Only once more did Cassy see Eleanor before she returned home after her Easter holiday, and that was one afternoon, which added another red letter day to Cassy’s calendar. Looking over the top of her geranium she saw standing before the door a shining carriage drawn by a pair of glossy bay horses, and presently she heard footsteps approaching the top floor, and then some one knocked. Cassy opened the door and there stood Eleanor.

“I have come to take you to drive,” she said. “It is such a nice afternoon to go to the park. Can you go?”

“Oh!” Cassy’s breath was almost taken by this announcement. “Come in,” she said, “and I will ask mother.”

Eleanor stepped into the room. It gave her a little shock to see how very plain it was, just as it had given her a shock to see the street in which Cassy lived. She had not realized that this little new friend was so very poor, although Rock had told her so. But it was pleasanter up on this top floor than it was below, she reflected. Then she heard Cassy saying, “Here’s mother,” and she stepped over to where Mrs. Law sat sewing.

“Aunt Dora was not going to use the carriage this afternoon, and she thought it would be nice for Cassy and me to take a little drive; it is such a lovely day, and I am going home to-morrow. May she go?” She looked with sympathetic eyes at Mrs. Law stitching away for dear life, and thought how she would dislike to see her mother work so hard.

Mrs. Law stopped the machine for a moment and looked up with a smile at Cassy’s eager face.

“It is very kind of Mrs. Dallas and you to want to give Cassy such a pleasure. I shall be glad to have her go, and I know she will enjoy it. Go get ready, dear.”

“Couldn’t you go, too?” Eleanor asked wistfully, looking at Mrs. Law’s pale cheeks.

“I am afraid not,” was the reply, “though I thank you for thinking of it. I must finish this work this evening. Won’t you sit down and wait? Cassy will not be long.”

Eleanor sat down and watched Mrs. Law’s swift movements.

“Could I see Flora?” she asked after a few moments’ silence.

Mrs. Law smiled.

“Why certainly. I think she is in her crib over there in the corner.”

Eleanor looked and saw no crib, but she caught sight of Flora’s placid face peeping above the side of the overturned footstool which served as her bed, and she went over and lifted the doll out. She was not a beautiful creature, she reflected; not near so pretty as Rubina, but she appreciated Cassy’s devotion to her, and she held her tenderly in her lap till Cassy returned.

“I would like to give her one of mine,” she thought, “but it wouldn’t be her own child, after all, and she cares just as much for her Flora as I do for my Rubina.”

Cassy looked pleased to see Flora receive this attention from her visitor, and was more pleased still when Eleanor insisted upon putting the doll up on the window-sill where, as she said, she could look out and see them drive off. At the door Eleanor turned:

“Good-bye, Mrs. Law,” she said. “I wish you could go, too,” and then she followed Cassy down-stairs, glad to get out of the ill-smelling house.

The fairy god-mother, the pumpkin coach, and all the other fairy delights seemed to have come to Cassy as she stepped into the carriage. The children of the neighborhood stared open-mouthed at the spectacle of Oddity Law going to drive in a fine carriage. For the moment she was a creature further removed from them than ever. No wonder she was queer, if she could have friends like the pretty little girl at her side.

Cassy was quite conscious of the excitement they were causing, for even the women who lived near by, stood, arms akimbo, to stare after them. Cassy felt a strong desire for a hat as pretty as Eleanor’s; hers was only a plain little sailor hat, but it was inconspicuous, and was really much more suitable than a gayer one, but Cassy did not know that.

What a wonderful drive that was! Would Cassy ever forget it? The dogwood was in blossom, and wild flowers were beginning to spring up along the woodland roads. The child could not talk much, but she was very content to listen to Eleanor’s lively chatter, and when the shining carriage drew up again before her door, Jerry was there to help her out, and his look of pride as he glanced around at the astounded Billy Miles was good to Cassy. And then Eleanor drove off and Cassy saw her no more, but she was not forgotten, and when the two again met it was not in that street, though of what was to come neither of them dreamed.

It was one Saturday morning two or three weeks later when the glory of the lilies had departed and the pansies were dwindling in size, and only the geranium held its own, showing new blossoms and new buds. Early summer was at hand; the streets were resounding with cries of “Red-ripe strawberries!” or “Rags, bones, old bottles!” and the hand organs were out in force.

Cassy had been busy all morning, for her mother had gone out upon an important errand, and Jerry was running his errands at the market. From time to time the little girl addressed a remark to the invisible Miss Morning-Glory, or to Flora, who stared at her with round black eyes from her corner.

It being Saturday there was much to be done, and Cassy had been busy sweeping and dusting, and putting in order. Now she was a little tired and was resting in the big rocking-chair, swinging herself back and forth and chanting a little song to herself, which she made up as she went along:

She sang the song very softly, looking over to where her pot of lilies stood. Now it showed only green leaves, but Cassy’s thoughts were busy in thinking of the lilies which had been and wondering whether they were now alive in another world.

Suddenly the twelve o’clock whistles blew shrilly and the little girl jumped down from her chair.

“There, Flora,” she said, “it is twelve o’clock and Jerry will be home soon, and there’ll be no dinner for him unless I get it. I wonder if I can. Mother said she couldn’t tell when she’d be back, so I’ll have to do the best I can, for Jerry will be so hungry; he always is on Saturdays. I will see what there is in the safe.” She opened the door and looked at the various contents of the safe.

There was a plate of cold corn-bread, little dish of beef stew, and a small, a very small plate of cheese. Cassy regarded these thoughtfully; they did not look very promising, and she shut the safe door.

“I’ll try and make the fire, Flora,” she remarked, “and then Miss Morning-Glory and I will get dinner. We are going to have—to have—chicken sandwiches, and green peas, and fried potatoes, and little long rolls, and strawberries and ice-cream and cake. Oh, yes, and first there will be soup in little cups.” She had her luncheon at Mrs. Dallas’s in mind.

Going to the stove she took off the lids and looked in. She had never made a fire, for Jerry or her mother always did that, and she was a little dubious about the matter. Mrs. Law had to be very frugal in the matter of fuel so there was no coal to be put on, and Cassy thought she could easily manage the wood. So she stuffed in some paper and piled some sticks of wood on top of it, then shut it all up tight after lighting it. In a few minutes she looked at it, but it was dead out. She tried a second time, but with no better success. How in the world did her mother manage to do it so easily?

She stood looking at it, puzzled what to do next, then she remembered that some chips and light kindling must go in on top of the paper. She tried to get off some little slivers, and by so doing managed first to get a splinter in her forefinger and then to cut a gash in her thumb. She was ready to cry, and indeed the tears were standing in her eyes, for the time was going and Jerry would be at home very soon. She could not bear to confess to him that she could not make fire, for Jerry, like all boys, was ready to tease. So she took off the lids again to make a last effort.

Just then there was a knock at the door, and when it was opened there stood Rock Hardy.

“I came to tell you that your mother will not be home till late,” he told Cassy. He caught sight of her thumb tied up with a rag. “Why, what a woebegone little face,” he said, “and your finger is bleeding. What have you been doing to yourself?”

“I’ve been trying to make a fire and it won’t burn.” Cassy’s voice was full of tears. “And I can’t get this splinter out, and I cut myself trying to make kindling.”

“You poor little girl! you have had trouble of your own. Here, let me see. I’ll get that splinter out, and tie up that thumb properly, and make the fire, too. Are you here all alone?”

“Yes, you know Jerry has his market errands to do, and I wanted to have dinner ready by the time he came.”

“Poor little girl,” Rock repeated. “First get me a fine needle and I’ll see about that splinter. I will try not to hurt you.”

Cassy was very brave and stood quite still while Rock probed for the splinter which had gone in quite deep, but at last he triumphantly produced it sticking on the end of the needle, and after tying up her cut thumb, he tipped back her chin and looked into her eyes in which the tears were standing. She smiled and tried to wink away the drops.

“You were a real soldier,” Rock told her, “and I know it hurt like everything when I had to dig down after that splinter. Now for the fire. What’s wrong? Why, you haven’t opened any of the drafts. See, you must pull out this one, and open this thing in front; that will make a blaze. Now, there she goes. What are you going to cook?”

Cassy looked down a little abashed.

“I wasn’t going to cook anything. I was just going to warm up this stew and the corn-bread. You see mother didn’t expect to be gone so long and she didn’t know we wouldn’t have anything else for dinner.” She made her little excuses haltingly.

Rock was silent for a moment. It seemed like such a poor little dinner to the boy accustomed to a lavish table.

“I wish you would invite me to dinner,” at last he said very gravely.

Cassy cast a startled look at the remnant of stew. There would be enough corn-bread, but she knew Jerry’s appetite, and if Rock’s were anything like it, some one would have to go hungry from the table. But she said shyly, “Won’t you stay and take dinner with us? Jerry will be glad to have you.”

“And how about Cassy?”

The child cast another glance at the little supply of food and Rock smiled.

“I can make jolly good chocolate,” he said, “and I am going to have some. Do you mind if we make a sort of picnic of this and let every fellow bring his own basket? I think it would be a great lark to do that.”

That seemed an easy way out of it, and Cassy, much relieved, nodded and smiled. It suited her exactly to call it a picnic.

“You see,” Rock went on, “they’re talking over your mother’s affairs at our house, and father’s lawyer is there, and so you see it is no fun for me, and they’ll be glad to get me out of the way. So, if you will invite me to your picnic, I should like it of all things.”

“Oh, I do invite you, and here are the rocks, and over there by the window can be the woods, there, where the flowers are.”

Rock laughed.

“You have an imagination of your own,” he said. “All right. I am going to shut up some of these drafts so the fire won’t all burn out. I’ll be back directly.” He went flying out and Cassy heard him going down the stairs, two or three steps at a time. Then she turned to her work of setting the table.

“We are going to have a picnic, Flora,” she said. “Isn’t it fun? Won’t Jerry be surprised? I must go into the other room and tell Miss Morning-Glory that she can stay to dinner. I was afraid there wasn’t going to be enough for her and all of us, too.”

She bustled about and had everything in readiness by the time Rock returned. He carried a basket which he set down on the chest.

“Now then,” he said, “let’s see if we are all right. There’s the milk for the chocolate,” producing a bottle; “here are some sardines. What’s this? Oh, yes, the chocolate. Here’s a box of strawberries; they looked tempting; you can cap them while I make the chocolate. What is in this bag? I forget. Oh, yes, that’s sugar, and this is cake and biscuits and stuff. Nobody ever heard of a picnic without cake. I borrowed the basket from the grocer at the corner.”

Cassy’s eyes opened wider and wider while all this abundance was displayed, but she made her protest.

“But you have brought so much; it is more than your share.”

“I don’t think so, but if I have, you will have to excuse me, for I am a new hand at marketing. Besides, you furnish the picnic grounds; all these rocks and that grove over there, and the fire and the dishes. I think when you come to look at it that I have furnished the least.” Which statement satisfied Cassy, who went to work to cap the strawberries while Rock set the milk to boil for the chocolate.

They were in the midst of these performances when Jerry came in.

“Hallo!” he cried, as he saw this unusual state of affairs. “Where’s mother?”

“She is at our house,” replied Rock, “or at least she was. I left her there, and father was talking for all he was worth to the lawyer, so I reckon they will enter that suit, and I do hope you will win.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Cassy. “I forgot to ask you if you knew anything about it; we thought that was what mother was going for.”

“Yes, I asked father, and he said it was too early to tell yet but there was a good prospect of your getting something. I say, old fellow,” he gave Jerry a friendly slap on the back, “I have invited myself to a picnic lunch to celebrate the event. They are glad to have me out of the way on this occasion and Cassy was so good as to ask me to stay and dine with you.” He gave Cassy an amused look as he spoke and she looked down, remembering how very unready she was to invite him.

“My, that’s a jolly good feed,” cried Jerry, his eyes roaming over the table. “I am as hungry as a bear.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Rock, “for I am too. I could eat every mouthful of that stew.”

“I wish you would,” said Jerry, frankly. “I’m tired of it; I’d a lot rather have the sardines.”

“All right, it’s a go,” said Rock. “I hope you don’t want any, Cassy. Wouldn’t you rather have the sardines, too? then I can have all the stew.”

Cassy confessed that she would rather, and Rock drew the dish of stew to his side of the table.

“Did you have a good day, Jerry?” Cassy asked.

“Not very; I only made thirty cents.”

Rock looked at him. “To think of this little fellow helping to support his family,” was his thought, and he gave Jerry an admiring glance.

“That’s more than I ever earned in one day,” he said, soberly.

“Oh, but you don’t have to,” Jerry replied. “I reckon I wouldn’t either, if I were you.”

“Never mind, old fellow,” Rock went on, “you’ll be twice the man for it. I tell you when a fellow shows what he is willing to do and that he isn’t going to shirk, it goes a great way. John McClure told father about your insisting upon doing something to pay for that little measly geranium you got for Cassy, and ever since then father’s been keen to see to this business of your mother’s. John McClure is a fine man. Father says he is one of the most intelligent fellows he knows. He is a Scotchman by birth and is well educated, but he had some trouble with his people at home and came to America to make his living any way that he could. He’d always been fond of gardening, so he applied for the place as gardener with us, and has been there ever since we’ve lived here. I believe he will come into some property some day, and we’ll be sorry to part with him, I tell you.”

“I just love him,” said Cassy.

“I think he’s a brick,” said Jerry. “Haven’t you always lived in that house?”

“No, indeed, only for a few years. It really belongs to old Mr. Dallas, but he and his wife are obliged to go south every year, and so when my mother and Mr. Heath Dallas were married, his father wanted them to take the place and keep it from running down. So that suited everybody, and we’ve been living there two years. Mother loves it and so do I, and I believe John McClure does, too.”

“I should think he would,” Cassy remarked fervently.

“Father would like to build a little house in the corner of the garden for John, but he says, no, he has no one to keep house for him and that some day he will have a place of his own; I think he means to be a florist and have greenhouses and such things; he reads about gardens and plants, and all that sort of thing, all the time.”

“I should think that would be the finest business,” said Jerry. “I tell you flowers sell for a big price sometimes.”

“I know they do, especially in midwinter. Anyhow everything John puts in the ground seems to grow, and I should think he’d make a success of that business, for he’s what father calls a ‘canny Scot,’ though he’s not a bit stingy. By the way, I heard my father ask if you had any relatives; I suppose you haven’t, have you?”

“No,” Jerry told him, “at least not very near ones. Father had no brothers or sisters, and mother’s people lived in England. Her father and mother died when she was little, and she came over here with her aunt.”

“Oh, I see,” said Rock. He had wondered why Mrs. Law had been left with no one to give her a helping hand.