CHAPTER IX—THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS

The first day of the Xmas holidays had at last arrived and fifty-six tired girls were busily packing trunks and bags. Nerves that had been overstrained for the past couple of weeks had relaxed, and everywhere there was the noise and excitement of leaving.

In Freshman corridor trunks were being jumped on and made to close, and all the girls were exchanging addresses and exacting promises of letters and visits.

“Oh, Lois,” sighed Polly, taking her chum’s arm and leading her to the end of the corridor farthest away from the rest of the girls, “I do wish you didn’t live in Albany. Of course I’ll be glad to see Uncle Roddy, but I can’t help feeling that vacation is going to be awful lonely.”

“I know,” replied Lois. “I wish we could be together; anyhow we can write. Bet will be in New York and you will see her.”

“Yes, but Bet’s not you,” Polly answered. “But let’s cheer up. Why, here’s Betty now; speak of angels—looking for us?” she called.

“Oh, there you are; you’re both wanted—Polly in the reception-room and Lo in Mrs. Baird’s office.”

“Do you know what for?”

“No.” But Betty’s expression made both girls apprehensive.

“Wonder what’s up,” queried Lois as they ran down the broad staircase to the main hall.

When Polly reached the reception hall she found Uncle Roddy with a big fur coat over his arm, a cap in his hand, waiting for her.

“Hello, Tiddle-dy-winks; thought I’d plan a surprise for you, so I came up in the motor to take you home. It’s a glorious day. If there are any girls you care to bring along, why—”

But Uncle Roddy’s explanation of his unexpected arrival was cut short by Polly’s violent hug and kiss.

“Uncle Roddy, what a darling you are!” she exclaimed. “I’ll get ready this minute and see who I can get to go with us.” And she flew back to the corridor.

As she stood in her room throwing the remaining leftovers into her trunk, Lois came in and threw herself on the bed, in tears.

“Polly, Bobbie has typhoid and I can’t go home,” she sobbed. “Father wired Mrs. Baird. Poor darling Bob!” Her voice was muffled in the pillow.

Polly’s joy in Uncle Roddy’s surprise was forgotten as she tried to comfort her friend.

After Lois had left the office, Mrs. Baird returned to the reception-room where she had left Uncle Roddy.

“Did Marianna find you all right, Mr. Pendleton?” she asked. “Such a distressing thing has just happened! Dr. Farwell wired me that his son has typhoid and Lois will have to remain here for the vacation. I am sorry, for the child needed a change.”

Then it was that Uncle Roddy had an inspiration. The thought of amusing Polly during the vacation had worried him. Several ladies of his acquaintance had promised to take her about, but that had not reassured him. Now if there were two of them, they would amuse each other, and under the able care of Mrs. Bent, his worthy housekeeper, all would be well.

It was a matter of a few minutes to lay the plan before Mrs. Baird and, with her help, to reach Dr. Farwell by long distance telephone. Over the wire the two men renewed their acquaintance of college days and the doctor was only too delighted to give his consent.

In less than an hour the two girls were wrapped up in countless fur robes in the back seat of Uncle Roddy’s comfortable car, while that relieved gentleman was at the wheel, and the chauffeur, always along in case of tire trouble, occupied the seat beside him.

As it was twelve o’clock when they started, Uncle Roddy suggested luncheon at the hotel in the village. That was lark number one. The food was terrible, but Uncle Roddy was so funny the way he imitated the waiter and teased the big green parrot, that as long as the food was filling, it didn’t matter about the taste.

On the road they had two tires blow out, and as the second happened just on the outskirts of Irvington-on-the-Hudson, home of Rip Van Winkle, Uncle Roddy suggested dinner at the Sleepy Hollow Inn. They had the most delicious muffins, and pork chops with apple sauce, and very black coffee. That was lark number two.

But best of all was the getting home at ten o’clock. Uncle Roddy lived on Riverside Drive in a big apartment, with Mr. and Mrs. Bent, his housekeeper and butler.

Polly had stayed with him for three months before going to school and knew the lay of the land. She led the way to the big guest room that she had occupied, but instead of the gray walls and sedate old mahogany furniture that she remembered, imagine her surprise at finding soft cream walls with a border of nodding yellow daffodils and the most adorable ivory-colored furniture.

Lois broke the amazed silence by demanding:

“Polly, what a beautiful room; why did you never tell me about it?”

But Polly was speechless with delight as she stood looking, first at the big double bed with the carved roses at the head and foot and next at the dressing-table with its dainty silver brushes and combs and Dresden china candlesticks. A slender-legged table with a bowl of yellow tea-roses on it stood beside the bed, and the walls were hung with colored prints of Greuze’s “Girl with the Broken Pitcher” and “The Milk Maid,” Reynolds’ darling portrait of “Penelope” and “The Boy with the Rabbit.”

Polly, in the days of Aunt Hannah and her four-posted beds and crazy quilts, had dreamed of a room such as this. Finally she managed to answer Lois’ question.

“I didn’t know about it myself, till this very minute,” she gasped. “Oh, Uncle Roddy, it’s beautiful! I never saw anything half so lovely!”

“I wanted you to feel at home, dear child, and now I think you had both better get to sleep.” And after renewed thanks and good-night kisses, he left them.

A second later Mrs. Bent tiptoed in with a broad smile that took in the whole world.

“You’re hungry, I’m sure, my dears. I’ll have some hot chocolate ready for you when you get into bed; just ring when you want it.”

Polly and Lois hugged each other for joy and after taking a disgracefully long time to undress, they finally fell asleep over their chocolate and cakes.

The two weeks of Christmas vacation was an unending good time; every minute was full. The mornings were spent chiefly in bed, for Mrs. Bent brought them their breakfast and sat to chat.

Sometimes they lunched down-town with Uncle Roddy and sometimes they motored through Central Park, or, with Mrs. Bent for chaperone, wandered through the stores, and as the old Scotch woman could refuse them nothing, they did pretty much as they chose.

Uncle Roddy came home at four o’clock and always with bonbons and theater tickets.

It would be useless to try and recount all their doings, so you will have to be contented with the descriptions of the good times that pleased them most.

One was Lois’ box party for “Peter Pan.” Dr. Farwell had written that the seats were in her name at the box office for Saturday matinée, and the question arose whom to ask.

“There’s Betty, of course,” said Lois. “We’ll phone her this morning; and Angela and Connie live in New Jersey and we ought to be able to get them.”

Betty’s home was reached and her voice sounded over the wire in reply to Lois’ invitation:

“Come? You bet I will! What a lark!”

“Ask her for luncheon,” called Polly. Then hurriedly to Mrs. Bent: “It will be all right, won’t it?”

“Indeed it will, my lamb; any one you like; it’s only too happy I am to see a little life now and then,” answered that devoted woman.

When the receiver was hung up it was arranged that Betty would be at the apartment Saturday morning. Angela and Connie had another engagement and couldn’t possibly come.

“That’s too bad, Lo. Who can you ask now?”

Lois looked puzzled for a minute and then exclaimed:

“I have it! Why can’t Uncle Roddy” (she had called him Uncle since the dinner at the Sleepy Hollow Inn), “and that funny man, Mr. Whittington, come?”

No sooner said than done. The long-suffering operator connected them with the office in Wall Street occupied by George B. Whittington, broker. He was a little taken back at the invitation, but answered that he would be “pleased as punch and would meet them at the theater.” Uncle Roddy also accepted with pleasure.

Betty arrived Saturday morning, and the three of them chattered like magpies until luncheon. They drove to the theater in the motor and found the two men there to meet them. Betty was introduced to Mr. Whittington and she nicknamed him The Lord Mayor of London at once, after Dick of the same name in the nursery tales. By the time the curtain went up they were the best of friends.

Of course they adored Peter Pan and Wendy. They laughed a good deal and cried a little and waved their handkerchiefs madly when Peter asked them if they believed in fairies.

“This is quite the nicest party I ever attended,” Mr. Whittington insisted as the curtain fell after the last act. “Why can’t we have another one just like it, soon?”

“But, Mr. Lord Mayor of London,” interrupted Betty, “where would we ever find another Peter Pan?”

“Just leave that to me. I know the very thing, but I’m not going to tell you a word about it. You must all be my guests for next Wednesday night. How about it?”

Everybody was of course delighted and accepted at once.

Wednesday night finally arrived and with it another jolly party. Mr. Whittington’s surprise turned out to be the Russian Ballet, and as the girls watched the fascinating première danseuse as Pupin Fee (fairy doll) in that charming story dance, they were wild with delight, and Polly openly transferred her affection from Peter Pan. Lois remained faithful, and Betty never could make up her mind which one she loved the better.

“She might just as well be talking,” exclaimed Polly between acts. “I know just what she’s thinking with every move she makes. Oh, isn’t she precious!”

“I know what the next composition I write for Miss Porter will be about,” announced Betty.

“Oh, Bet, for pity sake stop talking about school. I’m in fairy land and I don’t want to come back,” Lois begged. “There goes the curtain up for the last act.”

The evening was over far too soon to please our party and when Mr. Whittington said good-night, at the door of the theater, his guests left no doubt in his mind of their appreciation and enjoyment of the good time he had given them.

Best of all days of the vacation was Christmas. Polly and Lois were wakened at nine o’clock by Uncle Roddy’s knock.

“Get up, you lazy children! Merry Christmas!” he called. “Lois, I have your mother on the phone for you. Come and speak to her.”

Lois jumped out of bed and in a minute was calling Xmas greetings all the way to Albany.

After breakfast Mr. Whittington arrived, and he and Uncle Roddy whispered mysteriously. Finally Mr. Whittington said:

“Get your things on, girls; we’re going for a ride.”

“A ride?” exclaimed Polly. “Why, the ground’s covered with snow.”

“Doesn’t make any difference; we’re going for a ride,” he told her and not another word could they get out of him.

They rode in the car as far as Fort Lee Ferry and then Uncle Roddy ordered them out, and they crossed the ice-choked Hudson on the ferry-boat.

“Please tell us where we are going,” pleaded Polly.

“I am simply dying to know; it’s all so mysterious,” added Lois.

But “wait and see” was all the satisfaction they could get from Mr. Whittington and Uncle Roddy, and they had to wait until they reached Fort Lee, where a big double-seated sleigh was waiting for them.

When they were all in and the warm robes were tucked snugly about them, Mr. Whittington whipped up the two black horses and they were off along the smooth snow-covered road.

It was one o’clock before they finally reached an old-fashioned farmhouse way up in the hills back of the Hudson.

“Every one out!” ordered Uncle Roddy.

“What a ducky old house! But what are we here for?” asked Lois.

“I know,” laughed Polly, stamping her feet on the porch. “An old-fashioned Xmas dinner.”

“Quite right, Polly, and I hope it’s a good one, for I’m starved. But here are Mr. and Mrs. Hopper, let’s ask them about it.”

As Mr. Whittington was speaking the door had opened and an old lady and gentleman stood in the hall.

“Merry Xmas to you both,” he continued, shaking them each by the hand. “Let me introduce you to the rest. Girls, this is Mrs. John Samuel Hopper, the finest cook in the State of New York; every chance I get to eat one of her turkeys—well, I take it,” he explained.

The old lady blushed with pleasure.

“Won’t you be coming in?” she invited. “The dinner’s ready, so you’d best set.”

You may be sure they all did justice to the roast duck and turkey, for their ride had given them hearty appetites.

After dinner they went out to inspect the farm and ended by having a royal snow fight. When it was over Uncle Roddy suggested more to eat and they spent the rest of the afternoon before the open fire, roasting chestnuts and apples, while the men entertained them with stories of their college days.

The vacation ended at last and Uncle Roddy saw them off, each with a box of candy and a bunch of violets, at the Grand Central Station.

Seddon Hall had a private car for the girls and as each one entered they were greeted by a chorus of shouts:

“Hello, did you have a good time?”

“So sorry I couldn’t come and see you that day.”

“Why didn’t you answer my letter?”

“Didn’t you adore ‘Peter Pan’?” and a thousand other questions.

They reached school at six o’clock and as Polly and Lois strolled down the corridor, waiting for the supper bell, Lois said:

“Well, here we are, back again. Polly, I never had such a good time. I’ll never be able to thank you.”

“Oh, bother the thanks,” replied Polly. “Do you know, Lois, now that we’re back I feel as if we had never been away.”

“I know,” Lois sighed regretfully. “It’s more like a wonderful dream. Still it is good to be back, you know it is.”

“Of course it is,” Polly agreed heartily.

Just then the gong rang and they went down to supper.

CHAPTER X—THE VALENTINE PARTY

On the twelfth of February, Mrs. Baird announced after school, that there would be a masquerade party on Valentine’s Day.

“Last year, the old girls will remember, that we had a book party, and it was great fun,” she said, “but this year, I have thought of something entirely new. I want you all to dress as famous women in history. Choose the particular heroine you admire most, find a picture of her in the library, and try to copy it. The attic will be open this afternoon and you may take what you want from the costume trunks. The Seniors have the affair in charge and they are offering a prize for the best representation.” The girls clapped their appreciation of this novel idea and Mrs. Baird continued:

“Don’t all come as Queen Elizabeths, and Betsy Rosses, find some one not so well known, and whom you really admire. There will be lots of visitors on the platform and I want you all to look your best.”

“Jemima,” Betty gasped, when they had been dismissed and she, Lois and Polly were in the latter’s room. “Who under the sun can we go as?”

“It is hard, isn’t it?” Lois said, “but you had a splendid costume last year; didn’t you go as the Last of the Mohicans?”

“Yes, I have my Indian suit.”

“Why don’t you go as Pocahontas?” Polly suggested. “Your hair isn’t black, but it would look great in two heavy braids.”

“That’s just what I’ll do. I’ll go grab that suit before any of the others get it.” And Betty dashed for the attic.

Lois jumped as the door slammed. “Isn’t that just like Bet, she ought to go as a little whirlwind. Poll, what can we go as?”

“I don’t know, let’s ask Miss Porter.”

“Do you suppose we can find her?”

“Yes, she’s probably in her room.”

They walked down Faculty Corridor, and tapped gently at the last door on the left.

“Come in,” called a voice, not Miss Porter’s.

They entered, to find Miss King, the trained nurse, sitting on the window box, a bunch of artificial flowers in one hand, and a rather battered velvet hat in the other.

“Is Miss Porter here?” Lois asked.

“Yes, just a minute,” Miss Porter was struggling in the depths of her closet. “I’ll be with you in a second; sit down.”

“What is it, costumes?” Miss King asked, when they were seated on the couch.

“Yes, we thought Miss Porter would help us decide what to wear,” Polly explained.

“I’m here about costumes, too, but it’s hardly the same. I’m begging. I found that poor little wretch Martha, who works in the laundry, out yesterday without a hat. I told her she’d catch her death of cold and to go put one on right away. She said she couldn’t because she didn’t have any.”

“Oh, the poor kid,” Polly’s sympathy was genuine.

“I’ve a tam I could give her to wear every day,” she said shyly, “if you think—”

“Think, I know she’d love it. I’ll come to your room and get it after you’ve had your talk with Miss Porter. Thank you. I was trying to rig up something out of these,” she shook the flowers and hat, “but a tam will save the day.”

While this conversation was going on, Lois had been explaining their difficulty to Miss Porter.

“‘Women in History.’ That ought to be easy.” Miss Porter thought for a minute. “Mrs. Baird really wants you to go as your favorite characters? Lois, who is your favorite heroine?”

“Jeanne d’Arc, the martyred Maid of Orleans,” Lois replied dramatically. “Do you think I might go as Jeanne d’Arc?” she asked eagerly.

“I like that,” Polly interrupted. “I thought at the Hallow-e’en party I was to be a Jeanne d’Arc. Oh, well, I give up my rights for this once; besides,” she added seriously, “I don’t really love her the way you do.”

“Won’t armor be hard to imitate?” Miss King asked.

Miss Porter walked over beside the window and took down a framed picture from the wall. She held it behind her back.

“Armor won’t be necessary,” she said. “Lois, have you ever seen the Jeanne d’Arc painting by Jules Bastien-Lepage, at the Metropolitan Museum in New York City?”

“Oh, yes, of course, I saw it this vacation. She’s standing in the woods, just in peasant clothes. I love it. She looks as if she were seeing visions. You remember it, Poll?” Lois was all excitement.

“Here’s a copy of it,” Miss Porter said, producing the picture. “And Lois, I declare you look like her. There, you may keep this print to refer to, it ought to be very easy to find a peasant’s costume. Now Polly, who’s your favorite heroine?”

Polly rumpled her hair, hesitated, and rumpled her hair again.

“She’s not very well known, at least, I never heard any one talk about her,” she answered, “but I think she’s the bravest woman that ever lived. We had a book about her at home, that I used to read and re-read on rainy days.”

“Well, what’s her name?” Lois demanded impatiently.

“Florence Nightingale, the Angel of the Crimea,” Polly said, very solemnly.

“Oh, Polly, do you love her, too?” Miss King’s eyes were shining. “So do I.”

“You couldn’t choose a better woman to portray, dear child,” Miss Porter spoke up. “You’ll find the Seniors know all about her. They are studying about the Crimean War this winter.”

“Please tell me who she was, I never even heard of her,” said Lois apologetically.

Miss King began: “She was an Englishwoman, the first one to go out as a nurse for the soldiers. She thought that if they fought for their country, the least their country could do for them was to give them proper care when they were wounded. At first the generals resented her interfering and thought she was fussy because she wanted clean hospitals and clean food—”

“But the soldiers adored her,” Polly interrupted, and then carried away by the theme, she continued. “She always walked through the long hospital wards every night and they used to turn and kiss her shadow on the wall as she passed, and they named her the Angel of the Crimea. Oh, she was so brave. All the hardships she went through, cold and hunger.” Polly stopped speaking, but her thoughts went back to the stirring scenes she had read about and thrilled over so often in a certain little window seat off the broad stairway in her old home.

Miss King’s voice recalled her, “I can give you a costume, one of my ’kerchiefs will do, and I know how to make a Nightingale cap. We’ll part your hair in the middle and fix it low on your neck and—”

They took the rest of the afternoon to discuss the plans. It was not until the dressing hour that Polly and Lois saw Betty again. She had apparently found her costume without any trouble, for she had been skating all afternoon.

“The ice was bully,” she greeted them. “Where have you been all this time?”

“With Miss Porter; did you find your costume?” Polly answered.

“Yes, first thing. Have you decided what you’re going as?”

“Yes, but we’re not telling,” Lois teased. “We thought out peachy ones.”

“Ah, please.”

“No, never.”

“Do you know what any of the others are going as?”

The conversation was being shouted from room to room.

“No, do you?”

“Connie is going as Lady Macbeth.”

“What, why she’s not historical, she’s Shakespearean,” Polly protested.

“Connie insists she was a real woman, and that Shakespeare knew all about her. Anyway, she says she’s going to walk in her sleep and say: ‘Out, damned spot.’”

“Are you really, Con?” Lois raised her voice so that it could be heard at the other end of the corridor.

“Am I really what?” came Connie’s reply.

“Going as Lady Macbeth at the party?”

“Of course I am. She was a real person.”

“Well, she wasn’t very well known,” Angela added her voice to the others.

“Maybe not, to the uneducated,” Connie said loftily, “but she will be after the party.”

There was a minute of hilarious laughter, that ended as the study hour bell rang for silence.

After dinner, Lois and Polly, their weighty problem of costumes off their minds, were talking of valentines.

“If we could only think of something different, there are no really good ones at the store,” Lois said, rummaging in the closet for the peanut butter jar.

“I know it. I bought some but they are no good. How do you send them, through the mails?” Polly asked.

“No, the Seniors make a big red box and put it in the Assembly Room valentine morning, and everybody puts their letters in it. The box is opened at the party and the valentines are given out.”

“How would it be to make some red cardboard hearts and write verses on them?”

“Make them up, do you mean?”

“Yes, about the girls.”

“Fine, let’s try—but first let’s get comfy.”

Lois’ definition of comfy was to sit tailor fashion on a bed surrounded by pillows, with jam, crackers and other eatables near at hand.

Polly preferred the window seat, it was broad and cozy, and you could always look out of the window when you wanted inspiration.

“All ready,” Lois said, sitting down. “Give me a pencil. Now, who first?”

“You take Bet, and I’ll take Connie,” Polly said.

They both wrote for a minute, and then Lois read:

No, that’s no good.“

“It is good,” Polly protested feebly, “but it’s not especially original.”

“That’s awful,” Lois insisted, drawing a heavy line through the words.

“What’s yours to Connie?”

“That rimes,” Lois said reluctantly. “But there’s nothing the matter with Con’s manners, so it doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s just it,” Polly agreed hopelessly. “We can’t write sense that rimes, because we’re not poets.”

“Betty can, let’s get her to help. You go, I’m so comfy.”

“All right, lazy one, don’t eat all the jam before I get back,” and Polly left, to return in a few minutes with Betty.

“Original valentines, that’s a bully idea,” she said when the plan had been explained to her. “Let’s start with Connie.”

Polly and Lois agreed. They did not think it necessary to say that they had already started with Connie.

“Four lines are enough, let’s see, what rimes with valentine? Columbine, turpentine—aha! I’ve got it.” Betty scribbled furiously. “How’s this?

“Oh, Bet, that’s great. How did you ever think of it?” Polly was filled with admiration.

“Oh, genius is burning tonight, that’s all,” Betty laughed. “Now let’s think of one for Angela.”

“Something about Latin for her, don’t you think?” Polly said.

The suggestion was enough for Betty. “Fine, dine, pine,” she chanted. “Listen:

Lois and Polly looked at each other in speechless wonder, and Betty, now thoroughly started, wrote absurd jingles to all the girls. She reached the height of her achievement in Louise Preston.

“Read it again, Bet, it’s the best of all,” Polly said, delighted. And Lois spread a cracker inches thick with jam, and presented it—

“To the Poet,” she said. “I haven’t a laurel wreath so this will have to do.”

“You can’t eat it until you’ve read the poem again,” Polly insisted.

“Oh, all right.” Betty consulted her pad.

“I don’t think much of it, the meter changes,” Betty said critically.

“That’s all right, as long as it doesn’t change in the same verse,” Polly replied. “I think it’s great. Who next?”

“Oh, no more tonight,” Betty groaned, “give me my cracker. I’m starved.”

“No time, there goes the silence bell.” Lois laughed.

“No time? Just watch me,” and Betty put the whole cracker in her mouth at once, and left for her own room.

“Good-night,” Polly and Lois called after her, but she could only nod in response.

The party was at its height. Every age and every country was represented in the costumes. Betsy Rosses, Grace Darlings and Pocahontases abounded among the younger children. And there was every known character from Agrippa of Roman fame, to Queen Victoria, among the upper school. High ruffs danced with ’kerchiefs, and French heels, with sandals. In fact, every one had taken so much interest in their costume that the Seniors and faculty, who were acting as judges, were hard put to find any one particular girl who outshone the rest.

Lois and Betty had drifted off to a corner of the room, during the refreshments. They made a curious picture against the boughs of green that decked the walls. Betty was a stolid Indian maid, from the beaded moccasins to her parted hair, her face was smeared with grease paint, and she had tribal marks all over her forehead and cheeks. Polly looked very efficient in her immaculate nurse’s costume, her hair was parted severely, and she had on a soft white winged cap. Over her uniform she wore a long gray cape. No one had been able to name her, and after the guessing was over she spent her time in explaining, and exalting Florence Nightingale.

As for Lois, Miss Porter was right when she said that she looked like Bastien-Lepage’s picture of Jeanne d’Arc, and certainly rags became her. She had found a bodice, that laced over a white blouse, and an old patched skirt. Miss Porter had fixed her hair in a soft careless knot, and as she stood beside Polly and Betty, a little tired from the excitement of the evening, there was a far away, dreamy look in her eyes that bespoke the seeing of glorious visions.

“Louise asked me if we sent her that valentine,” Lois said, between sips of lemonade.

“Did you tell her we did?” Polly inquired.

“Yes, I did, because she said it was the sweetest one she’d received, and I just had to let her know that Bet wrote it.”

Betty said: “Oh, shucks, why did you do that?” and changed the subject by asking: “Who do you think will get the prize?”

The answer was cut short as Angela, who was Catharine of Russia, and Connie joined them.

“Well, Lady Macbeth,” Polly greeted them, “have you established your claim to being a real historical character yet?”

“I have, doubter,” Connie answered haughtily. “There was a real Lady Macbeth, Mrs. Baird says so, and, ‘sure she is an honorable man, woman,’ I mean, ‘Therefore, avaunt and quit my sight, let the earth hide thee, and thy base mockery.’”

Angela put her hand over Connie’s mouth. “Don’t mind her, she’s been talking like this all evening,” she said. “Did you get the packages that were in the express-room?”

“Packages, no, where are they?” Polly demanded.

“Why, I saw them before dinner, there were three, just alike, and addressed to you and Lo, and Bet.”

“Let’s get them this minute,” Betty said, starting for the door. “Come on with us.”

They threaded their way through the crowd of dancing girls, and raced for the express-room.

“I bet it’s a joke,” Lois said as she reached for the electric switch.

But when the light was turned on, sure enough there were three packages, piled one on the other, on the table.

“Open them quick,” Connie commanded. “I am dying of curiosity.”

Off came the wrappers, and there was a shout of joy as three heart-shaped boxes of candy appeared.

“How wonderful!”

“My favorite kind!”

“What adorable boxes!”

“They’re painted on silk.”

“How sweet!”

“Who could have sent them?” Lois asked.

“Mr. Pendleton, perhaps,” Betty suggested.

“No, it’s not Uncle Roddy’s writing,” Polly said; “besides, he sent me a little gold heart, yesterday.”

“Open them, perhaps there’s a card or something inside,” Angela suggested. This proved to be the case.

Polly opened hers first, and the rest watched eagerly.

“It just says: ‘A friend of a very dear friend of yours,’” she read. “Who can that be? Read yours, Lo.”

“Mine says: ‘In remembrance of a charming evening.’”

“Listen, I know,” Betty exclaimed. “‘From a devoted admirer, once mayor of a certain city.’ Don’t you see, it’s Mr. Whittington, that friend of your uncle’s, Polly.”

“Of course it is, and the very dear friend of mine is Uncle Roddy,” Polly exclaimed delightedly.

“The charming evening must be the night we went to see ‘Peter Pan,’” Lois said. “Wasn’t it nice of him to remember it.”

“But why does he say ‘once mayor of a certain city’?” Connie inquired, re-reading Betty’s card.

“Oh, that’s because Bet nicknamed him Lord Mayor of London,” Polly explained. “His name is really Dick Whittington.”

They each selected a candy, and munched in happy silence.

“Lois Farwell, Lois Farwell. Oh, Lois,” a voice called suddenly from the depths of the hall. “Where are you?”

“Here, in the express-room,” Lois answered; “What is it?”

Dot Mead poked her head in the doorway.

“You’re wanted upstairs, right away, hurry!”

“Why?” chorused everybody.

“Oh, never mind,” Dot said, mysteriously, “only hurry.”

They were no sooner in the Assembly Hall again before Mrs. Baird tapped the little desk bell for silence.

“Girls, the Seniors have decided to award the prize of the evening to Jeanne D’Arc, impersonated by Lois Farwell. Lois, will you come here, dear?”

The girls made an opening through the center of the room. Lois, too mystified for words, walked slowly up to the platform. Mrs. Baird presented her with a tiny silver loving cup. “This gives me very great pleasure, my dear,” she said smiling, “because Jeanne D’Arc is one of my favorite heroines, too.”

Lois tried to stammer her thanks. Just then Louise Preston stepped forward with a wreath of laurel. “Here’s the crown that goes with it, Lo,” she whispered. “Kneel down.”

Lois knelt on the lower step, and Louise placed the wreath on her head.

“I crown you the most beautiful picture of the evening,” she said. And the girls broke out in heartiest applause.

“I knew it, I knew it,” Miss Porter whispered to Miss King. “She’s exquisite. See how her eyes sparkle when she blushes. She’s exactly the sensitive, delicate type, for a Jeanne D’Arc.”

“She is lovely,” Miss King agreed, in her frank way. “But if I’d had the awarding of the prize, Polly would have had it. She’s a splendid girl, she gave me a sweater, as well as a tam for Martha. I love that spirit.”

Lois went to bed, elated at her success, and the praise she had received. She smiled delightedly at her reflection in the mirror.

“I wonder,” she mused, “if any one will ever tell Mother about this. I would like her to know but, of course, I can’t myself.”

CHAPTER XI—PRACTICING FOR THE INDOOR MEET

The last bell had just sounded and the girls were leaving the schoolroom for the day. Two weeks had passed since the Valentine party. Today was Wednesday and the coming Saturday was the date fixed for the Indoor Meet.

The Whitehead School basket-ball team was to meet the Seddon Hall girls for their annual game. The year before they had played at Whitehead and were beaten. This year the game was to be played at Seddon Hall and the girls were determined there should be no more defeats.

“Wait a minute, you two,” called Connie, as she and Angela caught up with Polly and Lois in the schoolroom corridor. “I’ve news; such news!”

“What is it?” inquired Lois, in the act of retying Polly’s hair ribbon.

“Don’t breathe a word about it. I don’t suppose Louise Preston wants it known all over the school,” answered Connie. “But as I was going through Senior Corridor to my music lesson, I heard her say to Gladys Couch (jumping center on the big team): ‘Then you won’t be here for Saturday?’ And Glid said: ‘Isn’t it awful, Louise, but I don’t see how I can possibly get back before Monday.’ Well, of course, Polly, you know what that means.”

“What’s the giddy secret?” sang out Betty, coming towards them from one of the classrooms.

“Bet, oh, Bet, catch me quick!” cried Polly, falling into her arms in a mock faint. “Such news! Tell her, some one, quick!”

“Wah!” exclaimed Betty when she had heard. “You’ll have to play on the big team, Polly. Isn’t that bully!”

As they all stood talking it over, in subdued whispers, Louise Preston appeared at the other end of the corridor.

“Oh, Polly,” she called, “can you spare me a few minutes? Let’s go in this classroom; then we won’t be disturbed.”

She put her arm around Polly’s shoulder as she had done the first day. Once inside the classroom, she began:

“We’ve had some pretty bad news this morning. Gladys Couch received a telegram that her brother is going to be married on Saturday. Well, of course, Glid will have to go home. She can’t very well ask them to postpone the wedding,” she added, smiling, “and that leaves us without a jumping center. Polly, you know we simply must win this game. You’ll have to play and you’ll have to play as you never played before. Better get some practicing in and, remember, I’m depending on you.”

She was gone before Polly could realize what had happened. She spent the rest of the day in the gym with Lois and Betty as Louise had suggested.

Misfortunes never come singly. The next day Flora Illington, the other substitute center, had a phone message that her father was very ill and she had to leave at once. Flora was just one of the girls at Seddon Hall; apart from her position on the team, she had no particular place in the school.

However, it was with genuine sympathy and feeling that the girls saw her leave and the week after heard of her father’s death.

Flora never returned to school and after the letters of condolence were written and answered, she was forgotten.

Polly met Louise in the gym that afternoon.

“Isn’t it dreadful about Flora?” she began.

“Yes, I hope there’s nothing serious the matter with her father,” Louise answered. Then with a sigh: “I suppose I’m a brute, but I can’t help thinking, there goes another substitute.”

“Cheer up,” advised Polly, “she probably wouldn’t have been needed. How are the songs getting along?”

“Wonderfully! Betty and Angela handed in two dandies today, but of course I’m looking to the Juniors for most of them.”

“Well, so long.”

“Don’t work too hard, and don’t you dare hurt yourself.”

“I won’t, and you cheer up.”

Louise left the gym and Polly jumped into the game, calmly taking the ball out of Connie’s astonished hands.

She worked furiously all afternoon and when next she had a minute to breathe she was back in her own room getting ready for her bath.

“I tell you, Polly,” sang out Betty from across the hall, “you certainly played this afternoon.”

“Hum!” Polly grumbled, screwing her hair up into a tight knot. “I made a nasty foul. Thank goodness Louise wasn’t there.”

“Aren’t you two slow pokes ready for your baths yet?” demanded Lois, thumping on the door.

“Well, I can’t find my slippers,” Polly complained, rummaging under the bed. “Angela,” she called, “darling Angela, please lend me your slippers.”

“All right, here they come.” And a pair of Chinese slippers flew through the transom.

“Thanks! Oh, I say, I asked for slippers, not stilts,” Polly grumbled. “How do you keep the crazy things on?”

“Ingratitude, thy name is Polly,” began Angela, but Polly was half way down the hall and out of hearing, with Lois and Betty. Lois was saying:

“How did you ever manage to make that foul?” And Polly explained, just as they came to the head of the stairs.

“Why, Connie had the ball and I jumped for it. She tried to pass it to Dot and I thought I could get it by batting it back, like this—”

She leaned forward to show what she meant, completely forgetting the stairs. Angela’s slippers gave a half twist and she plunged headlong down the steps.

Miss King said her ankle was badly sprained and the doctor was summoned.

She lay on the infirmary bed, biting her lips and trying to keep back the tears. The doctor had strapped her ankle and told Miss King that she was not to put her foot to the ground for two weeks.

At last Louise’s voice sounded outside the door.

“All right,” she was saying. “I promise to stay only a second.” And in a minute she was at Polly’s side. It was more than the poor child could stand. She burst into tears and hid her face in the pillows.

“Oh, Louise,” she sobbed, “can you ever forgive me? And you told me to be careful!”

“Why, honey child, you couldn’t help it,” comforted Louise. “Here, cheer up, you’ll make yourself sick. Angela’s downstairs tearing her hair out and swearing vengeance on her poor slippers.”

“But the game! Who’ll play in my place?” wailed Polly.

“That is just what I came up to talk to you about,” Louise told her. “Can you suggest any one? We’re stumped.”

“Wouldn’t Betty do? I know she’d be careful about fouls. Please give her a chance.”

“I think perhaps you’re right. I’ll go and talk to her,” Louise replied. “Be good, dear, and don’t worry. I know it’s a terrible disappointment.” And she leaned over and kissed Polly’s hot cheek.

“All right, I’ll try. If you see Lois will you ask her to come up and talk to me? I’ll go crazy if I have to stay here alone.”

But it was not until some hours later that Lois appeared. Miss King thought solitude the best thing for Polly’s feverish condition.

“You are a nice one,” grumbled Polly when Lois entered the room. “I thought you were never coming near me again.”

“Come near you! Why, I’ve been sitting outside Miss King’s door all afternoon, waiting for permission to see you. Poor darling! How’s the ankle? Awfully painful?” explained Lois.

“Do you mean to tell me Miss King wouldn’t let you in before now?” demanded Polly.

“Yes; she said you were very feverish and she wanted you to rest; and for goodness’ sake don’t excite yourself or I’ll have to leave; you must be kept quiet.”

“And here I’ve been thinking you a cold-hearted wretch all afternoon. Just wait till I see Miss King!”

“What are you going to do to her?” asked that lady herself, poking her white-capped head around the corner of the door.

“Oh, there you are, eh?” laughed Polly. “Why wouldn’t you let Lois come in before?”

“Because I’m a cross old thing,” laughed Miss King. “But just to show you that I can be nice sometimes, if you have no more fever I’ll let her stay and have supper with you. Now what am I?”

“You’re a darling and I’ll love you forever, but don’t you dare find I have a fever,” replied Polly.

Miss King did find her temperature a little above normal, but so little that Lois was permitted to stay, and the two of them had such a jolly time that Polly almost succeeded in forgetting the coming game and her own disappointment, and you may be sure Lois carefully kept off that dangerous subject. The time passed so quickly that the bell for study hour rang long before they expected it, and Lois had to fly to escape being late.

“Lo, half a minute,” Betty called just before the good-night bell. “I’ve something to tell you. I am chosen to fill Polly’s place tomorrow. Louise just told me.”

“I’m awfully glad for you, Bet,” answered Lois. “I know you’ll make good, but—”

“Yes, it’s that but that makes me so miserable,” replied Betty. “How can I be excited and pleased when I know Polly’s up there in the infirmary—Oh, it makes me sick to think of it!” she finished, and before Lois could reply, she had disappeared into her own room and closed the door.

“Poor Betty,” sighed Lois sympathetically. “It’s all a mean shame.”

Just before Miss King turned out the infirmary lights, she delivered a note to Polly. It read:

“Polly Dear:

“Louise has asked me to play in your place on Saturday. I know you suggested it to her, too. Well, my chance has come and I am miserably unhappy at the very thought. I know I’ll make a million fouls and we’ll lose the game. Darn every bedroom slipper that was ever invented!

“Your doleful,
“Betty.”

“Poor old Bet,” smiled Polly. “Well, if she only makes good I won’t be half so unhappy at not playing myself.”

In less than five minutes she was sound asleep, and the next morning Miss King pronounced her temperature normal.

CHAPTER XII—POLLY’S HEROISM

“Miss King, don’t you think I might be carried to the game tonight?” pleaded Polly early Saturday morning as the nurse was bathing her face and hands.

“We’ll see; perhaps we can arrange it if you have no fever,” answered Miss King, and Polly had to be content.

After study hour Lois and Betty flew up to the infirmary.

“Everything’s going beautifully,” announced Lois excitedly, “and we brought you up the green and white ribbons; here, let me tie them on your arm.”

“How’s the ankle? Do you think you can get over to the game?” asked Betty eagerly.

“If I have no fever, Miss King says she’ll see. I hate people to say they will see; Aunt Hannah always did, and it always meant ‘no,’” pouted Polly. “When does the other team arrive?”

“The train’s due at 12:03, luncheon at 12:30, and the game’s called for 2 o’clock,” Lois told her.

Just then Angela and Connie appeared in the doorway.

“May we come in? How’s the invalid?” Connie asked.

“Oh, hello. Of course come in. I’m awfully glad to see you. I am feeling very fine this morning,” responded Polly.

Angela was looking dolefully at the big lump the bandaged foot made under the covers, and her eyes were misty.

“Polly,” she began, “can you ever forgive—”

“Angela, you’re going to say something about those slippers, and if you do—” Polly interrupted threateningly.

“All right, I won’t, but I’ll think of it for the rest of my life.”

After a few minutes of excited conversation the girls left—Lois and Betty for the gym and Angela and Connie for the schoolroom to practice songs with the rest.

Polly, left alone, retied and patted the green and white ribbon Lois had given her; then she tossed and turned and fretted until the doctor arrived an hour later. He declared the ankle greatly improved, but he did not like the patient’s nervous condition, and to Polly’s plea to be carried to the gym, he gave a decided “No.”

Miss King was all sympathy, and offered to read aloud, tell stories, or, in fact, do anything to amuse her heartbroken little patient, but Polly refused to be comforted.

After luncheon Lois and Betty arrived for a last word; they were in their gym suits and Betty’s hands were ice cold. Polly tried to be encouraging and cheerful.

“Do be careful of those lines, Bet,” she advised, “and don’t run with the ball.”

“Run with the ball! I probably won’t have a chance to even get my hands on it let alone run with it. Oh, I tell you, I’m in a sweet funk!” groaned Betty.

“Will you stop talking like that, Betty Thompson,” commanded Lois. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, if you can’t play against that insignificant Whitehead center, all my little faith in man is gone.”

“Do tell me something about the other team,” Polly begged. “I heard you giving them the cheer as they arrived. Do they look very dreadful?”

“No, I think we are pretty evenly matched. Their guards are tall—but there goes the bell; we’ll have to fly. Polly, darling, I’ll come and tell you all about it the second the game’s over,” promised Lois, as she and Betty ran down to the schoolroom to join the team.

As Polly lay listening she heard the girls tramping over to the gym. The sound came faintly at first, then louder, and finally halted underneath the infirmary window: