be given to the clergyman and his new young wife. It was, Ethelwyn found with joy, to be given at Grandmother Van Stark's.

"O may I stay up?" she begged, and grandmother, who always found it hard to deny her grandchildren anything, said she might. When evening came, Ethelwyn dressed in her best white frock, a little later than the hour when she usually went to bed, came down the staircase with grandmother, who was more stately and lovely than ever? In her black velvet gown, with the great portrait brooch of Grandfather Van Stark, surrounded by diamonds, in the beautiful old lace around her neck.

Grandmother was permitted to sit while receiving the guests. Between her chair and where the clergyman and his wife stood, Ethelwyn slipped her own little rocker, and sat there, highly interested in the streams of people that came by.

"It's like a funeral," she announced during a slight lull.

Grandmother and the clergyman looked around startled.

"Why, child, what do you know about funerals?" asked grandmother, while the clergyman, of course, laughed.

"'Vada took me and Beth once to a big mercession, and we went into a big church and the folks all went up and looked at somebody, just like to-night. 'Vada said it was a big gun's funeral, just like you and your wife, you know," she concluded cheerfully, nodding to the clergyman.

"Well of all things—" began grandmother, but a new lot of people coming in demanded her attention.

The clergyman and his wife, laughing heartily, shook hands with the new people, and Ethelwyn was rather indignant to hear her remark repeated several times.

"I'm not going to say anything more," she thought, "they always laugh so."

She sat very quiet, indeed, until by and by the lights and the pink, blue, and white gowns danced together in a rainbow, and then she knew nothing at all about the rest of it, nor that the minister himself carried her up-stairs and put her in Nancy's care.

But the first thing of which she thought in the morning, was the refreshments, in which she had been so vitally interested the day before; so she came very soberly down-stairs to a late breakfast.

"Well, chicken," said grandmother, "how did you like the reception?"

"Not very much," said Ethelwyn. "I'm so ashamed to think I didn't get any ice cream—"

"There's some saved for you; and I think I see your mother and Beth coming in the gate, I was so sorry they couldn't come last night."

"I do believe they are coming," said Ethelwyn, standing on tiptoes, "and, yes, see, they have Bobby and Nan with them, to help take me home!"

There was a wild triple shriek from the surrey, followed by three small forms climbing rapidly down. They were proudly escorted by Ethelwyn to see Johnny Bear, the chickens, Peter, Hannah, and Nancy, all before mother was fairly in the house and the surrey in the barn.

They ate the reception refreshments with such zeal that grandmother said, "Well there! I was wondering what we would do with all the things that were left, but I needn't have worried."

"No, the mothers are the only ones that need worry,—over the after results," said Mrs. Ray burn, laughing.

They started home in the afternoon, all standing on the surrey steps and seats to wave a farewell to dear Grandmother Van Stark as long as they could see her.

Of course they played games going home, and this time Ethelwyn had really made up one.

"I'll say the first and last letter of something in the surrey or that we can see, and then whoever guesses it can give two letters." So she gave "m——r," and Beth guessed mother at once; then Beth gave "h——s," and Bobby disgraced himself by guessing horse, but he was warm, because it really was harness, and Nan guessed it. Then she gave "f——s," and that took them a long time, because it didn't sound at all like flowers, but Bobby finally guessed it, and then he gave them "g——s," which mother guessed as girls.

"You tell us a story, motherdy," said Ethelwyn, cuddling up close. "I just love to hear you talk, I haven't heard you for so long."

"Were you homesick for me?"

"Not ezactly," said Ethelwyn, "but I had a lonesome spot for you all whenever I thought about it."

Ethelwyn always pronounced the word "exactly" wrong. Her mother liked to hear her say it, however, and one or two more; "for they will grow out of baby-hood all too fast," she said.

"I went over to see Miss Helen Gray yesterday," said Mrs. Rayburn, "and she told me some funny stories about Polly, her parrot. You know she is really a very remarkable bird. Ever since Miss Helen has lived alone, she and Polly have been great friends, and it seems as though Polly really understands things she says to her. She bought her in New Orleans, where she boarded next door to the Cathedral. So Polly soon learned to intone the service, not the words, but exactly the intonation.

"One day Miss Helen, who allowed her all sorts of liberties, let her out, but first she made her tell where she lived. '1013 H—— Street,' Polly said. 'Will you be good and not get lost?' 'Yep,' said Polly, so she went out, and Miss Helen heard her talking in the yard. A lady came along beautifully dressed.

"'La, how fine,' said Polly.

"The lady looked around angrily, thinking it was a boy.

"'Didn't see me, did you?' said Polly, and then the woman saw the funny little green bird on the lawn and she petted and complimented her until Polly felt very much puffed up.

"Miss Helen went in for a few minutes, though, and when she came out, Polly was gone, stolen probably by some one that slipped up behind her.

"Poor Miss Helen grieved and grieved over her, and offered great rewards, but to no avail. In about a year she went to Florida, and one day, going by a bird fancier's that she knew, the man invited her to come in, saying that he had a lot of new parrots to show her.

"O I wonder: if Polly is there!' she said, and told him about her.

"'No, I haven't any that know as much as that,' said he; 'but there is one who looks as if she understood things, but she won't, or can't, talk.'

"So Miss Helen went in, and there, sure enough, was her poor Polly huddled up sulkily in a cage.

"'Polly,' called Helen, and Polly started and came to the front of the cage.

"'Helen, Helen,' she called, going perfectly wild; '1013 H—— Street. I'll be good! Yep! Yep! Yep!' and then she began to intone the service.

"The bird fancier was astonished enough.

"'I bought her and some six others from two sailors,' he said, 'but I never dreamed she could talk!'

"Miss Helen paid him a big price and went off with Polly on her finger chattering like one mad."

"O I'd love to see her," cried Beth.

"Well go over there some day. Here we are at home."

"I'm glad," said Ethelwyn. "It's nice to go away, but it's nicer to come back."