The next day at breakfast Mrs. Burton announced her intention of going to see Mrs. Alroy instead of attending church, and said that if she were not home to dinner they might know she had thought it necessary to remain.

"Mayn't I go with you, mamma?" asked Winnifred.

"I think it would not be best for either Ernestine or yourself, Winnie, and certainly not for Mrs. Alroy."

Winnie at once saw that her mother was right, and instead of demurring, she went and gathered some beautiful clusters of lilacs for Ernestine, and cut the one white rose in bloom on her window-sill to send to Mrs. Alroy.

Mrs. Burton set off, taking a basket of fruit and the flowers, but she sighed as she turned the corner leading to Mrs. Alroy's, for she felt that the fruit would never refresh the world-weary woman for whom it was intended.

When she reached her destination she glanced apprehensively up to the second-story windows, for, although she said nothing about it to Winnie, she had on the previous day given up all hope of Mrs. Alroy's recovery. But the sorrowful banner which she had dreaded to see was not there, and she breathed more freely as she passed up the stairs.

In answer to her low knock the door was opened by Ernestine, who smiled as Mrs. Burton took her hand, a sad little smile of welcome which went to her visitor's heart.

"Mamma is resting quite easily now, but she passed a painful night. I will tell the nurse you are here. How beautiful the flowers and fruit are!" she said, as Mrs. Burton handed the basket to her.

"Yes, dear; the lilacs are for you—you know their odor is too strong for a sick-room—but Winnie sent this rose from her own little monthly to your mother."

Ernestine's lips quivered, as she took the rose without speaking, and went into the little bedroom, closing the door gently behind her.

Mrs. Burton found a vase, which she filled with water to put the lilacs in, and sat down to await the nurse's coming. She had not long to wait. The nurse, entering, closed the door behind her as softly as Ernestine had done, and motioned Mrs. Burton to follow her into the little kitchen.

"There is not the slightest hope," said she, in answer to Mrs. Burton's anxious inquiry. "The doctor says it may be a matter of hours only, although she may live for some days yet. It is neuralgia of the heart and she has been suffering exceedingly. However, she is resting easier now—which is not a good sign, you know—and wants to see you. She has asked me to send her daughter on some little errand, because she wants to see you alone."

They entered Mrs. Alroy's room together, and Ernestine, at a sign from the nurse, followed her out of the room. Mrs. Alroy took Mrs. Burton's outstretched hand, and for a moment neither spoke. Then the former said quietly:

"Please sit down, Mrs. Burton, for I have much to say to you. And I cannot speak long at a time, so you will have to be patient with me. You are not in a hurry?"

"My dear Mrs. Alroy, I have the day at your disposal. Do not hesitate to command me."

"You know something of my past life—so I found out yesterday. I need not touch upon it further. It is past now and I no longer regret it. But it is of the future I wish to speak. Not my own—that lies beyond our knowing—but of my daughter's—"

The sick woman put her hand over her eyes a moment, and Mrs. Burton walked to the window to fight back the tears which were fast rising to her eyes. Mrs. Alroy was the first to regain control of herself, and as Mrs. Burton resumed her seat, she went on:

"I had a long talk with Mr. Allen yesterday. He knows my family and I have placed my affairs in his hands. I have no doubt that Ernestine will be taken care of, but it is of her immediate future that I wish to speak. I would not have her go among strangers at once, and I am about to ask a great favor of you. The child loves you next to myself; your daughter is her dearest friend—"

"Winnifred feels it an honor to be thought so. Nothing would please both of us, all of us, better than to have Ernestine make her home with us for as long a time as she may desire."

"You give me courage to die. You could almost give me courage to live—but not quite. Yes, that is what I wish to ask of you, but only for the remainder of the school year. Preparing for the high-school examination will occupy my little girl's mind and help her to bear the separation, and after that—in the shadow of death pride vanishes, and I have requested Mr. Allen to write to my brother. They will settle everything else." She sank back on her pillows and closed her eyes wearily.

Mrs. Burton could not immediately command her voice, but laid her hand gently on that of the sick woman. The latter, without opening her eyes, continued:

"I shall not last long; this pain has too constantly been hovering about my heart; it cannot be driven back again; it must soon strike its last blow. But I do not fear it; it will be sharp but quick. Nor do I wish to live. Even my little daughter's wonderful love for me can no longer hold me. Besides, I know that from a material point of view she will only profit by my departure. She does not know that, and I am all she has—and I have not had the courage to tell her. This hard task I must ask you to do for me. I have only a hope—to you that hope is certainty. Your views are different; you can soften the blow as I cannot do. You will stay here awhile?"

"Anything I can do for you is too little."

"I have been loquacious, but I had long restrained myself. What time is it?"

"Half past eleven."

"Ernestine will soon be here, and I will tell her to make a cup of tea for you."

"Oh, no—"

"Yes, it will give her occupation and relieve the strain. There she is now."

Ernestine came in with soft footsteps. "How do you feel now, mamma?" she asked gently.

"Quite easy, dear. I think I shall sleep for a little while. Mrs. Burton will stay to lunch, and you may make a cup of tea for her and yourself. The nurse will stay with me now; you can call her."

The nurse came, and Mrs. Burton and Ernestine left the room together.

After the sad little lunch Mrs. Burton, summoning up all her courage, spoke.

"Ernestine," she said, "your mother has asked me to tell you something which she would gladly spare you knowledge of, but which you must know. She is going on a long journey, from which she can no more return to you. But you will one day go to her."

Ernestine's great eyes dilated wildly. "You mean that my mother is going—"

"My dear, my dear! Your mother walks in the valley of the shadow of death, yet she fears no evil. You—and I and all who love you and her—are enveloped in its gloom, but if she fears not passing to the Unknown, shall we fear for her or for ourselves?"

"I cannot do without my mother, Mrs. Burton! I cannot! I cannot! She is all I have—all I want!" and the girl burst into a tempest of tears.

Mrs. Burton gathered her up in her arms and let her weep undisturbed for some minutes. Then she said gently:

"Your mother wants to go. If she could live longer, she would seldom be free from pain. Besides, it is God's will."

"Oh, my mother! my mother!" And Ernestine dropped upon her knees.

Mrs. Burton went out and left her, knowing that the stricken child's hope was in a Comforter greater than herself.

When Ernestine went in later, pale but quiet, her mother turned toward her with a smile.

"Kiss me, my daughter, my baby!" she said, "and be at peace, as I am."

The windows of the little bedroom faced the west, and toward evening Mrs. Alroy asked the nurse to draw back the curtains. "It has been a stormy day," she said, "but the sun is setting clear. I think I will go to sleep."

And she closed her tired eyes, and "fell on sleep" without being touched by the dreaded pain.

When they knew that it was indeed all over, they led Ernestine away, and she allowed them to put on her hat and went submissively home with Mrs. Burton.

When she returned to her own home again, the little room had been transformed into a bower of flowers, and Mrs. Alroy slept under their fragrant covering, beautiful and serene, with a smile on her lips. Ernestine was met on the threshold by a tall, handsome man, who put his arms about her and said how glad he was to see his little niece. He had come at once in response to Mr. Allen's telegram.

All was quiet and beautiful. A dozen or so friends gathered to listen to the sweet words of farewell to the dead and of benediction to the living; and then Mr. Van Orten took his sister home with him, that she might lie beside her kindred in the little old village on the banks of the Hudson.

CHAPTER XIX.
A BUSY MONTH.

Mr. van Orten left his niece behind him reluctantly, but Mr. Allen had convinced him that his sister had decided wisely, and that nothing could be better for Ernestine during the coming month than the calm and cheerful atmosphere of Mrs. Burton's home. Ernestine's own cot had been brought and placed in Winnie's room, and the two girls were tucked in every night by the same motherly hands. Little Ralph took Ernestine at once into his affections, made her smile at his quaint fancies and cunning little tongue, and his father and brother treated her as if she had always been one of them.

The end of the school year was rapidly approaching, and there was a great deal of work to be done. Ernestine and Winnie were both anxious to do honor to their school and to the teachers who had worked with them hard and patiently, so every minute was occupied in some way, and Ernestine had no time for unhealthy grieving.

On Saturday afternoons Fannie and Miriam and Gretta came to Mrs. Burton's, and they all went over the week's work together. Sometimes Mr. Allen and Fannie came and took Winnifred and Ernestine for a drive through the beautiful suburbs, and one evening they had another row on the river with Uncle Fred and Aunt Kitty.

And so the weeks wore away and brought the bright June day when they all walked together to the high-school to take their examination seats. Their hearts beat high with hope and courage, and swelled with self-importance not altogether to be made light of; for it had been their aim for many months to gain this last fight of their school year on the very field on which they would plant their banners of occupation if they won. And win they felt sure they would, for this was but the supreme test to prove the force and earnestness of what had gone before.

"On, on to victory!" laughed Miriam each morning, waving her hands high above her head. And "On, on to victory!" laughed the four other girls, echoing her cry.

How they worked that week, their young heads bent over their papers, while their young eyes carefully perused those wonderful "printed questions"! The five, so different in manner, but so alike in aim and purpose—Ernestine, calm, deliberate, direct; Fannie, thoughtful but rapid; Gretta, neat, painstaking, and a little anxious; Miriam, dashing ahead impulsively, scratching out a word here or inserting one there, doing twice to thinking once, but thinking that once well; and Winnie, absorbed, thorough and confident—were noted with interest by the stranger teachers watching them, for they had learned to work with a definite aim which showed itself in their very attitudes.

They took the questions home with them, and each day the five might be seen at the home of one or the other, again going over the work, replying one at a time and sometimes all at once to the oft-repeated query, "How did you answer this?" or "Did you prove that?"

Sometimes the group was joined by one or more of their other classmates, and once Josie Thompson, wearing her brightest dress and biggest pin, called to them as she passed: "Isn't this a horrid old examination? I know I won't pass, and I don't care if I don't. My mother says if I fail she'll take me out of school, and I'll be glad of it. I can't see any fun in digging every minute, and what's the use of all this high-school stuff anyhow! I can have a better time without it."

And on the last day she waved her hands to them across the street and shouted: "Good-by, girls! I know it's all up with me!"

"Poor Josie!" said Ernestine, after they had gone home; "trying so hard to have a good time, and missing it after all."

"Yes," said Mrs. Burton, laying her hand gently on the girl's head, "like the dog in the fable, she is losing the substance to grasp at the shadow."

"Tell me about the dog in the table, Ernie," said Ralph, pulling at Ernestine's dress to attract her attention.

"I don't think I know, you little dear!" she said, laughing gently at his mistake. "We must ask your mamma to tell us both."

"Then 'Innie must hear, too!" said the child, running to the door to call his sister.

It was what Miriam called a "delicious" evening, and after tea she and Fannie and Gretta came strolling over to talk about the events of the week and reassure each other that "all was well." Ralph looked upon each of them as his own particular friend and in a sense his charge, and so he now proceeded to enlighten them on the subject of the dog in the fable as follows:

"There was a dog and a table," he said, "but I don't know what the table was for, because he didn't eat on a table, you know, 'cause he was on'y a dog; but he stealed a bone, and he was wunning away wid it over some watah, and saw his shadow looking like anudder dog wid a bone, an' he was so greedy dat he dropped his bone to get de bone of de odder dog in de ribber, and so he lost his own bone and didn't get any odder, and Josie Thompson didn't get any bone eider."

"Oh, Ralph," said Winnie, "you tell everything you know, besides much that you don't!"

How the girls laughed when Winnie explained! And all the more as laughter came easy to them, with hearts light from the consciousness of a well-spent year which had brought its reward.

CHAPTER XX.
A TRIP TO MAMMOTH CAVE.

One evening, shortly after the examination, Fannie said to her father: "Papa, I want to invite the club for a last meeting before Ernestine leaves us. I wish I could have something in the way of a treat different from anything we have had."

"I don't know about that. Your mother is so busy getting ready for the summer, and we are going away so soon, that I hardly see how we can arrange it."

Fannie looked at her father in blank dismay. But he went on unmoved:

"In fact, Fannie, I have been thinking that these meetings, as you call them, are becoming somewhat monotonous." (Fannie's eyes opened wide.) "No, I don't think we can have it at all."

This was too much, and Fannie's speechless indignation found voice: "Papa Allen, I didn't think this of you!" Then, seeing the well-known twinkle in his eyes, she perched herself on his knee and said, "Now, papa, what are you up to?"

"Well, as the immortal Peter Pindar says, as reported by McGuffey, 'I love to please good children,' and as you have all been 'kind and civil,' I have concluded to give you what I call a grand treat. So prepare for a shock."

"Go ahead, papa. I'm not afraid of it at all; what I was afraid of was—none."

"Well, what do you say to my taking all of you, the whole company of warriors, to Mammoth Cave?"

Fannie sprang from his knee and fairly danced around the room for joy. Then she quieted herself and said, "When, papa?"

"Just before the Fourth, I think. Your mother and I will go, and possibly Ernestine's uncle, who will be here by that time; and I thought we might invite 'Miss Kitty,' of whom I have heard so much."

So it came about that on a warm afternoon in July, a party of eight, escorted to the boat by several friends, ascended the narrow staircase of the steamboat, and made themselves comfortable on deck until the "All aboard!" was heard, when the escort hurried down the stairs to the wharf.

When the boat had floated entirely out of sight of the waving handkerchiefs of their friends, the party, taking their hand luggage, went into the cabin to find their staterooms and deposit their belongings. They had four staterooms in all. Fannie and Miriam occupied one communicating with that of Fannie's parents; and Ernestine, Gretta, Winnie and her Aunt Kitty had another similar suite. This duty over, they went on deck to enjoy the sweet, fresh air from the river and the beautiful scenery along its banks.

Just after the short landing which had been made at Lawrenceburg, supper was called, and they were all ready to respond. The colored waiters were delighted to find such a party of young girls, and served them with the utmost alacrity, anticipating every want in a delightful manner.

After supper they sat on deck till long after dark. Mr. Allen and Mr. Van Orten were exchanging reminiscences of their college days; and later, joined by Mrs. Allen, of summers passed at beautiful Lake George and in the White Mountains. To all of this the remainder of the party listened with absorbing interest. However, the air, which had first given them so good an appetite for supper, now made them sleepy, so that by ten o'clock the girls had all climbed into their narrow berths and were soon sound asleep.

They had breakfast on the boat, so were ready to continue their journey by rail without interruption. After a pleasant ride through a picturesque country they reached Cave City, where they were transferred to a tram—an engine and one coach—which took them first up and then down hill over a road cut right through the woods, so that in some places the trees almost interlaced over the top of the coach. It was most delightful to all the party, and would have been only too short had it not been for what was to follow. It formed a fit introduction to the sublime and wonderful results of Nature's long and patient work which they were to see. Therefore, in spite of the novelty and beauty, they were glad to reach the hotel, a long, rambling, wooden building, so unlike anything the girls had ever before seen that the short stay within its quaint rooms, with their bare floors and whitewashed walls, was in itself an experience long to be remembered.

After a night's refreshing sleep they were ready to start out bright and early for the first day's adventures. With many girlish giggles they arrayed themselves in the costumes provided by the Cave management—the short woolen skirts and loose blouses carrying with them a delightfully free and unconventional feeling—and then, at the sound of the gong, set forth with their guide; Mr. and Mrs. Allen in the lead, close behind them Miss Kitty and Miriam, next Fannie and Gretta, then Ernestine with one hand locked in that of her uncle and the other tightly holding Winnie's fingers, while the interesting and friendly dog, "Brigham,"—so called, the guide explained, because he was no longer young—divided his attentions between them, but seemed most inclined to make friends with Miss Kitty, who was accused of having a piece of meat in her pocket as the only way to account for her mysterious fascination for his dogship.

They had a short but beautiful walk through the fern-decorated woods, down a steep path, over a little bridge, till they found themselves on a stone platform directly in front of an enormous opening in the hill, a natural arch overhung with trees, rocks, ferns and wild-flowers—a sight never to be forgotten, so wonderfully beautiful and grand was it—and the party stepped back to admire it.

When they went forward again in order to enter, they saw that what was an arch above was a gaping chasm below, which looked ready to swallow them, and down which there seemed no way to go except to fall headlong. Their guide watched their dismay with amusement, but presently Miriam discovered a narrow flight of steps cut out of the solid rock. Down these they went, shaded by the trees, under the sparkling cascade, beneath the black, overhanging rock, winding their way along to where the last bit of daylight is swallowed up, and then, with various kinds of sensations, watched the guide unlock the iron gate through which they were to pass on their way to the mysterious region of the nether world. As they took their lamps and the gate closed behind them with a clang, Miriam confided to Miss Kitty that she felt little shivers running up and down her back.

As the darkness became more intense, Winnie slipped away from Ernestine to her Aunt Kitty, whose hand she seized with a breath of relief, as if feeling safer there; and Gretta and Fannie clung closely together.

As they advanced, the sense of mystery increased, and for a minute the girls huddled together in a bunch. Brigham, however, sniffed once more—a little contemptuously, according to Miss Kitty—and then ran ahead on side trips of his own, returning to the party from time to time as if to reassure them that everything was all right and they might place implicit confidence in his knowledge of the Cave and his friendship for them.

Their first stop was made in the Rotunda in order to examine the saltpeter vats, in which Ernestine, in keeping with her liking for history, was much interested when she heard that the saltpeter made here was taken to Philadelphia to be used in the manufacture of gunpowder during the war of 1812.

Presently they entered Methodist Hall—so named, as they were assured by their guide, "because it's a heap too dry for the Baptis'." In this place was the natural pulpit from which—so tradition says—Booth once delivered Hamlet's soliloquy.

Next they came to Gothic Avenue, where their way lay along piles of stone erected by admirers of famous men, States, and so on. There was one little pile which seemed to have been neglected, and Miss Kitty asked whose it was. On being told that it was the Old Maid's Monument, she exclaimed: "I shall find nothing nearer my heart!" and, picking up a stone, carefully balanced it on the top of the pile. But in spite of her care, it rolled off. "That's a shore sign, Miss, that you ain't gwine to be a ole maid."

"Can it be!" she said, as the elders of the company laughingly congratulated her. "Once more I feel a breath of hope."

By and by they reached Register Hall, which has been aptly described as a huge autograph album, for on its ceiling, smoked by burning candles, can be found names and addresses from all parts of the world, while address cards are placed in numberless nooks and crevices. Here Gretta sat in the arm-chair in which, so it is said, Jenny Lind once sat and sang.

The next thing which pleased all of them, and particularly Fannie, was the water clock—a tick-tock sound made by the dropping of a little stream of water into a pool below—and they all laughed at William when he said, "But it ain't a eight-day clock, because it runs down every twenty-four hours."

When they saw the Giant's Coffin they looked upon it with awe—for it was a gruesome sight enough—until Mr. Allen said in a loud aside to Mr. Van Orten:

"This is the coffin in which the Warrior Maidens deposit the bodies of their victims."

Mrs. Allen smiled faintly, but Miss Kitty—more at Mr. Van Orten's puzzled expression than at the speech itself—laughed outright. Winnie and Ernestine had not heard, and Gretta hardly knew whether to laugh or be offended, until Fannie and Miriam, catching the joke, re-echoed Miss Kitty's laugh.

From a crevice behind the Giant's Coffin they went slipping and sliding down an incline, and then up and down, till they came to a small, round opening in what seemed to be a solid wall. "Stay here," said the guide; and he disappeared through the hole with his lights. Then he called to them, and, peering through the aperture, they found it to be a natural window opening into a great, beautiful chamber—Gorin's Dome, considered by many, said the guide, to be the finest room in the Cave, with its immense extent, measuring two hundred feet from floor to ceiling, and covering an entire acre of space.

From here they went to the pits, and, standing on the Bridge of Sighs, a lowered ball of flame showed them that they were directly suspended over the deepest, known as the Bottomless Pit. Winnie and Gretta caught their breath quickly, and Ernestine's hand tightened on her uncle's arm; indeed, the whole party was glad to get away from that dangerous spot.

The next place visited, however, made up to them for any amount of hard travel or moment of terror. Having retraced their steps till they came to the original passage, they went on for some distance until told by their guide to rest for a moment on a convenient stone seat, and wait there until he called to them. He then took away all of their lamps and disappeared. For a moment they felt the darkness something frightful, but before it had lasted long enough to be painful, they saw a vision overhead of numberless stars shining down upon them from a cloudless dome.

That which for one moment in the darkness had almost provoked a cry of terror from more than one of the party, became a cry of delight; and then Mrs. Allen wondered aloud how they could see the stars so far below the surface of the earth. But even as she spoke, the scene changed. They no longer saw a clear sky, but the stars disappeared behind heavy clouds, and then they were again in that indescribably awful darkness. But gradually a soft light was seen, and they heard the bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle as they wake in the early dawn. "Beautiful! Beautiful!" they said, and were almost sorry when they found out that these sounds were produced by their guide, who turned out to be something of a ventriloquist, and that the stars and rosy dawn are but optical illusions called forth by skillful manipulation of the light thrown on the crystals which sparkle in the dome with its coating of black oxide of manganese.

From here they wended their way back, followed by Brigham, who had waited for them on the road to the Star Chamber, feeling that they had experienced and seen enough for one day.

They rested all that day and the next, doing nothing that required more exertion than short walks through the woods or promenades along the wide galleries which surrounded both stories of the hotel. Here they swung hammocks, and rested in the open air between their little walks.

But on the third day all the members of the party again set out for the Cave, starting in the morning, for they were warned that going and returning it would be a sixteen-mile walk. Presently they found that the road they had taken on the previous day diverged, and soon they were going through the Valley of Humility leading into Fat Man's Misery, a place but eighteen inches wide, five feet high, and changing direction eight times. Through the one hundred and five yards of this place they twisted and crawled, until they reached Great Relief. Here they stopped to congratulate Mrs. Allen, the stoutest of the party, and Mr. Van Orten, the tallest, on having successfully passed this ordeal.

On again, now ascending a flight of stairs to a higher gallery, now descending to one below, always surprised at finding the immense columns piercing through from the highest galleries down to the very lowest of the five levels of the Cave. They passed through Bacon Chamber—which Winnie did not think at all "romantic"—and through various winding passages, to River Hall, where all the waters of the Cave collect, and where they gazed with awe on the deep lakes. Then they came to the Dead Sea, surrounded on all sides by massive cliffs, from which they descended by means of a stairway to the banks of the River Styx, which the party crossed by a natural bridge to Lake Lethe; then along the Great Walk, with its fine, yellow sand, to Echo River. Here they found a boat waiting for them, and, embarking, were paddled along over the clear water—thirty feet deep—singing, whistling, and shouting to waken the echoes from the rocky walls on either side, until it seemed—so Miss Kitty said—as if "Echo had been transferred from her former mountain home, with all her nymphs."

But no, it was not the Mountain Echo, but her unknown sister who dwelt in these underground regions, as their guide proved to them by striking the long vault with his cane; for it had its own keynote, which excited harmonies of wonderful depth and sweetness, each sound being prolonged many seconds.

Here, too, they saw the eyeless fish, and Gretta even went the length of pitying them, until Miss Kitty told her that, as they were not "fish with little lanterns on their tails,"—which she had once heard given as an explanation of some phosphorescent phenomenon on an ocean trip—and so could not see in those dark waters even if they had eyes, she need not waste her pity.

Soon they reached Washington Hall, and perceived a waiter, who had been following them at a distance, emerge from the gloom, bringing with him a great basket of lunch. This was a pleasant surprise, and they partook heartily of the generous repast, unmoved for the time by their gnome-like surroundings in the semi-darkness of this great chamber, so dimly lighted by the various lanterns and torches.

Beyond this place they found the crystalline gardens, where the crystals take the form of flowers and vines, and even grapes—as in Mary's Vineyard—and later they came upon a snowstorm in a chamber so thickly covered with snowy crystals that they were made to fall like flakes by a loud concussion of the air.

And so they proceeded on their journey and came to the Corkscrew. After a brief consultation, they decided to take this short cut out of the Cave, instead of going over what is now somewhat familiar ground. So up they climbed, partly by means of the three ladders, now through cracks, again over huge boulders scattered here and there in wild confusion, now twisting up through round holes—five hundred feet of climbing, although they were assured by their guide that the vertical distance was only one hundred and fifty feet.

At last they emerged on the edge of a cliff just over the main cave, and, as they stopped to take breath, wondered for a moment if they were in another Star Chamber, for the stars were shining bright above them! But no; this time it was no illusion, for though they had left the bright sunlight behind them when they made the descent into the lantern-lighted darkness, they had been all day in the cave, and were indeed glad that they had saved the mile and a half walk by their ascent through the Corkscrew.

Altogether it was a trip long to be remembered; the more so that, at its close, when they were all back in "dear, old, smoky Cincinnati," as Miss Kitty fondly called it, came the first parting of the ways for the Warrior Maidens. Not the ordinary summer parting, but one which entirely changed the parallel grooves in which their lives had been running, at least for one of them, for Ernestine was to go home with her uncle to New York. The whole Burton family had become so attached to her that they would gladly have kept her with them as a much-loved member of their circle, necessary not only to their happiness but to their comfort, and Ralph expressed his opinion that Ernie's uncle was a bad, bad man.

But, while in compliance with his sister's wish, expressed to Mr. Allen on that day on which Mrs. Alroy had sent for him, he had waited for the end of the school year before coming for his niece, he was now only too impatient to take to her kindred the lovely child—the last living link between their family and the sister whom he and his brothers had so loved and so mourned.

And so, one bright morning in July, the little company, each wearing her badge of warriorhood, went to the station to see their dear friend start on her journey. There were tearful faces on the outside of the car, and a pale but earnest and loving face hidden behind a handkerchief on the inside, as the train slowly moved out of the station.

CHAPTER XXI.
AN EXCHANGE OF LETTERS.

Ernestine to Winnifred.

New York, Sept. 12.

Dearest Winnifred:

It seems a long time since I left you standing in the station, the afternoon I said good-by to the city which had been my home. I can never forget you nor the dear schoolmates who made my life there so pleasant, nor the friends who took me to their hearts in my great sorrow.

I was happy and contented in my little home, so happy with my precious mother's care and companionship, that nothing can ever come into my life to bring greater happiness, or greater desire to do and be good, and our little society helped me.

And yet, dear Winnie, I would not have my mother back to suffer. How much she must have suffered in her isolation from her people, I never knew until I came among them. Never could orphan have found more lovely relatives. I inclose in this my letter to the club, to be read at your next meeting. With my heart full of gratitude to your mother and all the rest, I am,

Your loving friend,

Ernestine.

Ernestine to the Warrior Maidens.

Dear Girls:

When you read this you will all be together at Miriam's and I know you will wish, as I do, that I could be with you. I am here at my grandmother's home, and a beautiful place it is, with its large rooms and fine, old-fashioned furniture. It is in a very quiet neighborhood, which will seem strange to you when I say that it is but a few minutes' walk from Broadway, with its crowds of people, who always seem in a hurry.

When Uncle Morris and I first reached New York, we went straight to his home. His wife received me very kindly, and my cousins (one a young lady, another a girl about my own age, and two boys younger,) were kind, too, and they all wanted me to stay with them. But my grandparents said they must have me, and I was glad to come, for I felt strange with so many new cousins, and was afraid I would find it hard to fall into their ways.

I have such a beautiful room, all my own. It has east windows which open over a little court, where the first thing I see when I throw back my shutters in the morning, is a fountain sparkling in the sun, with rainbows in its spray, and birds flying about and bathing in the pool.

At first there was some talk of sending me to a school to prepare for Vassar, but my grandmother said she had just found me and could not give me up, and my grandfather—with tears in his eyes, which nearly broke my heart, for I knew what he was thinking of—said the same thing; so I am to have teachers right here at home, and have already commenced music and French.

I am sure I shall be very happy; but, for all that, I imagine you all seated at your desks at school, or chatting with each other over your lunch, and that makes me feel very lonely. But I mean to make the best of my opportunities, and shall keep in mind our watchword, "Now," which means much more to me than when we first chose it.

I hope we will all meet again sometime, and that you will always think of me with love, as

Your loving

Ernestine.

Gretta to Ernestine.

Dear Friend:

We all miss you very much, and it seems hard to wait for the "sometime" to come when we shall see you again.

You remember the idea of "fighting giants" seemed silly to me at first, but I can see now that it did me a great deal of good, especially about my school work. I never stood so well in any other examination as in the last one for the high-school; and I never blamed myself, but always my "music." Now I see, though, that two things may be well done as well as one, if only we go about it in the right way.

Good-by,

Gretta.

Miriam to Ernestine.

Dearest Ernestine:

How we did miss you the first day of school, particularly when your name was read as having the highest per cent. in the whole city! And after the classes were formed, every teacher inquired for you, and all looked disappointed when they found that you had moved away.

Our little Winnifred was only five behind you, and not one of us stood less than ninety. We went back to see Miss Brownlow one day last week, and she said she was proud of us. She asked for you and sent her love.

We are struggling with x, y, z, and in Latin have reached "uterque, utraque, utrumque," which sounds about as sensible as onery, twoery, etc. I feel sorry for those people who must have found it no laughing matter to put a different ending to every word for every case, gender and number, and I must say that for myself I like plain English.

I saw Josie Thompson the other day, and I laughed to myself when I thought of her trying to fight her way through such things as these. She said she was "enjoying herself gorgeously!"

We mean to keep up with the record of last year if we can, especially the record of good times.

With lots of love,

Miriam.

Fannie to Ernestine.

My Dear, Dear Ernestine:

How strange it seems that your uncle and my father are friends, and have almost always been friends, and that just as you and I began to know each other you should have to go so far away! But papa says he means to take me with him to New York during the holidays, and then I will see you again.

It seems strange to think that we really go to the high-school, and it makes me feel quite grown-up and as if I ought to be dignified; but Winnie is the same demure little puss and looks very small and childish among so many big girls, some of whom actually wear long dresses.

Miriam is as lively as ever, and keeps us all laughing at lunch time. You know it isn't what she says so much as the way she says it that is so very funny.

But it is time for me to get my algebra lesson, so I will close now.

Au revoir,

Fannie.

Winnie to Ernestine.

Dear Ernestine:

We had the first meeting for this year at Miriam's last Friday evening, and the first thing we did was to go up to Miriam's room and read your letter. I read it out loud first, but that wasn't enough, and it passed from hand to hand, each one reading it for herself.

We had such a nice little meeting, and while we didn't talk quite so much as we did a year ago about fighting giants, I think we all felt that those we had been able to fight had made it easier for us to see and do our duties as they came to us.

After we had read your letter and our business meeting was over, we went down into Miriam's yard and had a regular frolic. It was a bright moonlight night, and we had games and told stories and old riddles and tried to make up new ones—but didn't succeed very well—and by and by Miriam's brother came out with an enormous watermelon on a great, big tray. It was a warm night—you know how warm it is sometimes here in September—and I don't know which we enjoyed most, eating the cool, refreshing fruit or snapping the seeds at each other.

We all miss you very much. Ralph still asks when you are coming back, and no one's paper dolls please him so much as yours did. Sometimes I feel very lonely without you, but Aunt Kitty says she is sure you will come to visit us some time, and that we are only twenty-four hours apart, which does not seem so very far, does it? So I shall look forward

Till we meet,

Winnie.

THE END.