Happie laughed. "Sure enough! Oh, it doesn't matter, not as much as forty dollars and ninety cents a day, and that's what we've taken in. To be sure there are crackers, sugar, tea, lemons, cream, candy materials—— Well, at the worst we've made a lot."

"Polly, dear, what are you doing?" Gretta asked.

There was Polly, leaning almost into the middle of a table, pencil in hand,—wetting it often at her puckered lips,—while she set down figures on a piece of wrapping-paper.

"Trying to see how much money we'll have a year," said this practical little woman of ten. "See, Happie. I multiplied $40.90 by six; that's right, isn't it? Because we won't come down Sundays. And—oh, don't laugh! See if it's right. Six times ought is ought, and six times nine is fifty-four? I never feel sure of the nines. Six times ought—no, set down the five, and six times four is twenty-four. Isn't that two hundred and forty-five dollars and forty cents a week? Then how many weeks in the year? Isn't this the way to get it?"

"It's all right, Polly-pet. The only thing is that you're counting chickens where I see only a basketful of eggs!" cried Happie. "There's one thing certain; you've worked like a whole river bank of beavers, and done your full share in making this day a success. But what a success it is, Margery and Gretta! Laura, play just one little waltz to relieve our feelings while we're waiting for Bob; the door's locked!"

But even as she spoke Bob rattled the door knob and Penny stampeded to let him in, poor little Penny, who had been very good through a tediously long afternoon.

"We're rich, Robert!" cried Happie. "It's been wonderful."

"Good for the Teasers!" Bob shouted. "Take me around to the Waldorf and dine me!"

"Well, it's begun—well begun," said Happie with a long breath as "the Teasers" emerged with Bob on the street, locked their door, and set their faces dinnerward. But how much had begun, nor where it was to end, she little dreamed.

CHAPTER IV
CHRISTMAS, AND AN INVITATION

In the week that intervened between the opening of the tea room and Christmas, the Patty-Pans girls found their new enterprise developing from a sort of glorified doll's house, in which they could fulfil their favorite childish play of "helping mother," into a stern reality. Even Happie came home at night silent and white, Laura openly bemoaned her fate, while Margery and Gretta palely and limply betrayed their indifference to everything but bed and sleep.

Of course it was delightful to be so successful as they were; that is, it was delightful to review the success of each day from the vantage ground of the following morning. But at night, when feet ached, head was tired, hands weary and patience tried by a succession of women, themselves too tired from shopping to be courteous, then the tea room lost all semblance of a frolic and became a stern fact.

Christmas eve came at last, just as the girls had had faith to believe it would come, on the twenty-fourth. Everybody seemed to be too busy to drink tea, so it was an easy day, and Happie, Laura and Polly came home early, in good spirits, when Bob called for them. Margery and Gretta had been at home all day, for it would never do for them all to desert the Patty-Pans on Christmas eve.

"There's no one like Bob," said Gretta, to every one's surprise and her own consternation.

"Here's where having a family comes in. You all think it's my just dues, but I can tell you I'm as pleased as Punch over it," said Bob. "Mother, you may plume yourself on this promotion. If I weren't a good accountant Mr. Felton couldn't have given me my chance, and you are my teacher. You'll get twice as much income as you've been having out of your investment in me. That strikes me as the main point."

Fine Bob's eyes were moist. He was not quite seventeen, and it had been long weary waiting for the day when he could do a fraction of what he wanted to do for the brave mother who had struggled on alone while her children were small. Here was his foot placed on the lower rung of the ladder by his Christmas promotion, and he had always been sure that, given the first rung, he could climb.

Mrs. Scollard understood what was in Bob's heart. She slipped her hand through the boy's arm, going down the tiny hall to his room.

"It is not I who have done it, my Robert," she whispered. "It's your own upright, truthful honesty and industry; your sterling self. I know, my son, and I'm thankful that my one boy is what he is."

"The Scollards are getting rich!" cried Happie rapturously rumpling up her bronze hair, already sufficiently disordered by the wind. "Margery, shall we take a house on the Plaza or Fifth Avenue next year? I always liked North Washington Square best of all New York."

"Don't make your disobedient hair any worse, Hapsie!" protested Margery. "You look as if you were likely to take a padded cell." But she was not less delighted than Happie, and sang like a whole field of larks, as she helped get the dinner on the table.

The Scollards kept to the fashion of giving Christmas gifts on Christmas eve, and when the girls got the dinner out of the way and its consequent work done, they brought out the presents they had long been making and treasuring up for one another.

Gretta, who had learned the family custom during the summer, had prepared in Crestville for this night. She now brought forth bags and feather-stitched aprons, made of materials familiar to the girls from frequently seeing them in the all-sorts store to which black Don Dolor used to take them down the mountain road. And after these had been produced, Gretta brought forth sunbonnets made like her own in which Happie had found her lonely, painting the fence on her cousins' farm, where she had been tolerated almost intolerantly.

Gretta looked ashamed of her gifts, though they were the best she could find or afford to buy. Her cousins had allowed her no money; in the old days she had had none except what she could earn in small ways, and the stock of the Crestville shop was not varied. There was no mistaking the fact, however, that the Scollards liked Gretta's gifts. They brought back the summer days, the pleasant Ark, the glorious mountains and the funny, homelike little store.

Happie put on her pink sunbonnet at once, and the others followed her example. Thus Crestville crowned, they proceeded to open the New York packages with which each lap was filled. They were not costly presents, but there was nothing that did not represent time, thought, affection, and which did not fit the receiver's needs and tastes. Consequently much laughter and more pleasure accompanied the opening of every tightly tied package.

At one of the gifts Happie looked gloomy. Margery had received by mail a dear little soft leather book of sonnets, and it seemed to Happie that she stroked it as she handled it. Now, even an enthusiastic book-lover hardly pets his books, and so it seemed to Happie to argue—however, this was Christmas eve, and good will to man must include, by an effort, Robert Gaston.

A messenger brought a packet from Miss Bradbury. Mrs. Scollard signed for it, and came back with it to her children. "From Aunt Keren!" she said.

Margery opened it, being the eldest. It contained six mistletoe lace pins of green enamel and pearls, beautiful pins in design and workmanship. They held the holly-red ribbon around a long envelope addressed to "The Six Tea Maidens." When this envelope was torn open by Happie it proved to contain the receipt for six months' rent of the tea room! Kind Aunt Keren, who went about regardless of fashion, yet did so much for others in her abrupt way!

A scarf pin in its own white box, for Bob, was a slender circle of olivines, their green tint exquisite against the white satin.

"For my all-round man, gardener, coachman, farmer and guardian in last summer's green fields," the card said.

Mrs. Scollard silently held up a little book and a piece of yellow lace.

"My mother's little hymn book, and dear Miss Keren's own mother's lace," she said, as she read a brief note and laid it inside the book.

There were many small gifts from friends. Happie's three E's, Edith, Elsie and Eleanor, remembered her—Laura looked as though she found it hard to be the third girl, and not as rich in friends as the two older ones. But Gretta's face was a study as she handled first one and then another of her gifts. It was her first experience of a home Christmas, and it bewildered her with a sense of its sweetness.

"I wonder how Rosie likes her box?" she said, looking up. Rosie Gruber, left in charge of the Ark, had not been forgotten. Miss Bradbury and the Scollards had sent her up such a provision for the feast as would be the talk of the township for days.

"Think of Eunice and Reba sitting all alone to-night, after scolding each other all day it's likely! No wonder they are cross!" said Gretta, with a sudden pity for the two women who had embittered her childhood springing from the warmth of her present happiness.

"No, they're in bed, Gretta," laughed Happie, who found it harder to forgive Gretta's cousins than Gretta did.

"Yes, Gretta, pitying thoughts of the unloving ones to-night!" said Mrs. Scollard with a smile for Gretta. "It's so horrible to love nothing; worse than not to be loved, could the two conditions be separated. Now the Christmas hymns, Laura, and then to sleep, for Penny is drooping, and she must be up bright and early, because Santa Claus comes to her in the morning."

Laura went to the piano and all the others stood around her. They all sang, more or less; Margery's voice was an unfailing joy, and the harmony of the little family choir was rather remarkable.

"Ralph and Snigs! Quick, Bob, fetch them!" cried Happie. And Laura improvised a medley of Christmas airs while they waited. It was not long; the Gordon boys came only too gladly, and their mother with them. They brought more thrilling little white packages tied with holly ribbon, and the hymns had to wait a while longer. Ralph handed Happie her gift with a funny bow and a bashful look unlike "Ralph the Ready," as the Scollards called him.

"Your mother will let you wear it because there isn't any etiquette about a gift from a boy; it's only young ladies who can't take presents from young men. And—and I'd like a great deal to have you wear it, Happiness," Ralph said.

It was a delicate hoop of gold for her left wrist. Happie caught it up with a cry of pleasure. "I've been wanting a bangle; you need one with short sleeves, and this is so slender it's lovely. Of course I'll wear it, and of course mamma will let me! Thank you heaps, Ralph. Here, you wish it on!"

She held out her hand all folded up for Ralph to slip the bangle over it. He did so, scarlet even to his ears, as Bob watched him gravely and Snigs poked Laura in the most unmistakable manner.

"Now it's on and I won't take it off till you say the time for the wish is up. I hope it's a good wish, Ralph! Thank you and thank you!" said Happie wholly unembarrassed.

They sang hymns until the clock warned them of half-past ten and Penny was carried by Bob into her mother's room, fast asleep.

"A dear Christmas eve somehow; so quiet and nothing-special, only dear," said Happie, thoughtfully, brushing her hair preparatory to braiding it for the night. Gretta sighed contently. "It's my first one. I've seen fifteen twenty-fourth of Decembers, but never a Christmas eve before. I don't see how it could have been nicer."

"And six months rent of the tea room! Dear Auntie Keren. I don't like to take it; I'm sure she has to go without lots of things to give us that. It isn't as though she were rich," said Margery, slipping a kimono over her white gown and turning the pages of the little green leather book.

"You aren't going to sit up to read that book, Margery!" protested Happie. "Just a book from almost a stranger, a boy you hardly know!"

Margery laughed. "I knew him rather well in those long weeks at Bar Harbor, Sister Keren," she said. "And he is twenty-four years old. Now your bangle is from a boy! Almost a stranger too! We didn't know the Gordons last Christmas."

"Mamma said she wouldn't have let you keep a bangle from any other boy, but it was almost like a present from a cousin, Ralph runs in and out so, and she thought it would be spoiling your nice friendship to object in his case," said Laura, who loved to slip in to share the three older girls' cozy talks in the intimacy of getting ready for the night. She quoted her mother with a primness of lip and manner of which Mrs. Scollard was incapable.

"Oh, of course, I knew that in a minute," said Happie easily. "It's a lovely little bangle. I do like ornaments that seem to say: 'She didn't put me on to have you notice me; she put me on because she liked me herself!' And that's what this bangle hints. Of course Ralphy doesn't count." It sounded ungrateful, but it was pure sisterly affection.

Christmas morning's mail brought pleasant greetings and a few small gifts to the Patty-Pans. It also brought Happie an envelope that bore the word, "Invitation" as plain to be seen—though invisible—as was her name and address.

"Elsie's going to have something!" exclaimed Happie as she recognized Elsie Barker's heraldic seal. It was over this seal that Happie and Elsie had had their one falling-out, when Happie had irreverently suggested that Elsie use a dog's head instead of a coat-of-arms, since that represented the oldest family of Barkers.

Happie tore open the envelope now, always ready to hail the chance of a party, and found the invitation for which she looked, an invitation to a "Noel Party" of old-time games and merrymaking on New Year's eve. With the invitation was an informal note. "Dear Hap," Elsie wrote. "I've asked you and Laura and Bob, and left Margery out because she's older than any of the guests, and I'm going to make this a young party. But I wish you'd tell Margery that I'd like to have her come if she doesn't scorn my sixteen years' old limit. I'd like to invite your friends, the Gordons, if I knew them. I'm hard up for nice boys our age. Couldn't you ask me down to meet them in a day or two? Then I'd invite them. I'm going to have a dandy party; just you wait till you see it! Merry Christmas! Yours in a rush, Elsie."

"Scrumptious!" cried Happie. "You're asked, Laura; so's Bob, and Elsie says she'd ask Margery, if she'd like to come, and——" Happie stopped suddenly, and began reading the invitation, then the note, then turned each sheet of paper over as if something might have escaped. "Well!" she exclaimed.

"What's the matter?" asked Gretta. "How queer you look! And you were so pleased at first!"

"Yes; nothing's the matter. I'm going to tell Margery—and mother," Happie said hurrying out to the dining-room, catching up Jeunesse Dorée on the way to save herself from tripping over him.

"Just look here, mamma and Margery," she began in an excited whisper. "Here's an invitation from Elsie for all of us—not the little ones, of course, but Laura, and she's left out Gretta! And what makes it worse is that she wants to be asked down here to meet the Gordons, so she can invite Ralph and Snigs! I didn't see at first that Gretta was left out, and I was crazy to go. But I wouldn't go if Elsie did that purposely. She knows Gretta is here; she must have meant it, don't you think so?"

"Yes, of course," said Margery.

"Well, dear Happie, Elsie probably feels that Gretta wouldn't quite fit in with all those girls, and that you'd understand it," said Mrs. Scollard. "I don't believe Gretta would care about it."

"She ought to have the invitation all the same," said decided Happie. "She can refuse it if she wants to. Of course I know she's a country girl, never has seen society—but, my goodness! I've told the girls all about her, how handsome and nice she is, and I should think Elsie might risk her getting on! I'm sure Elsie knows lots of girls that have bad enough manners! Gretta hasn't bad manners; she only isn't used to things. And talk about society! Elsie says it's to be a young party—it isn't the cotillion, or anything like that. I should think Gretta might get on among girls of fifteen, if Elsie means what she says about giving sort of an old-fashioned Christmas merrymaking. At any rate she's my friend, staying here with us, and I know enough of society customs to know Elsie has no business to slight my guest when she asks this family, and I won't have her slighted. I'm going up this afternoon to see Elsie and find out if she could have forgotten Gretta, and if she left her out purposely I won't go to her party; neither will Bob, and I don't imagine Elsie will care what Laura does, because she's only thirteen—anyhow, I don't see how she could go without us."

Happie turned indignantly to walk away, but paused as her mother said:

"Dear Happie, you can't make the world over. People won't accept others on their merits. We love Gretta, and we see her precisely as she is, and we know that her little lacks come from the one lack of opportunity. But you can't alter social conditions, dear, and it is wise to take the world as you find it."

"Mother, do you mean that you want me to accept an invitation that slights Gretta? It isn't as though we were women grown; we are only schoolgirls. And you hear stories all the time of the funny things women do when they have money that takes them into society—I mean vulgar, new-rich women, not used to nice people. Gretta would never make mistakes that came from vulgarity. Do we have to accept quite horrid people, because they've money, and let a refined young girl be slighted, because she has only a little bit of money, and is from the country? Do you think it would be nice in me to go to Elsie's party if she won't ask Gretta?" Happie poured out her eloquence with the passionate protest of a big nature in its first, youthful encounter with the inconsistencies and injustice of which hearts that feel and eyes that see find the world too full. She had yet to learn that customs have grown out of an average of experience, and that, on the whole, life would not be happier for any one concerned if social standards were different.

"Dear little Hapsie, no, I would not approve of your accepting an invitation that slighted your guest," said Mrs. Scollard laying her hand on Happie's shoulder. "You owe something to Gretta; you must defend her because she has come into our family as she has. But I am only trying to point out to you that Elsie feels as most people would, and does not consider herself called upon to investigate the merits of a particular case. Dear, you will learn to be patient with an absurd world as years go on. I love you for being loyal and for hating shams and injustice, but be just to the other side also. Social customs are no more consistent than are the human beings who made them. I don't want you to beat yourself too fiercely against the barriers; it would wound you, not them. Only in heaven, Hapsie, can real standards prevail. You must expect the world to worship the idols itself sets up."

"There's no one like you, motherums, so gently firm, so patiently in earnest," said Happie. "I'll try to stand by Gretta without being fierce to Elsie."

"Run down to Elsie's now, dear, and remember she has a right to choose her guests," said Mrs. Scollard, kissing the flushed face turned up to hers.

Happie hurried on her coat and hat and flew down to the Barkers' for five minutes with Elsie in her room, as she prepared for a great family dinner at her grandmother's, who adhered to the older fashion of festival dinners at one o'clock, like the solemn Sunday of her generation.

"Yes, Happie, I did mean to leave out your Pennsylvania Dutch girl, or whatever she is," Elsie replied firmly to Happie's direct question. "It's all very well for you to have her in your flat, and very likely she is pretty, and not rough, but I can't ask her into my set—you ought to see that."

"You are not obliged to ask her, Elsie. I don't see how you can tell whether you can ask her or not unless you meet her—as you wanted to meet the boys," said Happie with a quiet manner and a home thrust. It was evidently not dangerous to risk boys on Happie's guarantee! Elsie flushed as she recognized Happie's advantage. "But, on the other hand, we Scollards can't accept your invitation, Elsie. It's all right, only Bob and I won't come, thank you," Happie continued.

"If you want to be a goose," said Elsie much annoyed, "I can't help it. You are not in society yourself, Happie, so you don't understand."

The blood of Happie's ancestors, Signers and Puritans, involuntarily arose in her at this hint, forcing her to say, forgetful of the Christmas spirit: "Edith wouldn't have slighted Gretta, but the Charlefords can afford to ask whom they please."

She took her departure on the heels of this remark, which she repented before she had walked a block. For the Charlefords were genuine aristocrats, while the Barkers were "new people." But it was true that Edith would not have slighted Gretta.

CHAPTER V
"THE HANDSOME MISS ANGELA KEY-STONE"

Elsie Barker's party was a source of discomfort all around.

Gretta found out the reason why none of the Scollards accepted the invitation which at first had given Happie so much pleasure, and was distressed. She would not have gone for anything, she protested, then why should Happie be a martyr to Elsie's refusal to invite the country girl?

Laura was sulky because she was kept from a party. She had opportunity for too few parties at best. Happie herself was uncomfortable because she had found one of her "three E's" behaving with what she considered unkind snobbishness, and also because her old friendly relations with Elsie were impaired.

The holiday week dragged. It rained and was warm, for one thing, and that unkeys people for the Christmas enjoyment. For another, attendance at the tea room was a daily necessity, but hardly any one visited it, and the days were long for the three on duty. They were not always the same three, for Margery, Gretta and Happie took turns in going and staying at home, and sometimes it was Laura and sometimes Polly who accompanied the older two whose day in the tea room it was.

On New Year's afternoon Happie slipped down to the Charlefords' for an hour or so, to hear about Elsie's party of the night before and to talk over her difference with Elsie. Edith Charleford was always a comfort, not to mention her mother, if "Auntie Cam" were available.

Happie ran up the wide, padded stairs to Edith's room when the maid admitted her. She found her beginning the New Year with a Christmas book, yet unread, in her hand, a box of candy open at her side, and her kimono-clad form stretched luxuriously across the foot of the bed, padded around with down pillows of all sizes and cover shades.

Edith hailed Happie joyously; the three E's had mourned over the rarity of their glimpses of Happie Scollard, and Edith pounced on her at once as if she were afraid of her escaping now that she had come.

"Happy New Year!" "Happy New Year," they cried together, and Edith tugged at Happie's coat buttons with one hand as she tried to take off her hat with the other.

"Now, Edith, wait! I came to stay a while," Happie protested, protecting her hair from being forcibly removed with the hat pins. "I want to hear all about the party, and talk to you when you're through."

"It was a nice party to begin with," said Edith, passing the candy box to Happie established in the low rocker. "Here, take some; no, take a lot, then I can lie down and talk, as I love to."

"Yes, and have them melt all over my hands while I listen! Put some in the cover where I can reach them, if you must loaf," returned Happie. "Now! Many there?"

"Fifty, about," said Edith. "But Elsie was short of boys. It was a lucky thing it was a frolic, games and those things, not dancing, for then it would have mattered more. We did all sorts of pleasant tricks, most of them borrowed from Twelfth Night customs. I had a good time. We were grouped for a tableau when midnight struck. It was cleverly done. We had been marching to music, and fell into positions at the sound of chords. But there weren't enough boys to set off the girls' pretty gowns."

"Elsie wanted to meet the Gordons, so she could ask them, and there would have been Bob," observed Happie.

"Elsie told me about it," said Edith with a quiet smile. "I was dreadfully disappointed not to have you all there,—it's so long since we had anything with the Scollards in it, but you did right. I told Elsie I thought you were right. You couldn't possibly have accepted an invitation that slighted a guest, and we all understood that you had taken this Gretta for your friend, not as a charity girl. And it really seemed like that for Elsie to refuse to ask her. There are always plenty of ways of dropping an acquaintance, if you don't want to keep it up, but, as I told Elsie, we could trust you not to like a girl we wouldn't like."

"Oh, Edith, you duck!" cried Happie. "I haven't been one bit a happy Happie this week. I know I acted right, but I'm not very sure I was perfectly amiable on Christmas afternoon to Elsie. She has a right to choose her acquaintances, as mother says, but I do hate, hate anything like airs! I knew you'd ask Gretta to your party, but the worst of it is I told Elsie the Charlefords could afford to ask any one."

"Oh, Happie!" Edith remonstrated. "But of course you wouldn't have said that if you hadn't been irritated. Still, do you know I think it is nice to be sure your finish won't rub off! It is such fun to see you with Elsie! She's so very rich, and you're so perfectly unconscious of loss of money, and being poor—it's lovely!" Edith paused to laugh. "That comes of having such a fine lady for a mother as Auntie Charlotte Scollard."

"Or Auntie Camilla Charleford!" added Happie. "Listen to me, Edith! Couldn't we get Elsie to meet Gretta without her knowing it is Gretta? She's the handsomest girl you ever saw; dress her in fine clothes and she'd be such a beauty as you read about—Beatrix Esmond, or some one like that."

"I'd love it!" cried Edith with a fervor that betrayed her own past encounters with Elsie's airiness. "But—forgive me, Happie—wouldn't Gretta talk differently? Being country bred, and not having had a chance, as you wrote us——?" Edith paused suggestively.

"She might, if she had to talk a lot, or got excited," said Happie honestly. "But Gretta is clever, and she has tried hard to catch ideas. I don't think you'd find her tripping. She can act wonderfully, if only she will let herself go. We dressed up ridiculously once in the country and visited the school, and even the girl who was teaching didn't discover Gretta, though she knew her well—perhaps I wrote you about it. Oh, Edith, do listen to me!" she instantly cried, arresting herself in the tale of the masquerade at the school. Edith was already listening, so Happie proceeded: "Mother said I might give a party, a theatre party or something to all of you girls some night in the tea room. We never had room to ask you all to the Patty-Pans. But suppose I do this: suppose I hire a three-seated sleigh, if this snow that is beginning to fall amounts to anything, and ask you and Eleanor and Elsie for a drive in the park. Maybe Auntie Cam would go as chaperon; mamma can't. Do you suppose she would? And suppose we get up Gretta in all the fine things we can borrow, beg or steal, and introduce her to Elsie as a friend of yours from—say, well, Baltimore. That sounds anciently settled and F. F. V-ified! And then we'll let Gretta drive! She can drive better than almost any one. And she would look too splendid for anything handling a pair of horses, with dark plumes and a big hat, and furs, and we wouldn't tell Elsie a word about it until a week afterwards. I know she'd be fearfully impressed with the swellness of your friend! You wouldn't be afraid, would you?"

"Of a pair of horses in long plumes, big hat and furs? Well, I might be," laughed Edith sitting up, her eyes sparkling with the fun of the thing in prospect. "But you'd better believe I'll do it! It would be more fun than all the theatres in New York! I'm sure mother will say yes, and go with us, too; you know she's a few years younger than I am! But, now you listen to me, Happie dear! All this is going to be very expensive——"

"Edith, I won't listen! We are rather rich, for us, and motherums says we girls have a right to use a little money for pleasure. This won't cost more than a theatre party, or a party in the tea room," cried Happie.

"Yes, but Happie! Take our horses, and hire the three-seated sleigh only," said Edith. "Don't you see it will seem much more like Gretta's being our guest, if we use our horses? And besides, it's safer. Yes, honest! Our horses are young and sprightly, but they're not tricky, and if Gretta were to drive it would be better to feel we knew the horses than to risk getting steady ones from a livery stable. It isn't only one's own horses that make trouble in the park; it may be some one else's quite as likely, and it's everything to know your own horses will behave if another cuts up. I'm sure mamma will want us to use our horses, so make up your mind to giving in on that point, Happie."

"Well," assented Happie reluctantly. "Is Auntie Cam at home? Could we find out about it now, Edith?"

"Yes, if you'll wait till I get into a gown. We have people staying here, and I don't want to trail around the hall in my kimono," said Edith, beginning to divest herself of her wrapper as she spoke.

Mrs. Charleford threw herself into the plan with all her heart. When Happie started for home it was settled that, with Mrs. Scollard's consent, and if the sleighing came, and above all if Gretta could be persuaded to regard the plan as a frolic and to do her best to carry it out, there was to be a sleighing party in the park to introduce Elsie to Edith's friend, "Miss Angela Key-Stone of Baltimore," who was such an accomplished horsewoman that she drove the party.

Gretta's to-be assumed name was an inspiration of Happie's: Angela from her own sur-name, Engel; Key-Stone, after her native state.

"And the hyphen gives it the last touch of magnificence!" cried Happie gleefully, looking back from the foot of the steps to wave another good-night to Edith at the top, and to wish her again: "A Happy New Year!"

At first Gretta rebelled against the plan, but gradually, seeing that Happie's heart was set on it, she yielded, and at last threw herself into it with as keen a sense of the fun of the thing as Happie and Edith felt. In the first place it would have been difficult not to enjoy the exceedingly fine feathers in which this young bird—"young jay-bird," Gretta called it—was to be arrayed.

Mrs. Charleford had much beautiful clothing and put it all at the girls' service. A long coat of finest broadcloth, a great hat with six heavy drooping ostrich plumes, the softest and richest of furs, turned Gretta into the beauty Happie had promised Edith, and not only into the beauty, but into the elegant young creature who is rarer. For Gretta's perfect muscles, free carriage and tall figure gave her an air that needed but the fine garments to emphasize it into positive style. Happie was in raptures to find Gretta making friends of the Charlefords, mother and daughter, both of whom liked her as well as Happie wanted them to.

There lacked but the snow, and this came, came abundantly, and all New York which could get on any sort of runners, seemed to turn out for gala-day to enjoy the sleighing which was not too common in the seaboard city.

When Elsie was invited—by Edith, to preserve the illusion of "Miss Key-Stone's" being her guest—she asked if she might ride with the party, instead of driving in the sleigh. She had a new saddle horse, given her that Christmas, and nothing could tempt her to forego his glossy back. It rather spoiled the plan to have Elsie ride instead of sitting up beside the competent "Miss Key-Stone," as Happie and Edith had intended her to do, but on the other hand it allowed Margery to be of the party, which did away with Happie's one drawback to her pleasure. In any case there was no alternative, for Elsie insisted on riding her new "Trump." And in the end this choice of Elsie's gave Gretta the opportunity to do more than play at being the heroine of the occasion.

At half past two the sleigh was driven up to the Charleford door, the Charleford perfectly matched young horses, gayly proud under their plumes, pawing before it.

Elsie dismissed the groom who had accompanied her, and took her place beside the big sleigh. Mrs. Charleford and Margery came down the steps, Edith, Eleanor and Happie, and behind them a tall girl in long coat, splendid furs, her dark, handsome face brilliantly lighted by the rich color in her cheeks, her dark hair swept and shaded by her many long plumes. She was drawing on her gauntlet gloves. She came slowly, with great dignity, and glanced at Elsie with an indifference that, coupled with her remarkable beauty, made that young lady long to know so wonderful a princess.

"Angela, dear, pardon the difficulties of a mounted introduction," said Edith. "This is my friend, Miss Elsie Barker; Miss Angela Key-Stone, Elsie. Now, Angela, if you are still quite sure it won't bore you to drive, we will start."

"There's no pleasure like driving," said "Miss Key-Stone," stepping into the front seat and taking the reins from the coachman, who relinquished them with a touch of his hat. "Yours is a good horse, Miss Barker."

She said it so indifferently that it was scarcely praise of handsome Trump, and Elsie was deeply impressed by visions of the horses to which "Miss Key-Stone" must be accustomed if Trump did not arouse her to greater enthusiasm.

Mrs. Charleford and Margery in the back seat, Eleanor Vernon on the middle seat with Edith, Happie on the front with the handsome girl-driver, and the party was off, up the avenue to the park, slowly, provokingly pacing in the line of sleighs heading thither.

At Fifty-ninth Street their pace improved as they entered the gates and began the upward course of the park on the east side. Elsie rode well, and she loved horses; she was perfectly well able to appreciate the manner in which the haughty "Baltimore girl" handled the reins, and the cool clearness of judgment with which she saw her opportunity to put her horses through a gap in the line, to let them out, or how quick she was to pull them in, or to soothe them with a word when they grew impatient of their pace. She was not slow to see the admiring glances given the young driver of the Charleford sleigh by every one, and she felt quite sure that Mrs. Charleford would be besieged with requests for introductions to the girl who looked much older than she was, old enough to be in social demand. Elsie, who was born with the instincts of a society woman, resolved to use her advantage in meeting this desirable creature before any of the other girls except Eleanor and Happie Scollard. The latter did not count, for her misfortunes had put her out of this world of wire-pulling. While Elsie was thus planning Happie Scollard, quick to see, though she was a simple young girl, knew pretty well what was passing in Elsie's mind, and was chuckling over the success of her plot, as well as triumphing in Gretta's triumph. She laughed out several times, anticipating the fun of revealing to Elsie the identity of this impressive young lady, and an echoing giggle came from Eleanor and Edith behind her—it certainly was a delightful trick they had played on Elsie!

Elsie rode up to "Miss Key-Stone's" side as she drove.

"Miss Key-Stone," she said in her very best manner, "I hope you won't mind if I speak of your driving! You drive as well as my father, and he is considered a fine horseman. You must have been used to driving from your very earliest years."

Happie glanced over her shoulder at Edith, a glance that had all the value of the wink forbidden a properly behaved girl. It was such unspeakable joy to hear Elsie trying to impress Gretta.

"Yes, I have always been among horses," replied the distinguished stranger briefly.

"I wish you would tell me something about your horses. I imagine they were fine ones," said Elsie with a winning smile.

"I never talk when I'm driving in a crowd," said "Miss Key-Stone."

Elsie was more than ever awed. There are people who are won by a cordial manner, and there are others who are won by a snub. Elsie belonged to the people who feel a person must be well worth knowing who does not particularly care to know them.

But there was nothing for it except to defer closer acquaintance with this haughty beauty whose whole attention was given to her horses, and Elsie fell back a little to ride beside Edith and Eleanor.

"Mightn't we keep on up-town, mother?" suggested Edith as they reached the gate of the park at One Hundred and Tenth Street, and the horses obediently slackened for a decision.

"I am in no hurry to get home. It isn't often we get such sleighing as this. Yes, I'd like to keep on. Suppose we drive up to Albany for supper!" cried Mrs. Charleford.

The party turned up Seventh Avenue, and drove faster up the wide street. There were still many sleighs jingling in both directions but they made better time here than they could in the park.

A piece of paper fluttered across the road in the wind. The Charleford horses saw it, but they justified Edith's commendation of them by ignoring it. Not so Trump. It is the exceptional horse who has not his own particular mental weakness, his own private and pet aversion at which he considers himself warranted in shying, and many horses change this aversion according to the mood, or the weather. Trump objected to paper flying about, though at times he walked decorously over paper, and shied at a stone. A good horse, he was a nervous one, and to nerves nothing is certain always to look normal. To-day the fluttering paper took on some shape of menace, and Trump shied, and bolted.

Elsie kept a firm seat. She was a good rider, self-confident, well taught. She was not frightened, and as she did not lose control no one interfered to stop Trump. Gretta touched the Charleford horses and they followed her, keeping up.

Suddenly Elsie threw up her hands, and Gretta instantly knew what had happened; her saddle was slipping and Elsie, riding in the side saddle, could not free her foot. Already she was sliding down the horse's side, and Trump was quivering with fright, but his speed slackened, mercifully, as he made ready to bolt.

It was all so quick that no one noticed the girl's plight, but Gretta, with her eyes on her, pursuing her, saw and recognized the danger.

"Take the reins," she said to Happie. "Don't be afraid. Whoa!"

The obedient horses slackened, stopped. Gretta sprang out over the sleigh just ahead of Elsie's frightened horse, caught his bridle from the side, and putting out one strong hand wrenched free the girl's foot. Elsie fell, but she fell clear, and Trump stopped just as several men rushed to Gretta's aid.

"Are you hurt?" Gretta asked, helping Elsie to the sidewalk where Trump was led, and motioning Happie to drive up to them.

"No, not a bit," Elsie said, her voice shaking. "But it is only because you were so quick. I am shaken up, frightened, I suppose, but I'm all right. You saved my life probably, Miss Key-Stone."

"Don't! That was just for fun; I'm Gretta Engel," said Gretta. Somehow she could not keep up the innocent farce after she had been brought into such relations with Elsie as the past three minutes had held. "Of course I didn't do anything; no one else saw, that was all."

"Gretta Engel!" gasped Elsie. Then she realized that the quicker they all escaped from the gathering crowd the better it would be, and she walked over to the sleigh, meeting Mrs. Charleford and Edith coming towards her. Elsie was not a coward, nor was she hysterical. She proved that she had sense and courage.

"We must get away from here; don't bother about me, Mrs. Charleford," she said. "I'm perfectly safe. I'll ride Trump back. They'll tighten the saddle for me, and there's nothing to make a fuss about. Do jump into the sleigh, people, and don't look so scared! They'll have our pictures in the morning papers if we don't fly! Your Gretta saved my life, Happie."

"You're quite sure you can ride, Elsie dear?" Mrs. Charleford anxiously began, but Elsie had turned to Gretta. "Will you see if the saddle is safe now? Thank you. Yes, your hand, please, and help me up," she added to the policeman who offered his aid. She jumped into the saddle and took the reins in a band that no longer trembled.

Gretta got up into her seat and the party started back down the avenue, followed by a cheer from the crowd, which liked pluck, as all crowds do.

It was a silent party that hastened homeward down the west side of the park. The little trick had not ended humorously, but Gretta had far exceeded the rôle of fine lady assigned to her. Elsie rode confidently. No harm was done, but, ah, how differently they might have been returning home!

At Elsie's door the sleighing party left her. Elsie dismounted; her groom was waiting her. She turned to the sleigh to say good-night to her friends.

"Good-night. You played me a fine trick, girls, but I played you a better one," she said. "You showed me a swell girl, but I showed you a heroine. Gretta Engel, I can't thank you for what you did; it was too big. But I beg your pardon, and we're friends?"

Gretta was so embarrassed that she relapsed into her early speech. "Yes, I guess," she said.

CHAPTER VI
UP-STAIRS AND DOWN-STAIRS

Polly, who demanded little of fate and who least of all the Scollard family asserted herself, received some things unsought. For instance, her tenth birthday came to her early in January, bringing a mild little celebration of Polly's passing into double numbers.

In its honor all the girls came down to the tea room in the afternoon, that Polly need not be separated from any of them, and they hoped it might prove a day cloudy enough to allow for playtime.

Instead it was a bright, crisp, ozoneful day and people dropped in in greater numbers than they had come since Christmas, so the girls were as busy as bees. They had not seen much of their attractive landlady. Her chaperonage was rather in moral effect, knowing that she was above stairs ready in case of need, than in actual service. The tea maidens caught glimpses of her, and exchanged a few words with her occasionally, enough to make them, Margery especially, wish they might know her better. She was busy with her classes and there was scant opportunity.

To-day, however, Mrs. Stewart came in at one o'clock, and smiled her readiness to wait till Margery should be at leisure to speak to her. Mrs. Jones-Dexter had turned up again after an absence of ten days, and Margery was patiently trying to fit her out; physically, with tea that should be neither too strong nor too weak, too hot nor too cold, and mentally with a novel equally perfect.

Margery had not yet acquired Happie's faculty of bearing up with equanimity under this singular person's trying ways.

The moment Mrs. Jones-Dexter caught sight of Mrs. Stewart she deserted Margery and the book shelves, and crossed over to the little dancing teacher.

"What have you been doing to my little Serena Jones-Dexter?" she demanded.

"Teaching her to dance?" said Mrs. Stewart with an interrogation point in her voice, not knowing what the little Serena's grandmother might mean.

"Teaching her to do nothing but dance!" retorted Mrs. Jones-Dexter. "The mite puts chairs in a row, carefully spaced, and dances through and around them all day long, if no one interferes. What are you trying to make her do?"

Mrs. Stewart laughed. "Trying to make her do nothing of that sort," she said. "But I have suggested that practice for the older children, to help them learn the reverse. I suppose your little Serena is as imitative as are most tots. She has not reached the age when difficulties are demanded of little women."

"I hope not!" said Mrs. Jones-Dexter, and Margery saw that her question had not been put to Mrs. Stewart in a fault-finding way, but proudly, and she remembered that Mrs. Charleford had said she was wrapped up in her little grandchild. "Have you seen my little Serena?" Mrs. Jones-Dexter asked turning to Margery.

"I'm afraid not. I have never been up-stairs during the classes," Margery replied.

"She's worth seeing," said Mrs. Jones-Dexter crisply. "It's not a grandmother's doting that finds her a rare blossom of a child, is it?" she demanded of Serena's teacher.

Mrs. Stewart shook her head. "I have never seen a child as lovely," she said, and Margery saw that the praise was sincere.

"She is precisely like her name, sweet, exquisite, like a bit of old-time porcelain. You would appreciate her. Mrs. Stewart, please arrange for Miss Scollard and her sister to see my little girl," said Mrs. Jones-Dexter. Margery was amazed to discover in this speech proof that the difficult lady considered her and Happie fitted to appreciate the fineness of this rare child.

"I came to ask Miss Margery Scollard to come up-stairs this afternoon. I suppose both the elder girls cannot come together?" Mrs. Stewart paused for the negative that Margery murmured. "Well, then will one of you come and bring with you your two youngest sisters? And I will show you Mrs. Jones-Dexter's grandchild; you will find her all we say," Mrs. Stewart continued. "I wanted to ask a favor of you, if I may."

"I'll take myself out of earshot," said Mrs. Jones-Dexter promptly. "I see your sister has my tea. I'll come in to-morrow to hear your candid opinion of Serena. She is a shy child, not inclined to friendships, but I think you will win her regard. I wish you would try to. She is not strong, a sensitive creature, and I should like to have her play with your pretty little Penelope, who is as vigorous and normal as Serena is unearthly."

She walked across the room to the table at which Polly patiently waited her coming. Margery turned to Mrs. Stewart. "I can hardly believe my ears!" she cried. "I was thinking that I would never again try to please her, that I must leave her to Happie forevermore, and suddenly she turns brusquely cordial!"

"She's peculiar to herself," laughed Mrs. Stewart. "People say that Mrs. Jones-Dexter has been a martinet in her family, that she and her son, this little Serena's father, got on no better than she has got on with her nieces, nephews, brothers and sisters. But towards Serena she is pathetically tender and adoring. And it is all true about the little girl. She is six years old, and the most flower-like, angelic little being one could imagine. Now my favor: dear Miss Margery, I want to take your Polly and Penny into my class, just for the pleasure of having them,— that, and because I want to do something that would give Miss Bradbury pleasure. As there is nothing I can do for her directly, please let me teach the children. I know—better than you do, possibly—how much she cares for you all, and I know that I can gratify her in this way. She has done so much for me! Say yes, please, my dear!"

"I shouldn't know how to say no," said Margery. "It would be a great advantage to the children, not to speak of the delight of it—Penny's feet are set to dancing as naturally as other children are made to walk. You are more than good, Mrs. Stewart, but it doesn't seem quite fair."

"Don't you see that the class must be taught, and that two more little persons in it do not affect my work? Then it is settled. I heard you say the other day that your Polly would be ten years old to-day; will you send her up this afternoon? I should like her first lesson to be a birthday present—Penny too, of course." Mrs. Stewart looked as eagerly glad as if she had been ten years old that day herself, and Margery kissed her in spite of dignified tea drinkers who might wonder. "I'll telephone up to Gretta to bring down their white frocks and slippers," she said. "I shall have to send mother down to thank you; I can't. What time must the children come up?"

"At half past two, please. It's I who thank you for giving me such a pleasure," said the little dancing teacher.

"Gretta and Laura will be down long before that," said Margery. And she watched Mrs. Stewart away, thinking, "I never saw any one with quite her combination of sadness and brightness of expression. She is a dear little woman, as Aunt Keren said."

Mrs. Stewart had hardly disappeared before a shadow fell over the door-sill, a shadow that invariably struck the tea maidens as darker and more sinister than ordinary shadows. It was cast by the man in the cloak and sombrero, who instantly dispelled it by crossing the threshold in his own person, and dropping into the corner which the proprietors of the tea room reluctantly saw he was beginning to consider his own.

So regularly he came to occupy the chair and tiny table, just big enough for one, which stood here, that he had grown familiar to them all, but not more attractive than he was at first.

Happie came to bring him his tea. It was understood that she was to cope with the more difficult human problems, for she had a way with her that melted crankiness and might, perhaps, disarm unkindness, or convert wickedness—at least Margery believed so, though Happie, in turn, believed all things possible to Margery's loveliness.

"Where is your musician?" asked the mysterious man.

"She has not come yet; she will be here later," Happie replied. Then something in the man's face that she had not noticed in it before, nor stopped now to analyze, wistfulness that was not merely sadness, but emptiness, if one may so describe it, made her add the first voluntary remark she had ever addressed to this customer. "You are fond of music, aren't you?" she said.

"Fond of it? Are you fond of air, food, the earth, your life, child? Music is my life," he exclaimed with a gaunt look of passionate earnestness.

"Yet you are ready to listen to a little girl's playing! Of course we think my sister plays wonderfully, for a girl of thirteen, but we are partial," said Happie.

"You may be partial, but you are quite right," said the man as if his dictum sufficed. "She has extraordinary talent. Her whole life ought to be consecrated to music."

"Oh, I'm very glad she didn't hear you say that!" cried Happie. "Please don't say it to her. She can't consecrate her life to music, and it's bad enough as it is to have her so wrapped up in it." Happie stopped, wondering to find herself half confiding in the person she feared.

The man shook his head impatiently, and made that unspellable sound of protest, tongue against teeth: "T-t-t-t!" He looked at Happie, drawing together his brows, but she did not mistake it for a scowl directed at herself, but at annoying circumstances. "Ach!" he exclaimed with a German accent that gave Happie the first clue to his nationality that she had caught. "Talent should be first of all considerations. That little sister of yours should be educated in music at any sacrifice."

"Oh, no, not that," said Happie, surprised at her own boldness in differing from such a heavy frown. "There are other things more important than talent—even if Laura were more than thirteen. But she isn't, so there may be a chance for talents too. We think it is more important that she should do her duty and be a splendid woman—like her mother—and make people happy who love her, than that she should be the greatest musician in the world."

"Yes, you're right," said the mysterious man heartily and unexpectedly. "It's a black thing to feel that one's art broke a heart." He sighed, and looked so gloomy that Happie characteristically felt instant longing to comfort him. Before she had made up her mind how to meet this revelation, the guest stirred his tea and asked: "Only thirteen, you say? She looks more. She is really a wonderful child."

"Here she comes," said Happie as Gretta appeared in the doorway with Laura, and with Penny in dancing school array. "Please, please, if ever you talk to her don't let her know you think she is wonderful. Mother tries so hard to keep her from thinking so herself."

"Well, Happie!" exclaimed Gretta as Happie came towards her.

"So say we all of us: 'Well, Happie!' How did you dare? And you looked positively friendly; Gretta and I were watching you," said Margery.

"He's very unhappy, I believe," said Happie, thus fully explaining her conversation with the Mystery. "I will get Polly ready if you will go over there and smile at those two fluffy girls with hair and fox boas just alike."

Usually Laura went to the piano when the Mystery was taking his tea. A girl less sensitive to admiration than she was, would have discovered that the man in the cloak was interested in her music, and Laura was perfectly aware of the fact. But to-day her skies were leaden because Polly and Penny had an opportunity to go to dancing school which was denied her, and it was scant comfort that they got it because they were so much younger than she. Laura's genius could not buoy her over childish trials, though, for that matter, every one knows that genius is childish.

The man in the cloak watched Laura as she gloomily served tea to two women, one evidently giving economical entertainment to the other, her country guest. When she had finished her task, as she passed his little table in the corner, the mysterious man stopped her. "Won't you play for me, little Clara Schumann?" he said.

Laura brightened visibly. "If you like," she answered, and played.

Her mood was not favorable to music that afternoon, and the man in the cloak was quick to perceive it. He arose from the table and went over to the piano.

"It goes badly to-day, little musician, does it not?" he said gently. "This little instrument is out of tune. Something has made discords for you, is it not so? Well, it will pass—and come again, till at last you will reach the time of a horrible lasting discord, or a beautiful, permanent harmony, according to what you make of your life. Shall I play to you to-day? You have so often given me pleasure."

Laura stared at the mysterious man dumb-founded, but without waiting for an answer he twirled the piano stool down to a suitable height and began to play.

At the first touch of his hands on the keys Happie instantly became reconciled to the fact that Margery and not she had taken the children up to the dancing class, and the few people who were then in the tea room forgot everything else to listen. For there was no mistaking the fact that here was a wizard of music.

The mysterious man played for a long time. People went and came, but still he played on, passing from Beethoven's sublime conceptions to Hungarian dances that were half earthy, half witch music, into Chopin's heart-breaking nocturnes, into Schumann's noble thoughts, Mendelssohn's courageous hope, Grieg's innocent imaginings.

Laura listened enraptured, swept beyond remembrance of Laura Scollard, her vanities, her little disappointments and desires.

She drew a long breath as the mysterious man ceased playing at last, and turned on the stool to face her. "Oh!" she said with a long-drawn sigh, forgetting to thank him.

"Good-bye," said this singular person abruptly, and hastened towards the door.

Happie intercepted him. "You have been very kind to us," she said. "We would like to thank you, but it seems rather silly to thank any one for such music as that. I wish we might know what to call you."

The man looked down on her, stroking his drooping moustache with the end of his thumb and the side of his forefinger, holding his hollowed hand over his mouth.

"You can call me Lieder, Hans Lieder," he said, and was gone.

"Lieder! Songs!" murmured Happie gazing after him. "I'm perfectly sure that isn't his name."

While this feast of music had been spread for the three lucky girls down-stairs, Polly and Penny were rapturously being introduced to another art up-stairs, and Margery was enjoying watching the children with all her might.

Little Serena Jones-Dexter had arrived under the care of her nurse, and when she came out of the dressing-room with every ribbon falling into its proper fold of finest mull, Mrs. Stewart took her hand and led her over to Margery.

"This is Margery Scollard, Serena," she said. "Here is our little girl, Margery. No, don't make Margery a dancing-school curtsey, dear; you are to be good friends, so you need not begin with a stiff curtsey."

Margery leaned forward, smiling, but did not speak. The soft color in her cheeks, the warm light in her eyes, her youth and loveliness begged little Serena not to be shy, but to trust her. The child looked up at Margery with great gray eyes, and her pale face flushed. She was so ethereal, so dainty, so altogether fine and frail that Margery felt as though she were hardly a child of common clay.

"Grandma said we were to be friends; will you, Serena? Will you like me a little bit?" said Margery softly.

Serena hesitated, and then smiled. "I'll be friends," she said, and clambered up on the chair beside Margery to prove her sincerity.

When the time came for the child to dance she danced more beautifully than any other child there. Penny lost her heart to her at once, and went around after her like a happy, healthy little mortal following a stray visitor from fairyland. Serena shrank from Penny at first, but she had quite lost her heart to pretty Margery, and when she found the two were sisters she vouchsafed to tolerate Penny, to that merry little soul's humble delight.

A voice in Margery's ear said: "Well, isn't she all that I told you?"

She looked up to see Mrs. Jones-Dexter unexpectedly at her elbow.

"She is much more than any one could describe," said Margery, so fervently that the doting grandmother was satisfied.

"Shall we give the butterfly dance for Miss Margery to see, Mrs. Jones-Dexter?" asked Mrs. Stewart.

"Not to-night; it takes too long. Let Serena dance alone, her bird dance, if you like, and then I must take her home," said Mrs. Jones-Dexter, to whom no other child but her darling was worth exhibiting.

So Serena danced a pretty little allegory of the bird new-come in the spring, greeting the flowers, singing to its mate, sunning itself in the warmth, flying from the shower, at last preening its soft feathers, and cuddling down to sleep safely, wind-rocked in the tree.

Margery came away not less delighted with her afternoon than were Polly and Penny, though these young ladies were more vociferous, and Polly could not recover from the wonder that all this had happened on her birthday, and that dancing lessons for the winter were her birthday gift.

Ralph came to escort the girls up town, explaining that Bob had telephoned a request to him to do so, as he was detained by Mr. Felton beyond his usual hour. Polly took possession of Ralph's left hand by the right of favoritism which was hers with this big boy. She poured out the tale of her birthday gift, of the steps she had already learned, and imparted to Ralph certain fundamental principles of carriage and motion, proud to show her knowledge.

"And Serena!" she added. "You ought to see Serena!"

"Now what is Serena?" demanded Ralph. "Who is there with such an old-time name? It was my great-grandmother's name, mother's grandmother, but I never knew any one living that bore it."

"This little owner of it is living," said Margery taking up the theme, and joining Ralph and Polly. "She is very much alive, but more with the life of a fairy than a mortal. She is a little creature six years old, the loveliest child imaginable. And the strange part of it is that she is the grandchild of an elderly lady who uses the tea room, and whom we have thought until to-day, was a dragon: Mrs. Jones-Dexter."

"Jones-Dexter!" cried Ralph, stopping so short that Happie and Gretta, immediately behind, almost tumbled over him. "Why, she's mother's aunt! The child is my cousin then. She must be named after that very great-grandmother! Indeed Mrs. Jones-Dexter is a dragon!"