"O Jim! I feel so – so guilty! Just as if I had done something dreadfully wrong!" cried troubled Dorothy C. to her faithful if jealous friend, as they were driving homeward again. The reins were in his hands this time and he held them with an ease which left everything to the old horse itself, and which would have surprised the girl had room been left in her mind for any smaller surprises after that great one of Mrs. Cecil's question.

"Don't see why," returned practical Jim. His own satisfaction was great, just then, for he had seen Herbert Montaigne driving homeward on his brand-new horse-rake, brilliant in red paint and purchased by that extravagant youth expressly for the Skyrie "Bee." Herbert had forsaken that laborious festivity, soon after the departure of Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy; but not till after he had also finished all the raking there had been for him to do. Much of the ground was so overrun with bushes and brambles that only hand-rakes were available, and to the more difficult task of these the lad did not aspire.

Now, at ease with his own conscience and at peace with all the world, he drove by the gates of Deerhurst whistling his merriest, and bent upon ending his rarely useful day by a row upon the river. He even caught a glimpse of Dorothy sitting in the farm wagon waiting for Jim to "make himself tidy after his gardening," as his mistress had directed; and had called out some bit of nonsense to her which she was too absorbed in thought to notice.

"That's all right. Needn't answer if she doesn't wish! I'll see her to-morrow and get her to go on that picnic at the camp. One picnic paves the way to another – that's easy! I don't feel now any great longing even for planked shad – such a dinner I ate! But that's one good thing about a dinner, little Kit! Take a few hours off and you'll be ready for the next one! Good thing my top-lofty sister 'took a notion' to sweet Dolly! That's going to make things lots easier for my scheme, 'but I'll 'bide a wee' before I spring it on the Pater. Eh, little Kit? Aren't you a beauty? and – good luck! You're just the thing to take her, to-morrow. She told me, to-day, they hadn't a single cat. 'Not a single cat!' In a tone of regular heartbreak, she said it, Kit! That's why I heard you squalling by the roadside and picked you up. Somebody dropped you, didn't he? Somebody a deal richer in cats than Dorothy C. Why, little Kit, I heard a workman telling the other day how he found a bag of kittens, a whole bag of them, 'lost' by somebody as heartless as your own late owner, probably, but far less wise. For the bag was a potato sack and it had the owner's name stamped in full on it. Must have lost it out the back of a wagon, the workman thought. Anyway, next day he gathered up all the stray cats and kittens he could find and in the dead of night – the dead of night, little Kit! when all dire deeds are done! – he carried the replenished sack back and left it on the 'loser's' doorstep. Good for that workman! but, query. What became of the cats? Never mind, Kitty, I know what will become of you, and your fate will be the happiest possible. Get up there, Slowpoke!" finished the lad, thrusting the tiny kitten he had found astray on the road into his blouse, and urging the work horse forward. In any case it is probable he would have picked up the lost kitten and given it a home in his father's barn, but it suited well with Dorothy's pathetic regret that he should have found it.

"You 'don't see why,' Jim Barlow, I feel so worried over what Mrs. Calvert asked? Then you're stupider than I thought. She is so kind, she found and saved me – after you, of course – and she is so old and lonely. I'd love to live with her if – if there were two of me. Already she looks to me to do little things for her that nobody else seems to think she wants, and to do them without her asking. I love her. Seems if she was sort of my folks —my own folks that I must have had sometime. We like the same things. She adores Dickens, so do I. She loves outdoors, so do I. She – But there, it's no use! I can't go to live with her and leave father John and mother Martha. It would break their hearts and mine, too! Oh! dear! I wish she hadn't asked me; then I wouldn't have had to say 'No,' and see her beautiful old face lose all its lovely brightness. When I think how old she is, how it's but a little while she'll need me – Why, then my heart breaks in two the other way! O Jim! Isn't life a terrible, terrible perplexity?" demanded this small maid to whom "life" was, indeed, just showing its realities.

Jim listened silently, but it wouldn't have flattered her to know that it was her ready flow of language and the rather long words she used which mainly impressed him. To his practical mind it was simply impossible for any right-minded girl to forsake those who had cared for her all her life, in order to gratify the whim of an old lady whom she had known but a short time. Nor did it enter the thoughts of either of these young folks that the material advantages offered to Dorothy would be very great. It was only a question of happiness; the happiness of the Chesters or that of Mrs. Cecil.

As they left Deerhurst behind them and still Jim had answered nothing except that provoking "Don't see why," Dorothy lost her patience.

"Jim Barlow, have you lost your tongue? I think – I think you're horribly unsympathetic!" she cried, flashing a glance upon him that was meant for anger, yet ended in surprise at his actually smiling countenance. "I don't see anything funny in this business, if you do! What are you laughing at?"

Now he looked at her, his face radiant with the fun of his own thoughts, and replied:

"Lots o' things. Fust off, Dorothy, will you correct me every time I use bad language?"

"Bad – language! Swearing, you mean? Why, Jim, I never heard you, not once. Huh! If I did I reckon I would correct you, so quick 'twould make you dizzy!"

"Pshaw! I don't mean that, silly thing! I mean – Dorothy, I want to talk like other folks: like Mis' Calvert – "

"Then begin to call her 'Mrs.'"

"Mrs. Calvert," answered Jim, obediently. "To you and her and Mr. Chester, talkin' – "

"Talking, Jim. Don't clip the g's off your words!"

He half-frowned, then laughed. She was almost too ready with her corrections. But he went on:

"I'm studyin' – studying – every night, as long as I dast – "

"Dare, you mean."

Poor Jim gasped and retorted:

"Well, dare, then, if you say so. D-a-r-e! and be done with it! Mis', I mean Mrs., Calvert has give orders – "

"Given orders, boy."

"Shut up! I mean she's told the old man and woman that keeps – "

"Who keep!"

"That keeps the gate and lives in the lodge an' I live with 'em, if you want to know the hull kit an' boodle of the story, she's give 'em orders I can't have no light lit after half-past ten o'clock, 'cause I'll spile my eyes an' break down my strength – Pshaw! as if a feller could, just a-studyin', when he's so powerful bent on't as I be! But, you know I know I don't talk quite the same as them 'at knows better an' has had more book l'arnin'," explained the young student, hopelessly relapsing into the truck-farm vernacular.

"Yes, Jim, I do know that you know, as you so tellingly put it. I've seen you flush more than once when you've noticed the difference in speech, and I'll help you all I can. I don't know much myself. I'm only a girl, not far along in her own education, but I'll do what I can; only, Jim Barlow, don't you go and get offended when I set you right. If you do you shall go on 'wallowing in your ignorance,' as I've read somewhere. Now, that's enough 'correction' for once. Tell me the other 'lots of things' you were laughing at."

"Sure! The first one, how we're goin' to get ahead of that old Quaker miller. Mis' – Mrs. – Calvert's planned the hull – whole – business. She don't like him none. She stopped me an' told me things, a few. She 'lows he's got some scheme or other, 'at ain't no good to your folks, a-lettin' good money on a wore-out farm like Skyrie. There's more in his doin's than has come to light yet. That's what she says. Even his sellin' your ma that jumpin' cow was a low-down, ornery trick. An' that bull calf – no more use to such as you-all 'an a white elephant, she says. Less; 'cause I s'pose a body'd could sell a elephant, if they was put to it. Say, Dorothy. They's a-goin' to be a circus come to Newburgh bime-by. The pictures of it is all along the fences an' walls; an', say – I'm earnin' wages now, real good ones. I told Mis', Mrs., Calvert 't I didn't think I ought to take any money off her, 'cause she's give – given – me all these new clothes an' treats me so like a prince; but she laughed an' said how 'twas in the Bible that 'a laborer is worthy of his hire' and she'd be a poor sort of Christian that didn't at least try to live up to her Bible. Say, Dorothy, she's even give me one for myself! Fact. She give it an' says she, she says: 'James, if you make that the rule of your heart and life, you can't help being a gentleman, 'at you aspire to be, as well as a good man.' Then she fetched out another book, big – Why, Dorothy! So big it's real heavy to lift! An' she called that one a 'Shakespeare.' The name was printed on it plain; an' she said the man what wrote it more years ago 'an I can half-tell, had 'done the thinkin' for half – the world, or more,' she said. And how 'if I'd use them two books constant an' apply 'em to my own life I'd never need be ashamed an' I could hold up my head in even the wisest company.' Say, Dorothy! Mis' Calvert knows a powerful lot, seems if!"

"Well, she ought. She's lived a powerful long time."

"An' I've been thinkin' things over. I don't believe I will try to be President, like we planned. Lookin' into that Shakespeare feller's book I 'low I'd ruther write one like it, instead."

"O Jim! That's too delightful! I must tell father that. I must! You, a new Shakespeare! Why, boy, he's the wisest writer ever lived. I'm only just being allowed to read a little bit of him, old as I am. My father picks out the best parts of the best dramas and we often read them together, evenings. But – What are the other things you thought about, and made you laugh? That circus, too; shall you go to it, Jim? Did you ever go to one?"

"Never. Never. But I'm just sufferin' to go. Say, Dorothy? If I can get all my work done, an' Mrs. Calvert she don't think it's sinful waste o' good money, an' your folks'll let you, an' it don't come on to rain but turns out a real nice day, an' I can get the loan of Mrs. Calvert's oldest horse an' rig – 'cause I wouldn't dast – dare – to ask for a young one – an' I felt as if I could take care of you in such a terrible crowd as Ephraim says they always is to circuses, would you, will you, go with me?"

In spite of herself Dorothy could not help laughing. Yet there was something almost pathetic in the face of this poor youth, possessing a small sum of money for the first time, beset by the caution which had hedged his humble, dependent life, yet daring – actually daring, of his own volition – to be generous! Generous of that which Miranda Stott had taught him was the very best thing in the world – money! Of himself, his strength, his unselfishness and devotion, – all so much higher than that "money," – he had always been most lavish; and remembering this, with a sympathy wise beyond her years, Dorothy speedily hushed her laughter and answered eagerly:

"Indeed, I will, you dear, care-taking, cautious boy, and thank you heartily. I love a circus. Father John used to take mother Martha and me to one once every summer. Why, what a perfectly wild and giddy creature I shall be! To a circus with you, a camp-picnic with Herbert and Helena, and this splendid farmers' 'Bee' – Hurray!"

Jim's countenance fell. "I didn't know 'bout that other picnic," said he. "When's it comin' off? And what is a picnic, anyway?"

"You'll see when we get home to Skyrie. A picnic is the jolliest thing there is – except a circus. Except a circus. When it's to come off I don't know, but when it does I mean you shall be in it, too, Jim Barlow. Yet you haven't finished about poor, dear Mr. Oliver Sands. You have wandered all over the face of the earth, as my teacher used to complain I did in writing my compositions. I didn't stick to my subject. You haven't stuck to yours, the Quaker man. Finish him up, for we're almost at Skyrie now."

Comforted by her ranking of a circus as something infinitely more delightful than even a rich boy's picnic, and because the fields of Skyrie were, indeed, now in view, Jim resumed concerning the gentleman in question:

"Dorothy, that calf o' yours won't never be no good. The man give him to you, all right, an' 'peared amazin' generous. But – he cal'lated on gettin' back more'n his money's worth. He'd tried to sell old Hannah time an' again, so Mrs. Calvert was told, an' couldn't, 'count of her being so hard to keep track of. He didn't dast to sell without the calf alongside, for if he did the critter's so tearin' lively she'd 'a' got back home to his farm 'fore he did, drive as fast as he might. But what he planned was: your ma take the calf for a gift an' she'd have to send to his mill to get feed an' stuff for to raise it on. To keep both cow an' calf would cost – I don't know how much, but enough to suit him all right. 'Tother side the matter, his side, you did get Hannah cheap. She's good breed, her milk'll make nice butter – "

"It does! Splendid, perfectly splendid! Mrs. Smith showed mother how to manage and it all came back to her, for she had only, as father says, 'mislaid her knowledge' and she makes all the butter we need. Not all we want – We could eat pounds and pounds! But it takes a good many quarts of milk to make a pound of butter, I've learned; and an awful lot of what father calls 'circular exercise' to make the 'butter come.' Mother bought one of those churns that you turn around and around, I mean a dasher around and around inside the churn – I get my talk mixed up, sometimes – and it takes an hour, maybe, to turn and turn. Worse than freezing ice cream in a 'ten-minute' freezer, like we had in Baltimore, yet had to work all morning to get it frozen ready for Sunday dinner. Mother thinks a dash-churn, stand and flap the dasher straight up and down till your arms and legs give out, is the best kind. But the around-and-around is the modern sort; so, of course, she got that. If Daisy-Jewel and Piggy-Wig didn't need so much milk themselves there'd be more for us. And somehow, you don't make me feel very nice toward Mr. Oliver Sands."

"Say, Dorothy. Mis' Calvert's notion is for you to sell Daisy an' buy a horse. Will you, if you get a chance?"

"Simple Simon! A horse is worth lots and lots more than a calf! was that what she meant when she said a calf might turn into a colt? A colt is a horse, after all. A little horse. Well, maybe she was right. I might sell a little calf and get a little colt. But who in the world would buy? Besides, despite all the trouble she makes, mother wouldn't part with that pretty, écru-colored cow, and Hannah will not be separated from Daisy-Jewel. I mean Daisy-Jewel will not be separated from Hannah. Even a man, Mr. Oliver Sands, said that would be 'cruel.' You don't want to have me cruel, do you, Jim Barlow?"

"Shucks! Hannah won't mourn for no calf, longer 'n a couple of hours, 'less she's different from any cow I ever see, light-complected or otherwise. As for that jumpin' notion o' hern; I'll fix her! I've been layin' out to do it, ever since I heard she done it, but somehow I didn't get the chance."

"You didn't get the chance because you never take it. I don't think it's right, Jim Barlow, for you to work every minute of daylight, fearing you won't do all your horrid 'duty' to your employer, then study all night to make yourself 'fit for your friends,' as you told me. Maybe, some of your friends might like to see you, now and then, before you are 'fit,'" returned Dorothy, and with that they came to the gate of Skyrie and drove over the path to the barn, the path, or driveway, which that very morning had been overgrown and hidden with grass and weeds, but now lay hard and clean as if just newly made.

"Pshaw! Somebody's been busy, I declare!" cried Jim, admiringly, and leaped out to tie Mr. Smith's "nag" in a comfortable shady place. He did not offer to help Dorothy alight, nor did she either wait for or expect this courtesy; but seeing mother Martha in the kitchen, ran to her with an account of her brief outing.

The housemistress had slipped away from the few women guests left remaining in the field where dinner had been served. Most of them had already left for home, their part in the day's proceedings having been well finished, and each a busy farmwife who had snatched a half-day from her own crowding tasks to help the "Bee" along.

She had made many acquaintances, she was glad to know them. She "liked folks better than scenery," as she had once complained to her husband, during a fit of homesickness for "dear old Baltimore"; but she was very tired. The excitement of this unexpected visitation, and the varying emotions of the day had strangely wearied her. Besides, deep down in her heart – as in father John's – lay a feeling of wounded pride. She had been very happy, for a time, she had found herself the center of much kindly attention: and yet – she wished that the need for such attention had not existed. So she was glad now of the privacy of her kitchen whither none would intrude; and into which Dorothy ran, full of talk and eager above all things to tell of that astonishing offer of Mrs. Calvert's to re-adopt her.

But something stopped the words on her lips. She could not herself have explained why she refrained from speaking, unless it were that weary, fretful expression of Mrs. Chester's face. So, instead of bestowing confidences, she merely said:

"Mother dear, do come upstairs to your own pretty room and lie down. It's grown terribly warm this afternoon and you look so tired. I'll shut the blinds and make it all dark and cool; then I'll find father John and see if he needs me too. Come, mother, come."

With a sudden burst of affection, such as rarely came from Mrs. Chester, that lady caught the girl in her arms and kissed her fondly, saying:

"You are my good angel, Dolly darling! You are the brightness of my life. Don't ever let anybody else steal you away from me, will you? I couldn't live without you, now – and here."

Dorothy's breath came quick and sharp. How odd this was, to have her mother touch upon that very subject lying uppermost in her own heart! Could she and Mrs. Calvert have been discussing her in this way? Well, at least, she now knew that she had been wholly right. The reluctant "No" she had given Mrs. Betty was the only word to say.

CHAPTER XVI
THE FATE OF DAISY-JEWEL

The "Bee" was a thing of the past. Everybody had gone, leaving a vastly different Skyrie from that which greeted the rising sun of that memorable day. Weed-grown, bramble-infested fields lay cleared of débris, that had been gathered into heaps and burned. The garden plot was now a stretch of well-made beds wherein had been sown or set such things as would develop to ripeness that season, although it was long past orthodox time for garden-making. To the delight of his obstinate soul, even Pa Babcock's asparagus trench had been duly prepared and a sufficient number of the roots set out. But the work of the trench, or bed, had not been accomplished by himself. He had explained the pressing need of such a thing to Mrs. Calvert, who, to rid herself and others of his "talk," had promptly furnished the necessary funds to pay for the plants and had dispatched him to a distant market gardener's to procure them. He had returned sooner than was expected or desired, but could he relegate his own intelligent task to anybody else? So, for once, he really did work faithfully, spreading out each tiny rootlet with a care that insured a prompt growth, and deluging them with water which it took many trips to the spring to bring.

The old well-curb had been repaired, the well emptied of water, and cleaned. The barn had been put in order, so far as might be with the time and material at command. The roof would not leak again nor the blinds fall because of rusted hinges. Even the cellar had been swept, and garnished with double coatings of sweet-smelling whitewash; and, indeed, all that these willing helpers could think of and accomplish had been done to make the Skyrie household "start farming fair and square."

The last event of the "Bee" had been an auction.

Mrs. Calvert had sent a brief note of instructions to Seth Winters and he had promptly acted upon them. With such an assembly at hand the time was ripe for selling Daisy-Jewel to the highest bidder. So the blacksmith held a short parley with Bill Barry, the village auctioneer, and afterward started the sale by a fair price named for such a blooded quadruped.

"Seven dollars! Seven dollars! Did I hear somebody bid seven dollars? only seven for such a beautiful Jewel and Daisy combined?"

"Seven fifty!" called Jim Barlow, also acting upon instructions.

"Seven fifty – somebody higher? And eight dollars? Eight, eight, eight, somebody raise me eight-eight-eight —And fifty! Eight dollars and fifty cents! Why, you folks, you make me blush to be an auctioneer, standing here on a horse-block and selling away from a little girl the only piece of stawk she owns for just eight dollars and fifty cents. That I should live to – Nine, nine, nine, nine! Somebody raise me nine dollars for a full-bred Jersey bull calf! nine, nine, nine – "

"Ten!" shouted Mr. Smith, who knew he could reimburse himself in some way for this recklessly extravagant purchase.

But the chance was not for him. "Ten fifty!" shouted somebody at the rear of the crowd, and:

"Ten and fifty! Fifty, fifty, fifty – Hard word that to rattle off – Make it 'leven; and ease my poor tongue! 'Leven, 'leven, 'leven, eleven dollars and fifty cents. That's that blamed old fifty cropping up again. Go it by even dollars, friends and feller citizens, Eleven and – twelve, twelve, twelve – Almost as bad to say! Hump her up. Thirteen do I hear? Thirteen? Don't let her stick at that! who'll pay just thirteen unlucky dollars when they can buy a full-blooded bull calf for – Fourteen, do I hear? Fourteen, fourteen, four – four – four – Fifteen good American dollars for a poor little girl's pet calf! Neighbors, I am ashamed of you, I certainly am. Why, I'll bid sixteen myself, ruther 'an have such a blot as that printed on this town's archives! I will, I say, though I haven't any more use for a poor little girl's one pet calf than I have for two wives! Sixteen I bid, seventeen somebody lifts me. Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty? Now you begin to talk! But let me warn you fellers, that this here sale is cash or its equivalent. So anyone who's just biddin' to hear himself talk – take care! Twenty-one, one, one, one, one, one, one – "

The sale went on for a long time, and the bidding grew more spirited continually. Bill Barry's taunt about cash payment touched the pride of some, but the outcome of the matter was predestined from the beginning. Seth Winters had had his instructions and now acted upon them. When nobody would "raise" him any higher, the calf was knocked down to him at thirty-five dollars and was promptly dispatched to a new home in charge of the Smith boys, who had come to see the finish of the "Bee."

Bill Barry refused to take any payment for his services in the matter, so the blacksmith hurried to find Dorothy and to place the money in her hands. To his surprise, he found her weeping bitterly, with her head against old Hannah's hairy side, as if mingling her tears with that bereaved mother's.

"Why, Dorothy dear! I understood you were tired of Daisy-Jewel and more than willing to exchange him for a colt. See here – thirty-five dollars, all in crisp banknotes, and your very own!"

But Dorothy would not be comforted, nor even lift her curly head to look upon what she now sadly considered as the price of blood, while Hannah continued to moo distractingly, yet, at the same time managed to chew her cud – the sign of a well-contented bovine mind.

Jim also drew near, a wide, short board in hand and, wholly disgusted with Dorothy's inconsistency, exclaimed:

"Pshaw! If girls don't beat all creation for changin' their minds! Here was you wantin' to be rid of that calf, now cryin' like – most like one yourself. Shucks! Dorothy Chester, where's your good sense at? An' you stand aside, will you? I want to fix Hannah so you won't have to chase her no more."

Now the truth is that Dorothy had listened to the auction with keen interest and no thought of grief till she heard Mr. Barry allude to herself as a "poor little girl with only one calf." Then the springs of self-pity were touched and she would have stopped the sale had she dared or known quite how. That her father approved of it he had told her at its beginning, and so did Jim. These two were the most sensibly practical persons she knew, even more than mother Martha, – where the question of live stock was concerned, – and she ought to be guided by their judgment. Daisy-Jewel had been a trial and expense from the day of his arrival at Skyrie, but – he was her Daisy-Jewel, and she had sold him into bondage – probably, into worse: the hands of a butcher! Thirty-five dollars! It seemed incredible: but thirty-five dollars as the price of a life. How dreadful!

"Stand still, you old misery! Now, then, my Hannah, how do you find yourself?" cried Jim, coolly pushing Dorothy aside and stepping back himself to avoid the twisting and jerking of the cow's horns. "There you be! Plenty of chance to look down on the pasture but none to go skippin' over stun walls!"

Dorothy wiped her eyes, indignant with Jim for his callous want of sympathy in her own grief, and curious about Hannah; who had ceased both mooing and chewing, confused and distracted by the thing which had befallen her.

Jim had simply hung the board he had brought upon Hannah's horns and securely fastened it there, letting it fall forward over her face at an angle which permitted her to see the ground but, as he had declared, would not encourage her search for stone walls to leap. "Easy as fallin' off a log, ain't it?" he demanded of Mr. Winters, who had watched the operation with some amusement and some compassion. "Some folks think it's mean to put boards on 'em, but Mis' Stott she said 'twas better to be mean to critters than to have critters mean to folks. Why, here has Dorothy been runnin' half over the hull farm, catchin' Hannah, when all that time she might have been studyin' her books!"

"Thanks, noble youth! I'm not 'sufferin'' to study in the summer and vacation time," answered Dorothy, who had begun to recover her cheerfulness and now asked the blacksmith, as he extended the money toward her: "What will become of Daisy now?"

"Mrs. Calvert has bought him. He will be kept on the Deerhurst farm, the other side of the mountain, and will grow up, I trust, quite worthy of his pedigree. She owns a fine herd of animals and her stock-farm is one of her chief interests here."

"Than he won't be – be murdered?"

"No, indeed. Here is your money. I must be going. Good-night."

"I'll go along with you. Good-night, Dorothy. Don't forget to ask your folks 'bout that circus!" called Jim, casting a self-important glance into Seth Winters's face as he followed him down the path.

With her money in hand Dorothy joined her parents and was well commended that she had consented to the sale of Daisy-Jewel; and for a little while, until milking-time required Martha's presence in the barnyard, the trio discussed its vast amount and the best sort of horse to be selected. Neither Mr. Chester nor his wife dashed the girl's enthusiasm or so much as hinted that the sum in hand would scarcely pay for a good horse. To her it seemed all-sufficient, not only for a horse, but for a wagon and harness as well. And – But let us not anticipate!

The circus whose coming attractions now filled Jim Barlow's mind more than even his beloved "study" had sent out its posters long ahead; so that the country folk might accustom themselves to the ideas of its tempting sights and to grow anxious to behold them. To the lad it seemed as if the days would never pass. The only relief to his eagerness was that Herbert's projected camp-picnic had been postponed on account of Helena's sudden illness. One of her bronchial attacks had kept her a prisoner within the Towers and she had become so interested in the idea of the affair that her brother waited for her to recover.

He contented himself the better by frequent visits to Skyrie, and by his gift to Dorothy of the stray kitten. The rather disreputable-looking little animal he had coaxed Miss Milliken to cleanse and adorn with a blue ribbon before its advent at Skyrie, where it now resided, petted and pampered till its thin outlines became plump ones and it almost filled that place in Dorothy's heart left vacant by Daisy-Jewel.

Also, Dolly herself had twice been sent for to visit Helena in her confinement of the sick-room, and had won the liking of everybody who saw her there. She was so simple and natural, so free from the imitating manner of some of Helena's friends who envied and toadied to the rich man's daughter, that the heiress found her society novel and refreshing. It was something quite new for Helena to be told, one day when she was "fussing" over the dainty meal sent up to her room, that:

"Why, Helena Montaigne! You perfectly wicked girl! My mother and Mrs. Calvert too both say that it's as sinful as it's ill-bred to quarrel with your food. 'Not fit to eat' isn't true. Maybe you aren't 'fit' to eat it yourself, poor dear, because you're ill. But I never saw such a dainty lunch as that, even at Deerhurst itself. Eat it, do, and get strong and make your mother happy. She's taken a lot of trouble for you. I know she went into the kitchen and fixed those things herself, because she thought your cook wasn't careful enough. Now, do behave! And I'll sing to you while you eat. I've heard my father say that at the big hotels at Atlantic City and other places they have a band play while the people dine. Well, then, I'll be your band and sing. So begin! You must! I shall make you!"