Oakleigh
Date: 2025-05-20T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Siblings -- Juvenile fiction; Families -- Juvenile fiction; Stepmothers -- Juvenile fiction; Massachusetts -- Juvenile fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Oakleigh

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Title: Oakleigh

Author: Ellen Douglas Deland

Illustrator: Alice Barber Stephens

Release date: May 20, 2025 [eBook #76126]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Harper & Brothers Publishers, 1895

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OAKLEIGH ***

"THE GIRLS CAME TRIPPING DOWN IN THEIR DAINTY EVENING DRESSES"

OAKLEIGH

BY

ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND

ILLUSTRATED BY

ALICE BARBER STEPHENS

NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1898

Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

All rights reserved.

TO

MY SISTERS

ILLUSTRATIONS

"THE GIRLS CAME TRIPPING DOWN IN THEIR DAINTY EVENING DRESSES" ... Frontispiece

"JACK LAY AT FULL LENGTH ON THE GRASS"

"MISS TRINKETT TOOK AN AFFECTIONATE FAREWELL THE NEXT DAY"

"'YOUR VOICE SOUNDS SORT OF UNNATURAL, TOO,' ADDED MRS. PARKER"

"'CYNTHY FRANKLIN, IT'S MORE THAN TIME YOU HAD A MOTHER'"

"'I DON'T LIKE HER, AND I WON'T'"

"'YOU ARE A PERFECT DEAR!' SHE WHISPERED. 'EVERYTHING IS NICER SINCE YOU CAME'"

"THEN THEY STARTED HOME, CARRYING THE CUSHIONS BETWEEN THEM"
(Missing from source book)

"'I WANT TO KNOW!' SHE EXCLAIMED, DRAWING OFF HER OLD GLOVES"

THE START FROM OAKLEIGH

"'WE SHALL SINK IF THIS GOES ON,' SHE SAID"

"POOR BOB! HIS JOY HAD BEEN QUICKLY TURNED TO MOURNING"

"'DON'T HOLD MY ARM SO TIGHT; IT HURTS'"
(Missing from source book)

"CYNTHIA CRIED UNTIL HER EYES SMARTED AND HER HEAD ACHED"

"'OH, NEAL, WON'T YOU COME BACK?'"

"'I HOPE THEE IS NEITHER EXTRAVAGANT NOR LAZY'"

"SHE FOUND HER PERFECTLY CONSCIOUS"

"'THERE! LOOK, MY OWN RAG DOLL!'"

"'I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU, CYNTH'"

OAKLEIGH

CHAPTER I

It was a large house, standing well back from the broad highway that leads from Brenton to Pelham—so far back, indeed, and at the end of such a long, shady drive, that it could not be seen for some few minutes after turning in from the road.

The approach was pretty, the avenue winding through the trees, with an occasional glimpse of the meadows beyond. The road forked where the trees ended, and encircled the lawn, or the "heater-piece," as the family called it, it being in the exact shape of a flat-iron. The house stood on high ground, and there were no trees very near.

It was a white house, with green blinds, solid and substantial looking. The roof of the piazza was upheld by tall white columns, and vines growing at either end relieved the bareness. On the southern side of the house a small conservatory had been added. On the other side the ground sloped to the Charles River, though in summer one could only see the water from the upper windows, because of the trees which grew so thick upon the banks. This was Oakleigh, the home of the Franklins, so named because of a giant oak tree which spread its huge branches not far from the back of the house.

As to the Franklins, there were five of them, and they were all assembled on the front porch.

Though it was the last day of April, spring was very early for Massachusetts this year, and the day was warm and clear, suggesting summer and delightful possibilities of out-door fun.

Edith, the eldest, sat with her work. It was unusual work for a girl of barely sixteen. A large, old-fashioned basket was on the floor by her side, with piles of children's clothes in it, and she was slowly and laboriously darning a stocking over a china egg.

The children had no mother, and a good deal devolved upon Edith.

Jack and Cynthia, the twins, came next in age, and they were just fourteen. They looked alike, though Jack was much the taller of the two, and his hair did not curl as tightly as Cynthia's. She sat on the step of the piazza. Her sailor-hat was cast on the ground at her feet, and her pretty golden-brown hair was, as usual, somewhat awry.

It was one of the trials of Edith's life that Cynthia's hair would not keep smooth.

Jack lay at full length on the grass, sometimes flat on his back, staring at the sky, sometimes rolling over, the more easily to address his sisters.

"JACK LAY AT FULL LENGTH ON THE GRASS"

Jack had a project in his mind, and he was very much in earnest. Cynthia, of course, was already on his side—she had known of it from the first moment the idea popped into his head, but Edith had just been told, and she needed convincing.

Janet and Willy, "the children," were playing at the other end of the porch. They were only six and five, and did not count in the family discussions.

"There's money in it, I'm sure," said Jack, "and if I can only get father to agree with me and advance some money, I can pay him back in less than a year."

"Papa hasn't much money to spare just now," said Edith, "and I have always heard there was a good deal of risk about raising chickens from an incubator."

"My dear girl," returned Jack, with an air of lofty authority, "allow me to say that you don't know much about it. I've been reading up hens for two days, and I find that, allowing for all risks—bad eggs, inexperience, weasels and skunks and diseases, you're sure to make some profit at the end of a year. Now, I'm late in thinking of it, I know. To-morrow is the 1st of May, and I couldn't get more than three hatches this summer, but that would probably pay the cost of the incubator. I can get a first-rate one for forty dollars, and I can buy one 'brooder.' If I bought one I could make the others like it."

"But your eggs," said Edith. "You would have to pay a great deal for eggs."

"Eggs would be about five or six dollars a hundred, and it takes two hundred to fill the machine. I should want to get a fine breed, of course—Brahmas or Cochins or Leghorns, probably—and they cost more; but, you see, when they begin to lay, there comes my money right back to me."

"When they do!" said Edith, sceptically.

"Edith, don't be so mean," cried Cynthia. "Jack wants to begin to make money, and I think he's right. I'm going to help him all I can, and we want you to be on our side to help talk over papa. He is always telling Jack that he'll soon have to begin to work, and now here's a chance."

"Papa wants Jack to make some money to help support us when he is old enough, but he wants him to finish his education first, of course. And I am sure he doesn't want him to lay out a lot of money, as he would have to do in raising hens."

"That's just like a girl," said Jack, scornfully. "Don't you know that there's always a lot of risk in anything you undertake, and you've got to take the chances? There are very few things you don't have to put money into."

"Of course, for a grown man; but a boy of your age ought to work for a salary, or something of that sort—not go investing."

Cynthia stirred uneasily. She knew this was just the wrong thing to say to Jack. Unfortunately, Edith was so apt to say the wrong thing.

Jack sprang to his feet.

"There's no use arguing with girls. I may be a 'boy of my age,' but I've got some sense, and I know there's money in this. I'm not going to say another word about it to anybody until father comes home, and I can talk it over with him."

And Jack walked off around the corner of the house, whistling to Ben and Chester, the two big setters, to follow him, which they did with joyful alacrity.

"There!" exclaimed Cynthia, "now he's gone off mad. I don't see why you said that, Edith."

"Said what? I'm sure it is true. The idea of a boy of his age—"

"There you go again. Jack may be young, but he is trying awfully hard to help papa, and you needn't go twitting him about his age."

"I'm sure I never meant to twit him," said Edith, "and I think he's very touchy. But it is half-past four, Cynthia, and time to go meet papa. Won't you be sure to brush your hair and put on a fresh necktie or something? You do look so untidy. That skirt is all frayed out around the bottom."

"Oh, bother my hair and my necktie, and everything else!" cried Cynthia, though with perfect good-nature. "Edith, you are such a fuss! Shall I go meet papa?"

"No, I'll go; but I wish you would order the horse. Now, Cynthia, don't forget your hair, will you? Papa hates to see you untidy."

For answer Cynthia banged the screen-door as she disappeared into the house and walked through the wide hall, humming as she went.

"What shall I do with these children?" sighed Edith to herself, as she laid down the stocking, mended at last, and prepared to put up her work. "I'm sure I do the best I can, and what I think our mother would have liked; but it's very hard. If Cynthia only would be more neat!"

A loud crash interrupted her thoughts. At the end of the piazza, where the children had been playing, was a mass of chairs and tables, while from the midst of the confusion came roars of pain, anger, and fright.

"What is the matter?" cried Edith, running to the scene, and overturning her work-basket in her flight.

It took several minutes to extricate the screaming children, set them on their feet, and ascertain that no bones were broken.

"Get the red url!" shrieked Janet; "that naughty boy has killed me! I'm dead! I'm dead! Get the red url!"

"It's no such a thing!" shouted Willy. "I didn't do it, and I'm dead, too. Ugh! I'm all bludgy! Get the red url!"

Cynthia had witnessed the scene from the window, and appeared just in time with the bottle of red oil, the panacea for all Franklin bumps and bruises.

"What were you doing, you naughty children?" said Edith, as she wiped the "bludge" from Willy's lip, and found that it came from a very small scratch, while Janet was scarcely hurt at all.

"We were only playing cars, and Willy would ride on the engine, and made it topple over, and—"

"It's no such a thing!" interposed Willy. "Girls don't know nothin' 'bout steam-cars, and Janet went and put her feet on the back of my chair, and—"

He was interrupted by a blow from Janet's small fat fist, which he immediately returned in kind, and then both began again to scream.

"You are both as bad as you can be, and I've a good mind to send you to bed," said Edith, severely, shaking Janet as she spoke.

Janet cast herself upon Cynthia.

"Edith's horrid to us! She's so cross. Cynthia, don't let her send us to bed. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hit Willy; I'm sorry we upset the chairs; I'm sorry for everything."

"Well, here comes the horse, and I must go," said Edith. "Oh, look at my basket!"

And it was indeed a sight. Spools, scissors, china eggs, stockings—everything lay in wild confusion on the floor.

"Never mind. I'll pick them up," said Cynthia. "Don't bother about them, Edith. The children will help me. Come along, Willy and Janet. Let's see which can find the most spools."

Edith looked back doubtfully as, having put on her hat, she got into the carriage. What would her basket be like when she next saw it? But it was kind of Cynthia, and how much better Cynthia managed the children than she did. What was the reason? She was thinking it over when she heard her name called loudly from behind, and, pulling in her horse quickly, she waited, wondering what had happened now.

Cynthia came flying down the avenue.

"Edith, Edith! Wait a minute! I forgot to tell you. Don't say anything to papa about Jack's scheme, will you? Let him tell him himself."

"Oh, Cynthia, how you frightened me! I thought something dreadful was the matter."

"But don't, will you, Edith? Promise! You know—well, Edith, Jack can explain it so much better himself."

Cynthia was too kind-hearted to tell Edith that she would spoil it all if she said anything first, but Edith knew that was what she meant. A sharp reply was on her lips, but she controlled herself in time.

"Very well," she said, quietly, "I won't."

And then she drove on, and Cynthia went back to the house satisfied.

Edith had a quick, impatient temper, and it was not an easy matter for her to curb her tongue. Her mother had died five years ago when she was but eleven years old. Then an aunt had come to live with them, but she had lately married and gone to South America, and now there was no one else, and Edith was considered old enough to keep house and look after the children.

It would have been more difficult had it not been for the servants, who had lived with the family long before Edith was born. As it was, it made a good deal of care for the young girl, but she wanted to do it, and had herself urged the plan, assuring her father and aunt that she was fully equal to the task.

She enjoyed sitting at the head of the table and pouring her father's coffee, and it pleased her to have things just as she wished them about the house.

Edith, though a dear, lovable girl, was just a little bit vain of her own importance.

She was a pretty girl, very tall, with thick, dark hair that waved naturally about the temples, but was always brushed smoothly back into a knot, and brown eyes that looked out rather seriously upon the world, especially at this moment when she was driving down to Brenton to meet her father, who was coming out from his business in Boston.

The road wound through the woods, with here and there a view of the river, leading finally into the old New England town and forming its main street.

Tall elm-trees shaded the approach to the village, and fine old houses, with well-kept lawns in front, were to be seen on either side.

The horse that Edith drove was by no means a fine one, and the old buggy was somewhat unsteady and rattled alarmingly. In other words, the Franklins were poor, but they had hosts of friends, and as Edith entered the village she nodded right and left to the various people she met. Every one liked the Franklins, and the family had lived at Oakleigh for generations.

As she reached the station the train came in. A throng of carriages filled the broad space in front, and Edith was obliged to draw up at some little distance from the cars. Presently she saw her father coming towards her, and with him was an odd little figure, the sight of which made Edith's heart sink with apprehension.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" she exclaimed to herself, "if there isn't Aunt Betsey!"

Then she shrank back into the corner of the buggy, and watched the amused glances that were cast upon her relative by all who saw her.

Miss Betsey Trinkett, of Wayborough, was Edith's great-aunt, and constituted one of the largest thorns in her side. She was old, she was odd, she was distinctly conspicuous, and Edith disliked above all things to be made conspicuous.

Miss Betsey trotted along the platform by her nephew's side, quite unconscious of the tumult she was raising in the breast of her grandniece. She was dressed in a short, scant velveteen gown that might have belonged to her grandmother, and a large bonnet of the same date, from which hung a figured lace veil. A gay shawl was folded about her slender shoulders, and Mr. Franklin carried her carpet-bag with the silver lock and key.

She waved a welcome to Edith with a mittened hand, and Edith, recovering herself, nodded in response.

"How do you do, Aunt Betsey?" she said. "What a surprise!"

"Yes, my dear, I like to surprise you now and then. I came up to Boston town on business, and your father insisted upon my coming out to see you all. In fact, I knew he would, so I just popped my best cap and my knitting into my bag, along with some little things for you children, and here I am."

And she stepped nimbly into the buggy, followed by Mr. Franklin.

"We shall be a 'Marblehead couple,'" he said, as he balanced himself on the edge of the seat and took the reins.

Edith detested "marblehead couples"—otherwise, driving three on a seat—and she hid herself as much as possible in her corner, and hoped that people would not know she was there.

Miss Betsey chatted away with her nephew, and in time the three miles were covered, and they turned into the Oakleigh drive. Edith had recovered somewhat by this time, having been engaged in scolding herself all the way from the village for her uncordial feelings. She was even able to tell her aunt with perfect sincerity that she was glad she had come. After all, the old lady was a dear old soul, and devoted to her nephew and his children.

The others welcomed her most cordially. Aunt Betsey's carpet-bag always contained some rare treat for the little ones; and, besides, they were a hospitable family.

"But come with me, girls," said Miss Betsey, mysteriously, when she had bestowed her gifts; "there is something I want to consult you about."

She trotted up the long flight of stairs to her accustomed room with the springiness of a young girl, Edith and Cynthia following her. She closed the door behind them, and seating herself in the rocking-chair, looked at them solemnly.

"Do you remark anything different about my appearance?"

"Why, of course, Aunt Betsey!" exclaimed Cynthia. "Your hair."

"Well, I want to know! Cynthy, you are very smart! You get it from your great-grandmother Trinkett, for whom you were named. Well, what do you think of it?"

Edith had hastened to the closet, and was opening drawers and removing garments from the hooks in, apparently, a sudden desire for neatness. In reality she was convulsed with laughter.

Cynthia controlled herself, and replied, with gravity:

"Did it grow there?"

Miss Betsey rocked with satisfaction, her hands folded in her velveteen lap.

"I knew it was a success. No one would ever know it, would they? My dears, I bought it to-day in Boston town! The woman told me it looked real natural. I don't know as I like the idea exactly of wearing other people's hair; but one has to keep up with the times, and mine was getting very scant. Silas said to me the other night, said he, 'Betsey, strikes me your hair isn't as thick as it used to be.' That set me thinking, and I remembered I'd heard tell of these frontispieces, and I then and there made up some business I'd have to come up to Boston town about, and here I am. I bought two while I was about it. The woman said it was a good plan, in case one got lost or rumpled, and here it is in this box. Just lay it away carefully for me, Cynthy, my dear."

The old lady's thin and grayish locks had been replaced by a false front of smooth brown, with puffs at the side and a nice white part of most unnatural straightness down the middle.

"You see, I like to please Silas," she continued. "I'll tell you again, as I've told you before, girls, Silas Green and I, we've been keeping steady company now these forty years. But I can't give up the view from my sitting-room windows to go and live at his house on the other hill, and he can't give up the view from his best-room windows to come and live at my house. We've tried and tried, and we can't either of us give up. And so he just comes every Sunday night to see me, as he's done these forty years, and I guess it'll go on so a while longer. And that's what makes me a spinster instead of an old maid. I wonder, now, if you know the difference?"

The girls had heard it a hundred times before, but they politely asked why.

Miss Betsey rocked more violently yet.

"An old maid, my dears," she said, solemnly, "is one who never had the chance to change her state in life. A spinster is one who has the chance and prefers not to make use of it."

They were interrupted by the sound of the tea-bell.

Miss Betsey hastily settled her cap over the new front, and they all went down-stairs, Cynthia pinching Edith to express her feelings, and longing to tell Jack about Aunt Betsey's latest.

But they found Jack having an animated discussion with his father, his thoughts on business plans intent.

Cynthia anxiously surveyed the two, and she feared from appearances that Mr. Franklin did not intend to yield.

CHAPTER II

They were all in the "long parlor" after tea. It was a beautiful room, extending the length of the house, and it was large enough to contain four windows and two fireplaces. The paper on the walls was old-fashioned—indeed, it had been there when the children's grandmother was a girl, and the furniture was of equally early date.

It was all handsome, but shabby-looking. A few dollars wisely spent would have made a vast difference in its appearance; but, unfortunately, there were never any dollars to spare.

However, the room was comfortable, and the Franklins thought it the dearest place in the world. They all loved their home.

Jack had resumed the argument.

"Nonsense, nonsense, Jack!" said Mr. Franklin. "It is absurd for a boy like you to ask me for so much money. Incubators are of no good, anyhow. Give me a good old-fashioned hen."

"Perhaps, papa," said Cynthia, demurely, "Jack will give you a good old-fashioned hen if you let him buy an incubator to raise her with."

Mr. Franklin laughed. Then he grew very grave again, even stern-looking, though he was a very kind-hearted man and a devoted father.

Jack pursued the advantage given by Cynthia's remark.

"There's no doubt about my making something of it. I wish you would let me try, father! I'll pay back whatever you lend me. Indeed I will. It's only forty dollars for the machine."

"You speak as if forty dollars grew on every bush. I tell you I haven't got the money to spare. Look at the place, going to rack and ruin! Now let me hear no more about the incubator business, Jack, my boy. I know your intentions are good. You want to make some money to help your poor old father, I have no doubt; but if you were to argue from now until the year 2000 you could not make me believe there was money in poultry, nor in anything else connected with farming."

Mr. Franklin was very determined. He could seldom be induced to change his mind, and his prejudices were very strong. Jack's face fell. It was of no use; he would have to give it up.

Presently Aunt Betsey spoke. She had been an attentive listener to the conversation, and now she settled herself anew in her rocking-chair, and folded her hands in the way she always did when she had something of especial importance to say.

"How much money do you need, Jackie? Forty dollars, did you say?"

"Forty for the incubator," said Jack, rather shortly. He felt like crying, though he was a boy, and he wished Aunt Betsey would not question him.

"And then you must buy the eggs," put in Cynthia.

"And what do the chicks live in after they come out?" asked Miss Trinkett, who knew something about farming, and with all her eccentricities was very practical.

"They live in brooders," said Jack, warming to his beloved subject. "If I could buy one brooder for a pattern I could make others like it. I'd have to fence off places for the chicks to run in, and that would take a little money. I suppose I'd have to have fifty-five or sixty dollars to start nicely with and have things in good shape."

"Nephew John," said Miss Betsey, solemnly, turning to Mr. Franklin, "I don't wish to interfere between parent and child, it's not my way; but if you have no other objections to Jackie's hen-making machine—I forget its outlandish name—I am willing, in fact I'd be very pleased, to advance him the money. What do you say to it?"

Jack sprang to his feet, and Cynthia enthusiastically threw her arms about Aunt Betsey's neck.

"You dear thing!" she whispered. "And you look sweet in your new hair." Upon which Miss Trinkett smiled complacently.

Mr. Franklin expostulated at first, but he was finally persuaded to give his consent. After all, Aunt Betsey could do what she liked with her money, and Jack's object was a good one. So it was finally settled.

"I will lend you seventy-five dollars," said Miss Trinkett. "You may be obliged to pay more than you think, and it's well to have a little on hand in case of emergencies. I must say I don't like the idea of the machine, but you seem to know what you are talking about. It does depress me to think of all those poor little chicks running about without any mother! Who's to teach them to scratch for worms? Who's to call them in at night, or when it rains? Poor little orphans, it does seem cruel!"

Jack was afraid that his aunt's feelings would overcome her to such an extent that she would withdraw her offer, and he hastened to reassure her. He had been to a large poultry farm the week before, and he was confident that all the dwellers there were very happy and seemed to enjoy their independence.

"That's just it," said Miss Betsey, solemnly, as she looked from one to the other. "They get very independent without an older person to look after them. I only hope it won't come into this family, that independent feeling."

The next day Miss Trinkett departed, although urged to stay over Sunday.

"MISS TRINKETT TOOK AN AFFECTIONATE FAREWELL THE NEXT DAY"

"No," she said; "if it were any other day but Saturday I might stay, but I don't like to be away Sunday night on Silas's account. You know he might get out of the way of coming so regular, and I scarcely like to risk it. You have to be careful with men-folks, my dears, as you'll know when you've seen as much of them as I have. They're terribly set in their ways."

And then she kissed them all good-bye, promising to send Jack the money by an early date.

"And a book on raising poultry that my father used to consult," she added; "I always keep it on the table in the best parlor. I'll send it by mail. It's wonderful what things can go through the post-office nowadays. These are times to live in, I do declare, what with chicks without a mother and everything else."

Aunt Betsey was true to her word. During the following week a package arrived most lightly tied up, and addressed in an old-fashioned, indefinite hand to "Jackie Franklin, Brenton, Mass." Within was an ancient book which described the methods of raising poultry in the early days of the century, and inside of the book were seventy-five dollars in crisp new bank-notes.

The incubator was sent for, and very soon Jack was embarked in the poultry business. There was much to be done, and Cynthia acted as partner, assistant, and slave. Even Edith, for all her early disapproval, was much interested. Mr. Franklin scoffed, but awaited with curiosity the first hatch, while as for Janet and Willy, they were beside themselves with an interest which, though well-meant, was often troublesome.

Jack was tremendously in earnest with his scheme, and even his father was impressed.

It was a week or two after the installation of the incubator that Edith was seized with what Cynthia called "one of her terribly tidy fits."

"I am going to do some house-cleaning," she announced one beautiful Saturday morning, when Cynthia was hurrying through her Monday's lessons in a wild desire to get to the river. "Cynthia, you must help me. We'll clear out all the drawers and closets in the 'north room,' and give away everything we don't need, and then have Martha clean the room."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Cynthia; "everything in this house is as neat as a pin. And we haven't got anything we don't need, Edith. And I can't. I must go on the river."

"You can go afterwards. You can spend all the afternoon on the river. This is a splendid chance for house-cleaning, with the children off for the morning. Come along, Cynthia—there's a dear."

Cynthia slowly and mournfully followed Edith up the stairs. She might have held out and gone on the river, but she knew Edith would do it alone if she deserted her, and Cynthia was unselfish, much as she detested house-cleaning.

"I am going to be very particular to-day," said Edith, as she wiped the ornaments of the room with her dusting cloth and laid them on the bed to be covered, and took down some of the pictures.

"More particular than usual?"

"Yes, ever so much. I've been thinking about it a great deal. In all probability I shall always keep house for papa, and I mean to be the very best kind of a housekeeper. I am going to make a study of it. The house shall always be as neat as it can possibly be, and the meals shall be perfect. If we only had a little more money I would take some cooking lessons. I wonder if I could earn some money to do it. Can you think of any way, Cynthia?"

"Not a way," returned Cynthia, with decision, "and I'm terribly sorry you are going to be tidier than ever. There will be no peace for any of us. What difference does it make whether there are three specks of dust behind the left-hand corner of that picture? No one would ever be any the wiser."

"Oh, Cynthia, that is a horrible idea, only to have things clean where they are going to be seen!" cried Edith, taking down the picture and looking carefully for the three specks of dust. "And I wish you would not use a feather-duster. That is one of my firm theories, never to use a feather-duster."

"I wish you didn't have so many theories," grumbled Cynthia, good-naturedly, as she exchanged the censured feathers for a cloth.

"Then another thing," pursued Edith, from the closet where she was lifting down boxes and pulling out drawers. "I am going to be lovely with the children. They are to be taught to obey me implicitly, the very minute I speak. I am going to train them that way. I shall say one word, very gently, and that will be enough. I have been reading a book on that very subject. The eldest sister made up her mind to do that, and it worked splendidly."

"I hope it will this time, but things are so much easier in a book than out of it. Perhaps the children were not just like our Janet and Willy."

"They were a great deal worse. Our children are perfect angels compared to them."

"Here they come now, speaking of angels," announced Cynthia, as the tramp of small but determined feet was heard on the stairs and the door burst open.

"Edith, we've come home. We're hungry!" cried Janet.

"Edith, we want sumpun to do," said Willy, in a somewhat whiny voice.

"Dear me, you don't mean to say you are back!" exclaimed Edith. "I thought you were going to play out-of-doors all the morning."

"We're tired of it, and we're terrible hungry."

"An' we want sumpun to do."

"If this isn't the most provoking thing!" cried Edith, wrathfully, emerging from the closet. "I thought you were well out of the way, and here I am in the midst of house-cleaning! You are the most provoking children—don't touch that!"

For Janet had seized upon a box and was investigating its contents.

"Go straight out of this room, and don't come near me till it is done."

"We won't go!" they roared in chorus; "we're going to stay and have some fun."

Edith walked up to them with determination written on her face and grasped each child tightly by the hand. The roars increased, and Cynthia concluded that it was about time to interfere.

"Come down-stairs with me," she said, "and I'll give you some nice crackers. And very soon one of the men is going over to Pelham to take the farm-horses to be shod. Who would like to go?"

This idea was seized upon with avidity. The three departed in search of the crackers and quiet reigned once more. When Cynthia came back Edith said nothing for a few minutes. Then she remarked:

"Those children in the book were not quite as provoking as ours, but I suppose I ought to have begun right away to be gentle. Somehow, Cynthia, you always seem to know just what to say to everybody. I wish I did! Janet and Willy both mind you a great deal better than they do me."

She was interrupted by a shout of joy from Cynthia.

"Edith, Edith, do look at this! Aunt Betsey's extra false front! She left it behind. Don't you know she told me to put it away? It's a wonder she hasn't sent for it. There, look!"

Edith turned with a brush in one hand and a dust-pan in the other, which dropped with a clatter when she saw her sister.

Cynthia had drawn back her own curly bang, and fastened on the smooth brown hair of her great-aunt. The puffs adorned either side of her rosy face, and she was for all the world exactly like Miss Betsey Trinkett, whose eyes were as blue and nose as straight as those of fourteen-year-old Cynthia, who was always said to greatly resemble her.

"You're the very image of her," laughed Edith. "No one would ever know you apart if you had on a bonnet and shawl like hers."

"Edith," exclaimed Cynthia, "I have an idea! I'm going to dress up and make Jack think Aunt Betsey has come back. He'll never know me in the world, and it will be such fun to get a rise out of him."

"Cynthia, don't use such horrible slang! You know papa hates it. And you would never be able to make Jack think you are Aunt Betsey."

"Yes, I will. You'll see. Come along, Edith, help me! We'll finish the house-cleaning afterwards. I'll help all the afternoon. Don't you know that old dress of grandmother's? Where is it?"

"In the camphor closet, and it will smell horribly."

"No matter, Jack won't notice. And that old bonnet we used to dress up in. That's the very thing."

Cynthia's enthusiasm was contagious, and Edith, leaving bureau-drawers standing open and boxes uncovered, hurried off to find the desired articles.

Cynthia was soon dressed in exact reproduction of Aunt Betsey's usual costume, with a figured black-lace veil over her face, and, as luck would have it, Jack was at that moment seen coming up the drive. She hastily descended to the parlor, where she and Edith were discovered in conversation when Jack entered the house.

"Holloa, Aunt Betsey!" he exclaimed, as he kissed her unsuspectingly. "Have you come back?"

"Yes, Jackie," said a prim New England voice with a slightly provincial accent. "I thought I'd like to hear about those little orphan chicks, and so I said to Silas, said I, 'Silas—'"

Edith darted from her chair to a distant window, and Cynthia was obliged to break off abruptly, or she would have laughed aloud. Jack, however, took no notice. The mention of the chickens was enough for him.

"Don't you want to come down and see the machine? I say, Aunt Betsey, you were a regular brick to send me the money. Did you get my letter?"

"Yes, Jackie, and I hope you are reading the book carefully. You will learn a great deal from that book about hens."

"Yes. Well, I haven't got any hens yet. Look out for these stairs, Aunt Betsey. They're rather dangerous."

This was too much for Cynthia. To be warned about the cellar stairs, over which she gayly tripped at least a dozen times a day, was the crowning joke of the performance. She sat down on the lowest step and shouted with laughter. Jack, who was studying his thermometer, turned in surprise.

"Why, I didn't know Cynthia was here. Why—why, Aunt Betsey, what's the matter? And where is Cynthia? And Edith! Are you all crazy?"

For the dignified Edith was sitting on the top step, also bent double with laughter.

It was too good. Cynthia tossed up her veil, and turned her crimson face to her brother.

"Oh, Jack, Jack, I have you this time! This pays off a hundred old scores. Oh, oh, oh! I never dreamed you would be so taken in!"

And she danced up and down with glee.

Jack's first feeling was one of anger. How stupid he had been! Then his sense of the ludicrous overcame him, and he joined in the mirth, laughing until the tears rolled down his face.

"It's too good to be wasted," he said, as soon as he could speak. "Why don't you go and see somebody? Go to those dear friends of Aunt Betsey's, the Parkers."

"I will, I will!" cried Cynthia. "I'll go right away now. Jack, you can drive me there."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Edith. "They would be sure to find you out, and it would be all over town. You sha'n't do it, Cynthia."

"They'll never find me out. If Jack, my own twin brother, didn't, I'm sure they wouldn't. I'm going! Hurry up, Jack, and harness the horse."

Jack went up the stairs like lightning, and was off to the barn. All Edith's pleadings and expostulations were in vain. Cynthia could be very determined when she pleased, and this time she had made up her mind to pay no attention to the too-cautious Edith.

She waved farewell to her sister in exact imitation of Aunt Betsey's gesture, and drove away by Jack's side in the old buggy.

"Mrs. Parker is so gossipy, I shall be sure to hear something funny," she remarked to Jack. "I must tell her all about the new false front, and what 'Silas' said, and all. It will be such fun! I wish you could go in too, Jack, but you'd be sure to laugh and spoil it all. You couldn't help it. Oh, here we are, turning in already! I'm so excited I can scarcely speak."

They drew up at the door, and Jack with great politeness assisted "Aunt Betsey" from the carriage. He ran up the steps and rang the bell for her, and then, taking his place again in the buggy, he drove off to a shady spot at a little distance, and waited for his supposed aunt to reappear.

"Don't be too long," he had whispered at parting.

It seemed hours, but it was really only twenty minutes later, when the front door opened and the quaint little figure descended the steps amid the voluble good-byes of Mrs. Parker.

"So glad to have seen you, my dear Miss Trinkett! I never saw you looking so well or so young. You are a marvel. And you won't repeat that little piece of news I told you, will you? You will probably hear it all in good time. Good-bye!"

It was a very quiet and depressed Aunt Betsey who got into the carriage and drove away with Jack, very different from the gay little lady who had entered the Parkers' gates.

"Well, was it a success? Did she know you? Tell us about it," said Jack, eagerly.

"Jack, don't ask me a word."

"Why? I say, what's up? What's the matter? Did she find you out?"

"No, of course not. She never guessed it. But—but—oh, Jack, she told me something."

"But what was it?"

"I—I don't believe I can tell you!"

CHAPTER III

When Cynthia asked at Mrs. Parker's door if that lady were at home it was not necessary for her to give her name. The maid recognized Miss Trinkett at once.

"Yes, she's at home, ma'am. And won't you please step into the parlor, Miss Trinkett? Mrs. Parker'll be glad to see you."

Mrs. Parker came hurrying down.

"Dear Miss Trinkett, how are you? Why, I should scarcely have known you! What have you done to yourself?"

Cynthia laughed her great-aunt's high staccato laugh.

"Well, now, I want to know, Mrs. Parker! Don't you see what it is? Why, my nieces at Oakleigh, they saw right away what the difference was. I thought 'twas about time I was keeping up with the fashions, and so I bought me a fine new piece of hair for my front. I was growing somewhat gray, and I thought 'twas best to keep young on Silas's account. It isn't that I care for myself, but you have to be particular about men-folks, as you'll know when you've seen as much of them as I have."

Cynthia was a good actress, and she carried herself precisely as Miss Betsey did, and imitated her voice to perfection.

She repeated some of her aunt's best-known tales, and good Mrs. Parker never dreamed of the possibility of her caller being any one but worthy Miss Betsey Trinkett, of Wayborough, whom she had known for years.

Mrs. Parker was a great talker, and usually she was obliged to fight hard to surpass Miss Trinkett in that respect. During the first part of the call to-day it was as difficult as usual, but Mrs. Parker presently made a remark which reduced her visitor to a state of alarming silence.

"I suppose you have come to announce the news," said the hostess, smiling sympathetically.

"Now I don't know a bit of news. Why, my dear Mrs. Parker, Silas and I we never—"

"Ah, but this has nothing to do with Silas, though it may affect you, more or less. Surely you know what I am alluding to?"

"I haven't the least idea."

And Cynthia bridled with curiosity on her own account as well as Aunt Betsey's. She thought something interesting must be coming.

"Well, now, to think of my being the one to tell you something about your own family! I don't know whether I ought to, but I think it must be true, and you'll hear it in other ways soon enough. You know I have relatives in Albany, where she lives."

"Where who lives?"

"Miss Gordon, Hester Gordon. They say—but, of course, I don't know that it's true, it may be just report, but they do say—I don't know whether I ought to tell you, I declare!—that it won't be long before she's Mrs. Franklin."

"Mrs. Franklin?"

"Yes, Mrs. John Franklin. Hasn't your nephew told you? Well, well, these men! They do beat all for keeping things quiet."

"Is it true?"

It was Cynthia's natural voice that asked this question. She quite forgot that she was supposed to be Miss Betsey Trinkett.

"I suppose it is. But, dear me, Miss Trinkett, don't be worried! Seems to me you look very queer, though I can't see your face very well through that veil, and you with your back to the light. Your voice sounds sort of unnatural, too. Let me get you a glass of water."

"'YOUR VOICE SOUNDS SORT OF UNNATURAL, TOO,' ADDED MRS. PARKER"

"Oh no, it is nothing," said Cynthia, who had quickly recovered herself, and was now summoning all her energy to finish the call in a proper manner. "You surprised me, that's all, and I never did care much for surprises. But I think there's not much truth in that, Mrs. Parker. I don't believe my fa—nephew is going to be married again. In fact, I'm very sure he is not." And she nodded her head emphatically.

"Ah, my dear Miss Trinkett, you never can tell. Sometimes a man's family is the last to hear those things. And it will be a good match, too. She comes of an old family and she has a great deal of money. The Gordons are all rich."

"Do you suppose he'd care for that?" exclaimed her visitor, wrathfully.

"Well, well, one never knows! And think how much better it would be for the children. Edith is too young to have so much care, and they say Cynthia runs wild most of the time, just like a boy. Indeed, I call it a very good thing. Though I must say she is a pretty brave woman to take on herself the care of that family."

Here "Miss Betsey" suddenly darted for the door. It could be endured no longer; Mrs. Parker bade her farewell, and then went back to tell her daughters that Miss Trinkett was sadly changed. Though she was still so young in appearance, she was evidently very much broken.

For some time Jack could obtain no reply to his questions, but at last Cynthia's resolution broke down and she burst into tears. They had turned into a shady lane instead of going directly home, and there was no danger of meeting any one.

"Jack, Jack!" she moaned, "I'll have to tell you. Mrs. Parker says papa is going to be married again! What shall we do? What shall we do?"

For answer Jack indulged in a prolonged whistle.

"Isn't it the most dreadful thing you ever heard of? Jack, how shall we ever endure it?"

"Well, it mayn't be as bad as you think. If she's nice—"

"Oh, Jack, she won't be! Step-mothers are never nice. I never in my life heard of one that was. She'll be horrid to us all."

"Oh, I say, that's nonsense. If you were to marry a widower with a lot of children you'd be nice to them."

"Jack, the very idea! I marry a widower with a lot of children! I'd like to see myself doing such a thing!"

Cynthia almost forgot her present trouble in her wrath at her brother's suggestion.

"Well, after all, it may not be true. Because Mrs. Parker says so doesn't prove it. Where did she hear it?"

"From some of her Albany relations, I suppose. The—the lady lives there. But, oh, Jack! Do you think there is any chance of its not being true?" cried Cynthia, catching at the least straw of hope.

"Why, of course! Father hasn't told us, and you can't believe all the gossip you hear," said Jack, loftily.

"Perhaps it isn't true, after all," exclaimed Cynthia, drying her eyes and smiling once more, "and I've been boo-hooing all for nothing! I sha'n't say a word about it to Edith, and don't you either, Jack. It isn't worth while to worry her, and Mrs. Parker is a terrible gossip."

They went home, and Cynthia gave her sister a gay account of her visit, carefully omitting all exciting items, and then she helped Edith put away some of the things, and finally was free to go on the river in the afternoon. Jack, boy-like, had forgotten all about Mrs. Parker's news. He did not believe it, and therefore it was not worth thinking of. But Cynthia's mind was not so easily diverted. She did not believe it, either, but then it might be true, and if it were, what was to be done? It seemed as if a worse calamity could not happen.

Jack, her usual companion on the river, was busy with some carpentry. He was making a "brooder" like one he had bought, to serve as a home for the little chicks when they should be hatched. He used the "barn chamber" for a workshop, and the sound of his saw and his hammer could be heard through the open window.

Cynthia was deeply interested in poultry raising, but she wished it did not consume so much of her brother's time and attention.

Edith was going to the village to an afternoon tea at the Morgans'. Gertrude Morgan was her most intimate friend, and all the nicest girls and boys would be there to talk over a tennis tournament. Cynthia was rather sorry that she had not been asked. She said to herself that she would be of more value in the discussion than Edith, for she really played tennis, while Edith merely stood about looking graceful and pretty. However, she had not been invited, and, after all, the river was more fun than any afternoon tea.

One of the men put the canoe in the water for her, and, with a huge stone to act as ballast, she paddled up stream, browsing along the banks looking for wild-flowers, or steering her way through the rocks, of which the river was very full just at this point.

Cynthia, fond as she was of companionship, being of an extremely sociable disposition, was never lonely on her beloved river.

Edith dressed herself carefully and drove off to the tea. She looked very attractive in her spring gown of gray and her large black hat, and as she studied herself in the small, old-fashioned mirror that hung in her room she felt quite pleased with her appearance.

"If I only had more nice gloves I should be satisfied," she thought. "It is so horrid to be always saving up one pair, and having to wear such old things for driving, and whisk them off just before I get to a place, and put on the good ones. And a handsome parasol would be so nice. I don't think I'll take this old thing. I don't really need one to-day. I wonder where the children are. I ought to look them up, I suppose; but they must be all right, somewhere, and it is getting late. After all, why should I always be the one to run after those children?"

And then she drove away to Brenton, leaving housekeeping cares behind her, and prepared for a pleasant afternoon.

About half-a-dozen boys and girls had already arrived at the Morgans' when Edith drove in. It was a fine old house, standing far back from the road and surrounded with shady grounds. The river was at the back. A smooth and well-kept tennis-court was on the left of the drive as one approached the house, and here the guests were assembled.

"Oh, here's Edith Franklin at last!" cried Gertrude Morgan, while her brother went forward and, after helping Edith to alight, took her horse and drove down to the stable.

Presently all the tongues were buzzing, each one suggesting what he or she considered the very best plan for holding a tournament. It was finally arranged to have it at the tennis club rather than at the Morgans', as had at first been thought best, and it would be open to all comers who had reached the age of fourteen.

"That is very young," said Gertrude, "but we really ought to have it open to Cynthia Franklin. She is one of the best players in Brenton."

"By all means," said her brother, who was always on the side of the Franklins; "and, Edith, you'll play with me, won't you, in mixed doubles?"

"Oh, I don't play well enough," exclaimed Edith. "Thank you ever so much, Dennis, but you had better ask some one else. I don't think I'll play."

Every one objected to this, but it was finally settled that Edith should act as one of the hostesses for the important occasion, which was greatly to her satisfaction. She rather enjoyed moving slowly and gracefully about, pouring tea and lemonade, and handing them to the poor, heated players, who were obliged to work so hard for their fun.

They were startled by the sound of the clock on the church across the road. It struck six, and Edith rose in haste.

"I must go," she said. "I had no idea it was so late! Those children have probably gotten into all kinds of mischief while I've been away, and papa will not be home until late, so I am not to wait in the village for him."

The others looked after her as she drove away.

"Isn't she the sweetest, dearest girl?" cried Gertrude. "And won't it be hard for her if her father marries again, as every one says he is going to do? But, after all, it may be a good thing, for then Edith wouldn't have to do so much for the children. I wonder if she knows about it. She hasn't breathed a word of it, even to me."

Janet and Willy, the inseparable but ever-fighting pair, came in at the side door not very long after Edith went to the village. They found the house empty and the coast clear, and their active brains immediately set to work to solve the question of what mischief they could do.

They wandered into the big silent kitchen. The servants were up-stairs, and beyond the buzzing of a fly on the window-pane, and the singing of the kettle on the range, perfect quiet reigned.

"Let's go down and see the inkerbaker," said Willy.

"All right," returned Janet, affably, and down they pattered as fast as their sturdy little legs could carry them.

They peered in through the glass front at the eggs which lay so peacefully within.

"It must be turrible stupid in there," said Janet, pityingly. "Shouldn't you think those chickens would be tired of waiting to come out?"

"Yes. We might crack a lot and help 'em out."

"Oh no. Jack says they won't be ready for two days. But I'll tell you what we might do. We might see whether it's hot enough for 'em in there. I guess Jack's forgotten all about 'em. I don't believe he's been near 'em to-day, nor Martha either."

"How d' yer find out whever it's hot enough?"

"I don't know. Guess you open the door and put your hand in and feel."

For Janet had never been taught the significance of the thermometer inside, and knew nothing of the proper means of ventilating the machine.

No sooner said than done. One of the doors was promptly opened, and two fat hands were thrust into the chamber.

"My goodies, it's hot there!" cried Janet. "We ought to cool it off. Let's leave the door open and turn down the lamp and open the cellar window."

Mounted on an old barrel, Janet, at the risk of her life, struggled in vain with the window. She chose one that was never used, and it refused to respond to her efforts. Then she descended, and returned to the incubator.

"Can't do it," she said. "But I'll tell you what we'll do."

"What?" asked the ever-ready Willy.

"Pour some ice-water over 'em. That'll cool 'em nicely."

They travelled up the cellar stairs to the "cooler," which stood in the hall.

"Wish we had a pitcher," said Janet. "You take the tum'ler, and I'll get a dipper."

It required several journeys to and fro to sufficiently cool the eggs, according to their way of thinking, but at last it was accomplished, with much dripping of water and splashing of clean clothes.

The water-cooler was left empty, and the incubator was in a state of dampness alarming to behold.

"There; I guess it's cool enough now!" said Janet, when the last trip had been taken.

Alas, the mercury, which should have remained at 103°, had dropped quietly down to 70°!

"I'd like to see what's in those eggs," said Willy, meditatively. "D' yer s'pose they're duckies yet?"

"I guess so. I'd like to see, too. I'll tell you what, Willy! Let's take one, and carry it off and see."

"All right. I'll be the one to take it. What'll Jack say?"

"He won't mind. Just one egg, and he has such a lot. And we've been helping him lots this afternoon, cooling: 'em off so nicely. But I'll be the one to take it."

"No, me!"

"Let's both do it," said Janet, for once anxious to avoid a quarrel. "I speak for that big one over there," and she abstracted one from the "thermometer row"—the row that was most important and precious in the eyes of the owner of the machine.

"And I'll take dis one. It's awful heavy, and I guess de dear little chicken'll be glad to get out and have some nice fresh air."

"Let's go down behind the carriage-house and look at 'em."

They fastened the door of the incubator, and departed with their treasures.

Half an hour later Jack, having finished his work, came whistling into the house. He would go down and have a look at the machine, and then walk up the river bank to meet Cynthia, whom he had seen as she paddled off early in the afternoon.

His first glance at the thermometer gave him a shock; 75° it registered. What had happened? He looked at the lamp which heated the chambers, and found that it had been turned down very low. What could Martha have been thinking of, when he told her it was so important to keep up the temperature this last day or so? The day after to-morrow he expected the hatching to begin, and he had closed the door of the incubator that morning. It was not to be opened again until all the chicks were out.

Jack was on tiptoe with excitement. If they came out well, what a triumph it would be! If they failed, what would his father say?

He looked again, and a most unexpected sight met his eyes. Water was dripping from the trays, and the fine gravel beneath had become mud.

And there was a vacant space in one of the trays. An egg had gone—and it was from the third row, the row which he had been so careful about, which contained the best eggs.

And—yes, surely there was another hole. Another egg gone! What could have happened?

He ran up-stairs three steps at a time, shouting for Martha.

"What have you been doing, Martha?" he cried. "Two eggs are gone, and the thermometer way below 80°, and all that water!"

"Sure, Mr. Jack, I haven't been there at all! You were at home yourself to-day, and I never go near the place of a Saturday."

"Well, some one has been at it. Where's Cynthia? Where's Edith? Why isn't somebody at home to attend to things?"

No one could be found. Jack rushed frantically about, and at last heard the sound of wheels. Edith was returning from the tea. And, at the same moment, around the corner of the house came Cynthia, leading two crying children.

They all met on the front porch.

"They've been up to mischief, Jack," said Cynthia; "I hope they haven't done much harm. I found them on the bank, behind the carriage-house. They must have been at the incubator, for they had two eggs, and the chickens are dead. And they are two bad, naughty children!"

Even Cynthia, the peacemaker, had been stirred to righteous wrath by the sight on the river bank.

"You rascals!" cried Jack, in a fury, shaking them each in turn; "I'd like to lick you to pieces! You've ruined the whole hatch."

"Go straight to bed," said Edith, sternly; "you are the very worst children I ever knew. I ought not to leave the house a minute. You can't be trusted at all."

They all went in, scolding, storming, crying. In the midst of the confusion Mr. Franklin arrived, earlier than he had been expected. It was some minutes before he could understand the meaning of the uproar.

He looked about from one to the other.

"It only serves to justify me in a conclusion that I have reached," he said. "You are all too young to be without some one to look after you. Take the children to bed, Edith, and then come to me. I have something to tell you."

Edith, wondering, did as she was told. Cynthia gave Jack one despairing look and fled from the room. Her worst fears were on the point of being realized.

And after tea, when they were sitting as usual in the long parlor, Mr. Franklin, with some hesitation and much embarrassment, informed them that he was engaged to be married to Miss Hester Gordon, of Albany.

CHAPTER IV

Mr. Franklin's announcement at first almost stunned his children. They could not believe it. Jack and Cynthia were somewhat prepared for it, it is true, but when they heard the news from their father's own lips it was none the less startling.

To Edith it came like a thunderbolt. She had never had the smallest suspicion that her father would marry again. She had always supposed that she would be sufficient for him. She would never marry herself, she thought, but would stay at home and be the comfort of his declining years. It had never occurred to her that her father, still a young and good-looking man of barely forty, would be exceedingly likely to marry a second time.

And now what was to happen? A stranger was coming to rule over them. Edith would never endure it, never! She would go away and live with Aunt Betsey. Anything would be better than a step-mother.

When she spoke her voice was hard and unnatural.

"Haven't I done right, papa? Weren't you satisfied with me? I have tried."

"My dear child, you have done your best, but you are too young. No one can expect a girl of sixteen to take entire charge of a house and family. And it is not only that. Hester is a charming woman. She reminds me something of your mother, Edith. It was that which first attracted me. She will be a companion to you—a sister."

"Thank you, but I don't need either. Cynthia is all the sister I want. Oh, papa, papa, why are you going to do it!"

She went to her own room and shut the door. After this one outbreak she said no more. Small things made Edith storm and even cry, dignified though she was. This great shock stunned her. She did not shed a tear, and she bore it in silence; but a hard feeling came into her heart, and she determined that she would never forgive this Miss Gordon who had entrapped her father (so she put it), and was coming to rule over them and order them about. She, for one, would never submit to it.

Jack did not mind it in the least, and Cynthia, who idolized her father, was sure from what he said that he was doing what he considered was for his happiness. Of course it was terrible for them, but they must make the best of it.

They passed a dreary Sunday, but Monday was expected to be an exciting day, for on that date the chickens were to appear. But when the children returned from school there were but small signs of the anticipated hatch in the incubator; one shell only had a little crack on the end.

Cynthia took up her position in front of the machine with a book, and waited patiently hour after hour. Nothing came. The next morning there was another crack in the next egg, and the first had spread a little, but that was all. The children all went to school but Edith, and she felt too low-spirited to go down to the cellar to watch.

Janet and Willy were forbidden to go near the place. As punishment for their conduct on Saturday, they were not to be present at the hatching. It was thought that owing to what they had done the chickens were not forthcoming, and indeed it had been most disastrous.

When Jack and Cynthia returned from school they found that two little chicks—probably the only two which had escaped the cold bath—had emerged from their shells, and were hopping dismally about in the gravel beneath the trays. One hundred and ninety-eight hoped-for companions failed to appear.

Jack's first hatch was anything but a success. He bore it bravely, but it was a bitter disappointment. After waiting many hours in the vain hope of seeing another shell crack, he removed the two little comrades to the large brooder built to hold a hundred, and then, nothing daunted, sent for more eggs. He still had some of Aunt Betsey's money left.

Jack was plucky, and his pride would not permit him to give up. He would profit by this experience, and next time he would be victorious. He feared that, besides the mischief done by the children, he had been over-fussy in his care of the eggs, and he determined to act more wisely in every respect.

In after years Cynthia looked back upon the first hatch as one of the most depressing events in her life. The children in disgrace, Edith silent and woe-begone in her own room, she and Jack watching hour after hour in the big cellar for the chickens that never came—and, above all, the impending arrival of the second Mrs. Franklin.

Aunt Betsey journeyed down from Wayborough as soon as she heard the news. They did not know she was coming until they saw one of the station carriages slowly approaching the house, with Miss Trinkett's well-known bonnet inside of it. She waved her hand gayly, and opened the subject at once.

"Well, well," she cried, "this is news indeed! I want to know! Nephew John going to be married again! Just what I always thought he had best do for the good of you children. Have you seen the bride, and what is she like?"

It was a warm June day, and the Franklins were on the piazza when this was shouted to them from the carriage in their aunt's shrill voice. Edith writhed. Though the news was all over Brenton by now, this would be a fine bit for the driver to take back.

Jack and Cynthia offered to help Aunt Betsey to alight, but she waved them aside.

"Don't think you must help me, my dears. This good news has put new life into me. How do you all do?" giving each one of her birdlike kisses, and settling herself in a favorite rocking-chair.

The younger children ran to her, hoping for treasures from the carpet-bag.

"I do declare," exclaimed she, "if I didn't forget all about you in the news of the bride! Never mind; wait till next time, and I'll bring you something extry nice when I come to see the bride."

"What's a bride?" asked Willy.

"La, child, don't you know? They haven't been kept in ignorance, I hope?"

"Oh no, but they haven't heard her called that," explained Cynthia.

"Do you mean the lady that is coming here to live?" asked Janet. "Well, we don't like her, me and Willy. She's made Edith cross and sobby, and she's made you forget our presents, and she's made a lot of fuss. We don't want her here at all."

Miss Trinkett looked shocked. "My dear children!" she exclaimed, too much aghast to say more. Then she turned to Edith.

"But now tell me all about it. Have you seen her, and is she young?"

"I have not seen her, Aunt Betsey, and I don't wish to. I don't know whether she is young or old, and I don't care. Won't you take me home with you, Aunt Betsey? Can't I live with you now? I'm not needed here."

Miss Betsey stared at her in amazement.

"Edith Franklin," she said, folding her hands in her lap, "I am astonished at the state of things I find in this household! Rebelling against circumstances in this way, and wishing to run away from your duties! No, indeed, my dear. Much as I'd admire to have you live with me—and there's a nice little chamber over the living-room that would suit you to a T—I'd never be the one to encourage your leaving your family. You are setting them a bad example as it is, teaching these young things to look with disfavor on their new mother that is to be. No, indeed. Far be it from me to encourage you. And, indeed, I should have no right, when my own mother was a second wife. Why, in the early days of the colonies it was thought nothing at all for a man to marry three or four times, as you'd know if you had read Judge Sewall's Diary as much as I have, or other valuable works."

Miss Trinkett rocked violently when she had finished this harangue. Edith did not reply. She had looked for sympathy from Aunt Betsey; but she, like all the rest of the world, seemed to think it the best thing that could happen.

As for Miss Betsey, she too was somewhat disappointed. She had hoped for some interesting items, and none seemed to be forthcoming.

"Where's your father?" she asked, presently.

Edith did not reply.

"He has gone to Albany," said Cynthia.

"Well, well! And when is the wedding to be?"

Edith rose and went into the house. Cynthia glanced after her regretfully, and then answered her aunt's question.

"It is to be in a week. It is to be very quiet, because—because Miss Gordon is in deep mourning."

"Do tell! I want to know!" ejaculated Miss Trinkett. "And are none of you going?"

"No, papa did not think it was best. Hardly any one will be there. Only her brother and one or two others."

"So she has a brother. Any other relatives?"

"I think not. She lost her father and mother when she was very young, and her grandmother died rather lately."

"I want to know! And when are they coming home?"

"Very soon," said Cynthia, almost inaudibly.

"Do tell!"

Miss Betsey said no more at present, but her mind was busy.

"Where is Jackie?" she next asked.

"I don't know. Gone to see about the chickens, I suppose."

"Oh, those little orphans. Well, I haven't time to ask about them now, for I think, Cynthia, I would like to call upon my friend, Mrs. Parker. It is a long time since I was there."

"Oh, Aunt Betsey!" exclaimed Cynthia. It would never do for her aunt to see Mrs. Parker. The secret of her escapade at that good lady's house would surely be found out. "Why do you go there this afternoon?"

"Because, my dear, I am only here for a night, and I must see Mrs. Parker."

Cynthia groaned inwardly.

"And hear all the village gossip about papa," she thought.

It must be prevented.

But Miss Trinkett was not to be turned from her purpose. Go she would. Every available excuse in the world was brought up to deter her, but the end of it was that Jack drove around in the buggy, and Miss Betsey departed triumphantly.

Cynthia awaited her return in suspense. She wished that she could run away. Her impersonation of her aunt did not seem such a joke as it had at the time, and then she had heard the dreadful news there.

Miss Trinkett came back before very long in high dudgeon. Cynthia was alone on the piazza, for Edith had not appeared again. She noticed that Jack was apparently enjoying a huge joke, and instead of taking the horse to the barn, he remained to hear what Aunt Betsey had to say.

Miss Trinkett sank into a chair and untied her bonnet-strings with a jerk.

"Maria Parker is losing her mind," she announced. "As for me, I shall never go there again."

"Why not, Aunt Betsey?" murmured Cynthia, preparing herself for the worst.

"She declares that I was there two weeks ago, and that she—she told me the news of my own nephew's engagement! She actually had the effrontery to say, 'I told you so!' My own nephew! When his letter the other day was the first I heard of it, and I said to Silas, said I, 'Silas, nephew John Franklin is going to marry again, and give a mother to those children, and I'm glad of it, and I've just heard the news.' And now for Maria Parker to tell me that she told me, and that I was there two weeks ago! Is the woman crazy, or am I the one that has lost my mind? Why don't you say something, Cynthy? Is it possible you agree with Mrs. Parker? Come, now, answer a question. Was I here two weeks ago, and did I go and see Maria Parker?"

"No," murmured Cynthia, her face crimson, her voice almost inaudible. But Aunt Betsey was too much excited to notice.

"Jackie," she said, turning to him, "will you answer me a question? Did I visit you two weeks ago, and did I call upon Mrs. Parker?"

Jack gave one look at Cynthia, and then, dropping on the grass, rolled over and over in an ecstasy of mirth.

"You're in for it now, Miss Cynthia!" he chuckled.

Miss Betsey drew herself up.

"You have not answered my questions. Was I here two weeks ago, and did I call upon Mrs. Parker?"

"No, no, Aunt Betsey!" shouted Jack. "You weren't! You didn't! Go ahead, Cynth! Out with it! My eye, I'm glad I'm here and nowhere else! I've been waiting for this happy day. Now you'll get paid up for fooling me."

And again he rolled, his long legs beating the air.

"I think you are mean, Jack, when you were the one that made me go!" exclaimed Cynthia, indignantly. Then she relapsed into silence. How could she ever confess to Aunt Betsey?

Miss Trinkett hastened the climax.

"I don't know why Jack finds this so amusing. It is not so to my mind; but if you are quite sure that I was not here, and that I did not call upon Mrs. Parker, I must ask you to drive down there with me at once and state the facts to her. I cannot have it insinuated that I am no longer capable of judging for myself, and of knowing what I do and what I don't do. She actually told me to my face that I was getting childish. What would Silas say! But I'll never tell him that. I would like to go at once."

Alas, there was no help for it. Cynthia must confess. If only Jack had not been there!

She rose from the step where she had been sitting, and standing in front of her little grandaunt she spoke very rapidly.

"You are right, and so is Mrs. Parker. You weren't here, but I dressed up and went to see her. I pretended I was you. I found your other false—I mean your new hair. You left it in the drawer. I looked just like you, and we thought it would be such fun. I'm awfully sorry, Aunt Betsey, indeed I am. It wasn't such great fun, after all."

At first Miss Betsey was speechless. Then she rose in extreme wrath.

"'CYNTHY FRANKLIN, IT'S MORE THAN TIME YOU HAD A MOTHER'"

"Cynthy Franklin, it is more than time you had a mother. I never supposed you could be so—impertinent; yes, impertinent! Made yourself look like me, indeed, and going to my most intimate friend! Poor Mrs. Parker! There's no knowing what she might have said, thinking it was I. And I telling her to-day she was out of her mind, and various other things I'm distressed to think of. Why, Cynthy!"

"Oh, I'm 50 sorry," cried Cynthia, bursting into tears. "Do forgive me, Aunt Betsey."

"I am not ready to forgive you just yet, and whether I ever will or not remains to be proved. I am disappointed in you all. Edith going and shutting herself up when I come, because she doesn't want a step-mother, and you making fun of an aged aunt—not so very aged either. Why, when Silas hears this I just dread to think what he'll say. I am going home at once, Jack. You are the only well-behaved one among them. You may drive me to the train."

"Oh, Aunt Betsey, not to-day! Please don't go."

"I couldn't answer for my tongue if I stayed here to-night. I had best go home and think it out. When I remember all I said to Maria Parker, and all she said to me, I'm about crazy, just as she said I was."

And presently she drove away, sitting very stiff and very erect in the old buggy that had held her prototype two weeks before, and Cynthia was left in tears, with one more calamity added to her already burdened soul.

Why had she ever played a practical joke? If she lived a hundred years she never would again.

Edith heard the news of Aunt Betsey's sudden departure in silence, and Cynthia received no sympathy from her. And very soon it was temporarily forgotten in preparations for the advent of the bride.

The day came at last, a beautiful one in June. The house was filled with lovely flowers which Cynthia had arranged—Edith would have nothing to do with it—and the supper-table was decked with the finest china and the old silver service and candelabra of their great-grandmother.

The servants, who had lived with them so long, could scarcely do their work. They peered from the kitchen windows for a first sight of their new mistress, and wondered what she would be like.

"These are sorry times," said Mary Ann, the old cook, as she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.

Outside the place had never looked so peacefully lovely. It was late, and the afternoon sun cast long shadows from the few trees on the lawn. In the distance the cows were heard lowing at milking-time. At one spot the river could be seen glinting through the trees, and June roses filled the air with fragrance.

All was to the outward eye just as it had always been, summer after summer, since the Franklins could remember, and yet how different it really was.

Jack had gone to the station to meet the travellers. Edith, Cynthia, Janet, and Willy were waiting on the porch, all in their nicest clothes. The children had been bribed to keep their hands clean, and up to this moment they were immaculate. Ben and Chester lay at full length on the banking in front of the house; they alone did not share the excitement.

The sound of wheels was heard.

"They are coming," whispered Cynthia.

As for Edith, she was voiceless.

And then the carriage emerged from the trees.

CHAPTER V

"Do you think they will really like me?" asked Mrs. Franklin for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time her husband answered, smiling, "I think they really will."

They were just arriving at Brenton. Many inquiring eyes had been turned towards them in the train, for every one knew John Franklin, and every one surmised at once that this was the much-discussed second wife.

It was decided by those who saw her that she was a very attractive-looking woman. She was rather slight and of medium height, and she was quietly dressed in black, for she was in mourning. Though not actually pretty, she had a charming and very expressive face, and she was very young-looking. Somebody who sat in front of her said that her voice was low and very musical.

Brenton decided at the first glance that Mr. John Franklin had done very well for himself.

"There is the carriage," said he, as they crossed the station platform.

"And this is Jack, I am sure," said his wife, holding out her hand with a smile which won her step-son on the spot. He was too shy, however, to do more than grasp it warmly as he stood beside her with uncovered head.

"He is a dear," she said to herself, "and just like John. If only the others are as cordial. Somehow I dread Edith."

She was quite as excited as were her step-daughters when she drove up the avenue and her eyes fell for the first time upon the group on the piazza.

Cynthia walked down the path to meet her, holding Janet and Willy by either hand. Edith remained standing on the step.

"How do you do?" said Cynthia, with a cordial smile.

Mrs. Franklin looked at her. Then she put her arms around her and kissed her.

"This is Cynthia, I am sure," she whispered, tremulously, "and these are 'the children.'"

She kissed them and passed on to her husband's eldest daughter, while they greeted their father.

Edith was very tall, and her position on the step gave her the advantage of several inches in addition. She fairly towered above the new-comer.

"How do you do, Mrs. Franklin," she said, holding out a very stiff hand and arm. She had made up her mind that she for one would not be kissed.

"And you are Edith?"

"Yes, Mrs. Franklin, I am Edith. I hope your journey has not tired you?"

"Not at all. I am not easily tired."

Edith kissed her father, then turned again to the stranger.

"Let me show you the way up-stairs."

And thus Mrs. Franklin entered her new home.

"I am afraid it is going to be war with Edith at first, but I won't be disheartened," she thought. "I'll make her like me. It is natural for her to feel so, I suppose. Ah me, I am in a difficult position."

Edith and Cynthia shared the same room. It was a large one with a bay-window, which commanded a fine view of the winding river and the meadows beyond.

One could tell at a glance upon entering the room which part of it Edith occupied, and which Cynthia. Cynthia's dressing-table, with its ungainly pin-cushion, its tangle of ribbons and neckties tossed down anywhere that they might happen to fall, its medley of horseshoes, tennis balls, and other treasures, was a constant source of trial to Edith, whose possessions were always kept in perfect neatness. She scolded and lectured her sister in vain; Cynthia was incorrigible.

"It's too much bother to keep things in order," she would say. "After you have been around with your duster and your fixings-up I never can find a thing, Edith."

The night of Mrs. Franklin's arrival they talked over the new state of family affairs.

"I think she is nice," said Cynthia, with decision. "I like her, and so does Jack."

She was perched on the side of the bed, leaning against the tall post, her favorite position when she had anything of especial interest to discuss.

"I don't," said Edith, who was brushing out her long hair with great vigor. "I don't, and I won't!"

"'I DON'T LIKE HER, AND I WON'T'"

"That is just it, Edith. You have made up your mind you won't like her just because you didn't want her to come. Now she is here, why don't you make the best of it? What do you dislike about her?"

"Her coming here. She had no right to."

"Edith, how silly you are! She wouldn't have come if papa had not asked her, and she wouldn't have if she had not loved papa. I should think you would like her for that if nothing else. I do. And she is pretty and sweet and dear, and I am going to help her all I can. I think I shall even call her 'mamma.'

"Cynthia, I shall never do that. Never, to my dying day!"

"Well, I shall; that is, if she doesn't mind."

"She will. It will make her seem too old."

"I don't believe she would mind that, and any one can see she isn't a bit old. I think we are very fortunate, as long as papa was going to marry again, to have him find such a nice, lovely woman."

Edith did not reply. She finished her braid and tied it up. Then she said:

"Of course, it is a great deal harder for me than for the rest of you. I thought I was always going to help father, and now I can't."

"Of course it's hard, Edith, but—but don't you think you could still help him if—if you were nice to his wife?"

"I don't want to help him that way," said Edith, honestly, as she blew out the light.

The next day when Cynthia asked somewhat timidly if she might call her step-mother "mamma," she was surprised and touched by the expression that came into Mrs. Franklin's face.

"Oh, thank you, Cynthia!" she said. "I thought I would not ask you, I would just leave it to you, but I should like it so much."

And so they all called her by her new title except Edith.

Preparations for the tennis tournament were in full swing, and Cynthia and Jack, who were to play together in mixed doubles, were practising hard.

The court at Oakleigh was not a good one, so they were in the habit of going to the tennis club at the village when they could get there in the afternoon. It was not always easy, for they were short of horses, and it was too far to walk both ways.

"Why do we not have some more horses?" said Mrs. Franklin one morning when the question was being discussed.

"Why, we can't afford to," replied Cynthia, in some surprise. "Besides the farm horses we only have two, you know, and they get all used up going to and from the village so much."

Mrs. Franklin glanced at her husband. Then she said, "It seems as if we ought to have more. You know, John, there is all that money of mine. Why not buy a horse and trap for the children to use?"

"My dear Hester, I can never consent. You know I wish you to keep all your money for your own exclusive use. You may have all the horses you want for yourself, but—"

"John, don't be absurd. What can I do with all that money, and no one but Neal to provide for? Your children are mine now, and I wish them to have a horse of their own."

The thing of all others for which Edith had been longing for years. But she determined that she would never use her step-mother's gift.

"Is Neal your brother?" asked Cynthia.

"Yes. Haven't I told you about him? He is my dear and only brother. He is off on a yacht now, but he is coming here soon. He is older than you and Jack, just about Edith's age."

Jack looked up with interest.

"I'm glad there's another fellow coming," he said. "There are almost too many girls round here."

"Jack, how hateful of you, when you always have said I was as good as another fellow!" exclaimed Cynthia.

"Well, so you are, almost; but I'm glad he's coming, anyway."

The new horse was bought, and a pretty and comfortable cart for them to use, a "surrey" that would hold two or four, as occasion required. At first Edith would not use it. She jogged about with the old horse and buggy when she went to the village, thereby exciting much comment among her friends. Every one suspected that Edith could not reconcile herself to the coming of her stepmother.

The day of the tournament arrived. Before Mr. Franklin went to Boston that morning he called Edith into the library and closed the door.

"I have something to say to you, Edith. I have been perfectly observant of your conduct since I came home, though I have not spoken of it before. I preferred to wait, to give you a chance to think better of it. Your treatment of my wife is not only rude, it is unkind, as rudeness always is."

"Father, I haven't been rude. Why do you speak to me so? It is all her fault. She has made you do it."

"Hester has not mentioned the subject to me, Edith. You are most unjust. You are making yourself very conspicuous, and are placing me in a very false light by your behavior. Are you going to the tennis tournament to-day?"

"Yes, papa."

"How do you intend to get there?"

"Drive myself in the buggy, of course."

"There is no 'of course' about it," said her father, growing more and more angry. "If you go, you will go as the others do, in the surrey. I will not have them go down with an empty seat, while you rattle in to the grounds in the old buggy in the eyes of all Brenton."

"Then I won't go at all. The buggy was good enough before; why isn't it now?"

"Not another word! I am ashamed of you, Edith, and disappointed. I have no time for more, but remember what I have said. You go in the surrey to the tournament, or you stay at home."

He left her and hurried off to the train. Edith went to her own room and shut herself in. For more than an hour a bitter fight raged within her. Her pride was up in arms.

If she gave up and drove to the club in the surrey, every one would know that she was countenancing her step-mother, as she expressed it, and she had told Gertrude Morgan that she would never do it. If she stayed at home she would excite more comment still, for it was generally known that she was to act as one of the hostesses, and she had no reasonable excuse to offer for staying away.

Altogether Edith thought herself a much-abused person, and she cried until her eyes were swollen, her cheeks pale, and her nose red.

Cynthia burst in upon her.

"What is the matter, Edith? You look like a perfect fright! Are you ill?"

"Ill! No, of course not. I wish you would leave me in peace, Cynthia. What do you want?"

"To come into my own room, of course. But what is the matter, Edith? Was papa scolding you?"

Edith, longing for sympathy, poured out the story, but she did not receive much from that practical young person.

"I wouldn't cry my eyes out about that. Of course you will have to do as papa says, or he won't like it at all. And it is a thousand times nicer to drive in the surrey than that old rattle-trap of a buggy. The surrey runs so smoothly, and Bess goes like a breeze. You had better give in gracefully, Edith. But see this lovely silver buckle and belt mamma has just given me to wear this afternoon. Isn't it perfect? She says she has more than she can wear. It was one of her own. I think she's a dear. But there is Jack calling me to practise."

And happy-hearted Cynthia was off again like a flash.

Edith bathed her face and began to think better of the subject. After all, she would go. It was a lovely day, every one would be there, and it was not worth while to make people talk. Above all, she would be sorry to miss the affair to which she had been looking forward for weeks.

She dressed herself that afternoon in a simple gingham that had seen the wash-tub many times, and took her place on the back seat of the surrey, with Mrs. Franklin, Jack, and Cynthia sitting in front. Mrs. Franklin was in the daintiest of summer frocks, and Edith glanced at her somewhat enviously.

"I wish we were the ones that had the money," she thought, "and that she were poor. I believe then I should not mind having her so much."

Mrs. Franklin had a gay and cheery disposition, and she tried to pay no attention to Edith's coldness.

"I wish I were going to play myself," she said, as they drove off.

"Why, do you play?" asked Cynthia, turning around in surprise.

"To be sure I do. I used to play a great deal at one time. I mean to ask your father to have the tennis-court at Oakleigh made over, and then we can have some games there."

"How jolly!" exclaimed Jack and Cynthia together.

"We cannot afford to," put in Edith, coldly.

Mrs. Franklin paid no attention to this. "It will be nice when Neal comes," she added.

"Neal, always Neal," thought Edith. "Pleasant for us to have a strange boy here all the time. Oh, dear, how hateful I am! I don't feel nice towards anybody. If only papa had never seen or heard of the Gordons, how much happier we should all have been."

But she was the only one of the household that thought so. The younger children had been completely won over, and it was a constant source of surprise and chagrin to Edith to see how easily their step-mother managed the hitherto refractory pair.

Before long the party reached the grounds. The Brenton Tennis Club was a very attractive place. The smooth and well-kept courts stretched away to the river, which wound and curved towards the old town, for the club was on the outskirts of the village. The river was wider here than it was farther up at Oakleigh, and picturesque stone bridges crossed it at intervals.

Benches had been placed all about the grounds, from which the spectators could watch the game, and under a marquee was a dainty table, with huge bowls of lemonade and plates of cake. Edith presided at the tea-kettle, looking very pretty, notwithstanding her old gown and the stormy morning she had passed.

Mrs. Franklin, upon whom most of the Brenton people had already called, sat on one of the benches with some friends, and was soon absorbed in the game.

Cynthia played well. She flew about the court, here, there, everywhere at once, never interfering with her partner's game, but always ready with her own play. She and Jack, though younger than the other players, held their ground well.

It was only a small tournament, and "mixed doubles" were finished up in one afternoon, Jack and Cynthia carrying off second prizes with great glee.

"Just what I wanted, mamma," said Cynthia, as she displayed a fine racket of the latest style and shape; "I hope they will have another tournament before the summer is over, so that I'll have a chance to win first prize with this new racket."

They were driving home in the dusk, for the game had lasted late, when they overtook and passed a boy who was walking on the road to Oakleigh, with a bag slung over his shoulder on a stick, while a black spaniel trotted along at his heels. Mrs. Franklin did not see him.

"I say there, Hessie! Can't you give a fellow a lift?" he shouted.

"Why, Neal!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin; "where did you come from? Jack, stop, please. It is Neal! You dear boy, I am so glad to see you! This is my brother, children; and, Neal, here are Edith, Cynthia, and Jack Franklin."

"Whew, what a lot! I say, Hessie, what were you thinking of when you married such a family as that? But I fancy you haven't got room for me in there. I can walk it easily enough. Don't mind a bit."

"Nonsense! we can squeeze up," said his sister, which they did forthwith, and Neal Gordon climbed into the cart.

"No room for you, Bob," he remarked to the spaniel, who danced about the road in a vain endeavor to follow his master; "you can go ahead on your own legs."

He was a tall, well-developed fellow, with a hearty, cheery voice, and a frank, sometimes embarrassing, way of saying the first thing that came into his head.

"What a crowd!" he continued. "Any more at home?"

"Yes, two," said his sister, gayly—"Janet and Willy. I am so glad you have come, Neal. But why didn't you let us know?"

"Couldn't. The Dolphin put in at Marblehead, and I had gotten rather tired of it aboard, so I thought I'd cut loose and drop down on you awhile. Got out of cash, too."

"Oh, Neal!"

"Now you needn't say anything. You didn't give me half enough this time. Too much absorbed getting married, I suppose. I say," he added, turning to Jack, "what kind of a step-ma does Hessie make?"

"Bully," replied Jack, laconically.

"I thought she would, but she's on her best behavior now. She'll order you all round soon, the way she does me."

"They don't deserve it as you do, you silly boy," said his sister.

They were a merry party that night at supper. It seemed as if Neal would be a great addition to the family, and even Edith thawed somewhat. This pleased Mr. Franklin, who had been thoroughly annoyed by her behavior, and who had been really afraid that she would stay at home from the tournament rather than use his wife's gift.

"Everything will run smoothly now," he said to himself, and, manlike, he soon forgot all about the trouble.

"By-the-way, what relation am I to this family?" asked Neal, presently. "If Hester is your mother, of course I must be your uncle. I hope you will all treat me with proper respect."

"I hope we shall be able to," said Cynthia, looking up with a saucy smile. She liked the new-comer immensely.

"Did you ever run an incubator?" asked Jack, after supper.

"Not I. Have you got one?"

"Yes. Come along down and see it."

They descended to the cellar, and Jack turned the eggs while he explained his methods to his new friend.

"Is there money in it?" asked Neal.

"Lots, I hope. But the trouble is, you've got to spend a lot to start with, and if you're not successful it's a dead loss. My first hatch went to smash."

"How would you like to take me into partnership? I want to make some money."

"First-rate."

They were deep in a discussion of business arrangements when they went back to the others.

"We'll make a 'go' of it," said Neal. "It's just the thing I've been looking for."

"I have an idea, Jack," said Mrs. Franklin, as they came in. "When are the chickens to come out?"

"Next Thursday."

"Then we will celebrate the event in proper style. We will ask our friends to come to a 'hatching bee.'"

"But suppose they don't hatch? Suppose they act the way they did before?" said Jack, dubiously.

"Oh, they'll hatch, I will answer for them. You have learned how to take better care of them, and no one has interfered, and—oh, I am sure they will be out in fine shape!"

Only Edith objected to this proposition, and she dared not say so before her father.

Apparently the Gordons were going to carry all before them, and she, who until so recently had been to all intents and purposes the mistress of the house, was not even asked if she approved of the idea. She went to bed feeling that her lot was a very hard one.

CHAPTER VI

Jack and Neal entered into partnership in the poultry business.

"You see I sha'n't have a cent of my own until I am twenty-five," explained Neal, "and my old grandmother left most of the cash to Hessie. She had some crazy, old-fashioned notions about men being able to work for their living, but women couldn't. It's all a mistake. Nowadays women can work just as well as men, if not better. Besides, they marry, and their husbands ought to support them. Now what am I going to do when I marry?"

Cynthia, who was present at this discussion, gave a little laugh.

"Are you thinking of taking this important step very soon? Perhaps you will have time to earn a little first. Chickens may help you. Or you might choose a wife who will work—you say women do it better than men—and she will be pleased to support you, I have no doubt."

They were on the river, tied up under an overhanging tree. Cynthia, who had been paddling, sat in the stern of the canoe; the boys were stretched in the bottom. It was a warm, lazy-feeling day for all but Cynthia. The boys had been taking their ease and allowing her to do the work, which she was always quite willing to do.

"I'll tell you how it is," continued Neal, ignoring Cynthia's sarcasm, "I'll have a tidy little sum when I am twenty-five, and until then Hessie is to make me an allowance and pay my school and college expenses. She's pretty good about it—about giving me extras now and then, I mean—but you sort of hate to be always nagging at a girl for money. It was a rum way of doing the thing, anyhow, making me dependent on her. I wish my grandmother hadn't been such a hoot-owl."

Cynthia looked at him reprovingly.

"You are terribly disrespectful," she said, "and I think you needn't make such a fuss. You're pretty lucky to have such a sister as mamma."

"Oh, Hessie might be worse, I don't deny. It's immense to hear you great girls calling her 'mamma,' though. I never thought to see Hessie marry a widower with a lot of children. What was she thinking of, anyway?"

"Well, you are polite! She was probably thinking what a very nice man my father is," returned Cynthia, loftily.

"He is a pretty good fellow. So far I haven't found him a bad sort of brother-in-law. I don't know how it will be when I put in my demand for a bigger allowance in the fall. I have an idea he could be pretty stiff on those occasions. But that's why I want to go into the poultry business."

"And I don't mind having you," said Jack. "Sharing the profits is sharing the expense, and so far I've seen more expense than profit. However, when they begin to lay and we send the eggs to market then the money will pour in. I say, we don't do anything but sell eggs. It would be an awful bore to get broilers ready for market. By-the-way, I think we had better go back now and finish up that brooder we were making."

"Oh, no hurry," said Neal. "It won't take three minutes to do that, and it's jolly out here. It's the coolest place I've been in to-day. Let's talk some more about the poultry business. We'll call ourselves 'Franklin & Gordon, Oakleigh Poultry Farm.' That will look dandy on the bill-heads. And we'll make a specialty of those pure white eggs. I say, Cynthia, what are you grinning at?"

"I am not grinning. I am not a Cheshire cat."

"I don't know. I've already felt your claws once or twice. But you've got something funny in your head. The corners of your mouth are twitching, and your eyes are dancing like—like the river."

Cynthia cast up her blue eyes in mock admiration.

"Hear! hear! He grows poetical. But as you are so very anxious to know what I am 'grinning' at," she added, demurely, "I'll tell you. I was only thinking of a little proverb I have heard. It had something to do with counting chickens before they are hatched."

"Oh, come off!" exclaimed Jack, while Neal laughed good-naturedly.

"And I've also a suggestion to make," went on Cynthia. "From what I have gathered during our short acquaintance, I think Mr. Neal Gordon isn't over-fond of exerting himself. I think it would be a good idea, Jack, when you sign your partnership papers, or whatever they are, to put in something about dividing the work as well as the expense and the profits."

"There go your claws again," said Neal. "Let's change the subject by trying to catch a 'lucky-bug,'" and he made a grab towards the myriads of insects that were darting hither and thither on the surface of the water. "I'll give a prize. This fine new silver quarter to the one who catches a 'lucky-bug.'"

He laid the money on the thwart of the boat and made another dash.

"When you have lived on the river as long as I have you'll know that 'lucky-bugs' can't be caught," said Cynthia. "Now see what you have done, you silly boy!"

For with Neal's last effort the quarter had flown from the canoe and sunk with a splash in the river.

"Good-bye, quarter!" sang Neal. "I might find you if I thought it would pay to get wet for the likes of you."

"If that is the way you treat quarters, I don't wonder you think your allowance isn't big enough," said Cynthia, severely; "and may I ask you a question?"

"You may ask a dozen; but the thing is, will I answer them?"

"You will if I ask them. Were you ever in a canoe before?"

"A desire to crush you tempts me to say 'yea,' but a stern regard for truth compels me to answer 'nay.'"

"You couldn't crush me if you tried for a week, and you couldn't make me believe you had ever been in a canoe before, for your actions show you haven't. People that have spent their time on yachts and sail-boats think they can go prancing about in a canoe and catch all the lucky-bugs they want. When you have upset us all you will stop prancing, I suppose."

"Claws again," groaned Neal, in exaggerated despair.

"I say, Cynth, let's go back and put him to work on that brooder," said Jack, who had been enjoying this sparring-match. "We'll see what work we can get out of him."

And, notwithstanding his remonstrances, Neal was paddled home and put to work. Cynthia's "claws" did take effect, and for the first time in his life he began to feel a little ashamed of being so lazy.

Jack was one of the plodding kind. His mind was not as brilliant as Neal's nor his tongue as ready, but at the end of the year he would have more to show than Neal Gordon.

Mrs. Franklin carried out her plan of inviting their friends to the "hatching bee," and Thursday was the day on which the chicks were expected to come out. As the morning wore on Cynthia's excitement grew more and more intense, and all the family shared it.

"What shall we do if they don't come out?" she exclaimed a dozen times.

At one o'clock a crack was discovered in one of the eggs in the "thermometer row." At three it was a decided break, and several others could be seen. Cynthia declared that she heard a chirping, but it was very faint.

Mrs. Franklin remained up-stairs to receive the guests, who came down as soon as they arrived. There were about a dozen girls and boys. Fortunately the cellar was large and airy, and the coolest place to be found on this warm summer day.

And presently the fun began. Pop! pop! went one egg after another, and out came a little struggling chick, which in due time floundered across the other eggs or the deserted egg-shells, and flopped down to the gravel beneath on the lower floor of the machine. It was funny to see them, and, as they gradually recovered from their efforts and their feathers dried off, the little downy balls crowded at the front and, chirping loudly, pecked at the glass.

Mrs. Franklin joined them now and then, and at last, when about seventy chicks had been hatched, she insisted upon all coming up-stairs for a breath of fresh air before supper.

Here a surprise awaited them. Unknown to her daughters Mrs. Franklin had given orders that the supper-table should be arranged upon the lawn in the shade of the house, and when Edith stepped out on the piazza she paused in astonishment.

What terrible innovation into the manners and customs of Oakleigh was this? Last year, for a little party the children gave, she had wanted tea on the lawn, but it could not be accomplished. How had the new-comer managed to do it?

"Isn't this too lovely!" cried Gertrude Morgan, enthusiastically, turning to Edith. "My dear, I think you are the luckiest girl I ever knew, to have any one give you such a surprise. Didn't you really know a thing about it?"

"I have been consulted about nothing," returned Edith, stiffly. She would have liked to run up-stairs and hide, out of sight of the whole affair.

"I hope you like the effect, Edith," said Mrs. Franklin, coming up to her as she stood on the piazza step. "I thought it would be great fun to surprise you."

"I detest surprises of all kinds," replied Edith, turning away, "and it seems to me I have had nothing else, lately."

Much disappointed and greatly hurt, Mrs. Franklin was about to speak again, but at this moment Cynthia, enchanted with the success of the hatch and with the pretty sight on the lawn, rushed up to her step-mother and squeezed her arm.

"You are a perfect dear!" she whispered. "Everything is nicer since you came. Even the chickens came out for you, and last time it was so dreadful." And Mrs. Franklin smiled again and felt comforted.

"'YOU ARE A PERFECT DEAR!' SHE WHISPERED. 'EVERYTHING IS NICER SINCE YOU CAME'"

The table was decorated with roses and lovely ferns, strewn here and there with apparent carelessness, but really after much earnest study of effects. Bowls of great unhulled strawberries added their touch of color, as did the generous slices of golden sponge-cake. The dainty china and glass gleamed in the afternoon light, and the artistic arrangement added not a little to the already good appetites of the boys and girls.

Fortunately Oakleigh was equal to any emergency in the eating line, and as rapidly as the piles of three-cornered sandwiches, fairy-like rolls, and other goodies disappeared the dishes were replenished as if by magic.

After supper the piano was rolled over to the front window in the long parlor.

"Put it close to the window," said Mrs. Franklin, "and I will sit outside, like the eldest daughter in 'The Peterkins,' to play. That will give me the air, and you can hear the music better."

They danced on the lawn and played games to the music; then they gathered on the porch and sang college songs, while the sun sank at the end of the long summer day, and the stars came twinkling out, and by-and-by the full moon rose over the tree-tops and flooded them with her light.

Altogether Jack's second "hatching bee" was a success. A good time, a good supper, and, best of all, one hundred and forty chickens. Yes, it really seemed as if poultry were going to pay, and "Franklin & Gordon," of the Oakleigh Poultry Farm, went to bed quite elated with prosperity.

The next morning at breakfast they were discussing the matter, and Mr. Franklin expressed his unqualified approval of the scheme.

"If you succeed in raising your chickens, now that they are hatched, Jack, my boy, I think you are all right. You owe Aunt Betsey a debt of thanks. By-the-way, where is Aunt Betsey? Have you heard from her lately?"

There was no answer. Jack exploded into a laugh which he quickly repressed, Edith looked very solemn, while Cynthia had the appearance of being on the verge of tears.

"I want to see Aunt Betsey," said Mrs. Franklin, as she buttered a roll for Willy; "I think she must be a very interesting character."

"It is very extraordinary that we have heard nothing from her," went on Mr. Franklin. "What can be the meaning of it? When was she last here, Edith?"

"In June."

"Was it when I was at home? Hasn't she been here since the time she gave Jack the money for the incubator?"

"That was in May. You were in Albany when she was here the last time."

"It is very strange that she has never written nor come to see you, Hester. It can't be that she is offended with something, can it? I must take you up to Wayborough to see the dear old lady. I am very fond of Aunt Betsey, and I would not hurt her feelings for the world."

There was a pause, and then into the silence came Janet's shrill tones.

"I know why Aunt Betsey's feelings are hurted. They was turribly hurted. Edith an' Cynthia an' Jack all knows too."

"Janet, hush!" interposed Edith.

"Not at all; let the child speak," said her father. "What do you know, Janet?"

"Aunt Betsey came an' she went to see Mrs. Parker, an' Mrs. Parker said she'd been there before an' Aunt Betsey said she hadn't, an' it wasn't Aunt Betsey at all, it was Cynthia dressed up like her, an' Aunt Betsey said we was all naughty 'cause we didn't want the bride to come, an' the bride was mamma an' we didn't want her, it was the trufe, an' Aunt Betsey went off mad 'cause Cynthia dressed up like her. She wouldn't stay all night, she just went off slam-bang hopping mad."

And then Janet's face disappeared behind her silver mug; she needed the refreshment of milk after this long harangue. But she peered over the top of the cup at her sisters, and there was a wicked delight in her eyes at the effect of her words.

"What does the child mean?" exclaimed her father. "Will some one explain? Edith, what was the trouble?"

"I would rather not say," said Edith, her eyes fastened on her plate.

"That is no way to speak to your father. Answer me at once."

"Papa, I cannot. It is not my affair—"

"It is your affair. I insist—"

"Wait, John," interposed Mrs. Franklin.

"Not at all; I can't wait. Edith was here in charge of the family. Something happened to offend Aunt Betsey. Now she must explain what it was. I hold her responsible."

"Indeed she's not, papa," said Cynthia, at last finding her voice. "Edith is not to blame; I am the one. I found Aunt Betsey's false front, and I dressed up and looked exactly like her, and Jack drove me to see Mrs. Parker. Edith didn't want me to go and I would do it. Really, papa, Edith isn't a bit to blame. And then when Aunt Betsey came soon afterwards she went to see Mrs. Parker, and she didn't like it because she said she had been there two weeks ago and told her—I mean, Mrs. Parker told me about—"

Cynthia stopped abruptly.

"Well, go on," said her father, impatiently.

Still Cynthia said nothing.

"Cynthia, will you continue? If not—"

"Oh yes, papa, though—but—well, Mrs. Parker told me that you were going to marry again. And then when Aunt Betsey really went, Mrs. Parker said, 'I told you so.' Aunt Betsey didn't like that, and when she asked us if she had been here, of course we had to say no, and she was going right back to tell Mrs. Parker what we said; so I had to confess, and, of course, Aunt Betsey didn't like it, and she went right home that day."

Mr. Franklin pushed back his chair from the table, and began to walk up and down.

"I am perfectly astonished at your doing such a thing, and more astonished still that Edith—"

"Papa, please don't say another word about Edith. She didn't want me to go, and I would do it."

"Why have you not told me all this before?"

"Because, you see, I couldn't. I had heard that you were going to be married, and I didn't believe it until you told me; at least—"

Cynthia paused and grew uncomfortably red.

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Franklin, smiling at her sympathetically. "It must have been very hard for you."

"It was," said Cynthia, simply; "only you know, mamma, I don't feel a bit so now. And then when you came home, papa, it was all so exciting I forgot about it, and I have only thought of it once in a while, and—well, I've been afraid to tell you," she added, honestly.

"I should think so! I am glad you have the grace to be ashamed of yourself, Cynthia. Has no apology gone to Aunt Betsey?"

"No, papa."

"It is outrageous. The only thing to do is to go there at once. Jack, get the Pathfinder."

The Pathfinder, boon of New England households, was brought, and Mr. Franklin studied the trains for Wayborough.

"Hester, you had better come too. It is only proper that I should take you to call on Aunt Betsey. Get ready now, and we will go for the day."

The Franklins were quite accustomed to these sudden decisions on the part of their father, and Mrs. Franklin did not demur. She and Cynthia hurried off to make ready, and the carriage was ordered to take them to the station.

Cynthia's preparations did not take long. Her sailor-hat perched sadly to one side, her hair tied with a faded blue ribbon, one of the cuffs of her shirt-waist fastened with a pin. All this Edith took in at a glance.

"Cynthia, you look like a guy."

"I guess I am one."

"Don't be so terribly Yankee as to say 'guess.'"

"I am a Yankee, so why shouldn't I talk like one? Oh, Edith, what do I care about ribbons and sleeve-buttons when I have to go apologize to Aunt Betsey?"

Edith was supplying the deficiencies in her sister's toilet.

"It is too bad. Janet ought not to have told. But it is just like everything else—all Mrs. Franklin's fault."

"Edith, what do you mean? Mamma did not make Janet tell; she tried to stop papa."

"I know she appeared to. But if papa had not married again would this ever have happened? You would not have heard at Mrs. Parker's that he was going to, Mrs. Parker wouldn't have said 'I told you so' to Aunt Betsey, Aunt Betsey wouldn't have found out you were there—"

"Edith, what a goose you are! Any other time you would scold me for having done it, and I know I deserve it. Now you are putting all the blame on mamma. You are terribly unjust."

"There, now, you have turned against me, all because of Mrs. Franklin. I declare, it is too bad!"

"Oh, Edith, I do wonder when you will find out what a lovely woman mamma is! Of course, you will have to some day; you can't help it. There, they are calling, and I must run! Good-bye."

Hastily kissing her sister, Cynthia ran off.

Neal had much enjoyed the scene at the breakfast-table. He only wished that he had been present when Cynthia impersonated her aunt. It must have been immense. He wished that he could go also to Wayborough, but he was not invited to join the party. He was to be left alone for the day with Edith, for Mr. Franklin had decided that Jack should accompany them, to thank Aunt Betsey once more, and to tell her himself of the success of the hatch.

"I'll have to step round pretty lively, then," said Jack. "Those birds must get to the brooders before I go. Come along, Neal. It's an awful bore having to go to Wayborough the very first day. You'll have to look after the chicks, and don't you forget it."

The chickens safely housed, and the family gone, Neal prepared to enjoy the day. He had made up his mind to see something of Edith, and he had no idea of working by himself, especially as there was no absolute necessity for it.

"The day is too hot for work, anyhow," he said to himself.

CHAPTER VII

Neal dropped into the hammock that was hung across the corner of the porch and waited for Edith to come. This was where she was apt to sit in the morning, with her work or a book.

Bob lay on the grass near, panting with the heat. He had just had an exciting chase after a bird that would perch occasionally on a low bush, then flap its wings triumphantly, and fly away just as naughty Bob drew near. He thought it a most mistaken arrangement of affairs that birds were able to fly. Now, disgusted, he had apparently given up the game, but lay with one eye open awaiting further developments. Presently Edith came out, followed by the children with their toys. She had her work-basket, for she continued to take care of their clothes, notwithstanding Mrs. Franklin's remonstrances.

She was not particularly pleased to see Neal in her favorite corner. She said to herself that she would have liked to have one day at least free from the Gordons. Edith felt cross with herself and every one else this morning.

Neal rolled out of the hammock when he saw her, and sprang to draw up her chair with extreme politeness.

"And you would like this little table for your basket, wouldn't you?" he said, lifting it across the porch.

"Thank you," said Edith, mollified in spite of herself. Then she stiffened again.

"Where are Ben and Chester?" she asked, with a severe glance at Bob.

"I saw them around at the side door."

"It does seem a shame that they should be banished from the front of the house. For years they have had the use of this piazza; and now, just because Bob chooses to monopolize the place, they feel that they must go."

"Very foolish feelings," said Neal, who had returned to his hammock. "If they only had a little spirit they would soon show Bob his proper place. Why don't they give him a good shaking when he nips their legs?"

"Because they are larger than he, and because they are too polite to do it in their own home."

Neal laughed. He had a hearty, contagious laugh, and Edith could not refrain from joining in it.

"They set you a very good example," he said. "Come, now, Edith, confess that you hate the Gordons, from Bob up."

Edith colored.

"How silly you are!" she said, with supreme dignity. "Why should I trouble myself to dislike you?"

"Why, indeed? There's no accounting for tastes. Then, 'love me, love my dog.' But I say, Edith, it rather pays to make you mad. You grow two inches visibly, while I shrink in proportion. It is just as if you had some of that cake in your pocket that Alice came across in Wonderland, don't you know?"

"Oh, Neal, tell us about it!" cried Janet, dropping her dolls and flinging herself on the end of the hammock. "I just love your stories."

"It is more than can be said of your big sister, Janet, my child. Bob and I are in disgrace."

"Bob's no good," said Willy; "he won't play."

"His coat is too thick," remarked Neal. "Bob wishes it were the fashion to wear short hair in summer. I say, Edith, where are you going?" for she had put up her work.

"I think I shall take the buggy and go down to see Gertrude Morgan. I'm tired of it here."

"Thank you," said Neal, meekly.

"Children, you can stay here," she continued. "I sha'n't be gone more than an hour or two."

The children did not object. They counted upon having Neal for a companion, and he was all-sufficient.

But when the old buggy rounded the corner, and, instead of coming up to the house, rattled down the drive on the farther side of the "heater-piece," Neal sprang out of the hammock with a bounce and ran across the grass. Bob wanted to follow, but he ordered him back. He reached the fork in the avenue before Edith did.

"You're pretty cool, to go off this way when I'm going with you."

"And you are very cool, to come when you are not invited," said Edith, wrathfully, as Neal climbed into the carriage without waiting for her to stop.

"I know. It's pleasant to be cool on such a hot day as this."

"Where is your hat?"

"I'm under the impression it is on the hall table; but no, it may be in my room. On second thoughts, it is probably in the cellar. In fact—"

"Oh, hush!" said Edith, laughing involuntarily. "Where are you going in this plight?"

"To see Miss Gertrude Morgan."

"Indeed you are not. I have no intention of driving to Brenton with a hatless boy."

"'"Then we'll go to the woods," says this pig;'" and seizing the reins, he turned abruptly, as they reached the gate of Oakleigh, into a rocky, hilly lane that led up through the woods.

"Now, isn't this jolly?" said he, leaning back in his corner of the buggy. "Just the place for a hot day."

"Oh, I must go back!" exclaimed Edith, suddenly. "It has just occurred to me you have left the children."

"They're all right. They've got Bob, and we sha'n't be gone long. Great Scott! what a road this is. I don't believe these wheels will stay on long. Why don't you use the surrey?"

"Because the surrey is not mine, and this is."

"So that's your line of march, is it? I suspected as much. But I think you are pretty hard on Hessie. She means well and she's not a bad sort, though I say it as shouldn't."

Edith made no answer.

"Why don't you try and make the best of things? I always do. It doesn't really pay to do anything else."

"Very good philosophy. But if you have come out merely to lecture me on my duties as a step-daughter I think we may as well turn round and go home again."

"Oh, come off, Edith! You're a nice girl in the main, and I think it's a howling shame for you to make yourself so mighty offish and disagreeable to Hessie. Why, if any one ought to mind it—her marrying, I mean—I'm the one. It makes a big difference to me."

"Will you let me get out and walk home, if you have not the grace to drive me there? You have no manner of right to talk to me this way."

"I know I haven't, and I'm awfully sorry if I've offended you. I'm afraid I have. You'll forgive me, Edith, please! Don't go home. I've put my foot in it, like the great awkward fellow I am. But I hate to see things all at sixes and sevens the way they are, and I thought perhaps if I told you what Hessie really is you would feel differently. If you only knew what a good sister she's been to me! You know our father and mother died when I was a little duffer, and Hessie's been an A1 sister ever since. Our grandmother didn't take much stock in me because I was a boy, and Hessie always stood up for me. It's natural I should take her side. I hate to see any one dislike her. But I see it's no use, and I'm sorry I spoke. But say you will excuse me, Edith. You don't like it, and I ought not to have said anything, and I apologize."

This was Neal in a new light. Edith was astonished. She had supposed that he was only a rollicking boy, too lazy to amount to anything, and too fond of a joke to think of the more serious side of life.

She hesitated. She was very angry with him. Of course he had no business to speak to her on this subject, but he was evidently sorry. His brown eyes looked very repentant, and there was not a shadow of the usual smile in them.

"Come now, Edith," he urged, "do it up handsomely, and forgive and forget. Give me your hand on it."

And Edith did so, and with difficulty repressed a shriek at the hearty squeeze that was given it. And just as they had reached this point in their conversation there was a sudden crash. Off went the wheel, and down went buggy, Edith, and Neal in a heap in the lane.

Fortunately the horse stood still. They were in the depths of the wood, two miles from any house. A few startled birds fluttered among the trees, and a gray squirrel paused in his day's work to view the scene.

Neal and Edith crawled out from the debris.

"Here's a pretty how-d'y' do," said Neal, surveying the wreck. "Edith, I greatly fear you'll never drive in that buggy again."

He unhitched the horse, and then removed the remnants of the vehicle to the side of what road there was, and partially hid them in the bushes.

"On that rock we split," said he, solemnly, pointing to a big stone that rose high above a rut. "If I hadn't been so busy apologizing, Edith, we wouldn't have gone to pieces. However, perhaps now you will use the surrey."

It was a dangerous speech, but Edith tried not to mind it, and she helped Neal to clear away the stuff. Then they started for home, Neal leading Robin, the old horse, while together they carried the cushions and a lap-robe that had been under the seat.

[Illustration: "THEN THEY STARTED HOME, CARRYING THE CUSHIONS BETWEEN THEM"
(Missing from source book)]

Neal, his spirits raised by the accident, was in his gayest humor, and the quiet air rang with his laughter as they trudged home in the heat. Edith quite forgot her previous displeasure, and was so like her old self that Neal in his turn was surprised, and thought she was almost as nice as Cynthia. He had never seen her in this mood before.

When Neal abruptly deserted the children in his pursuit of Edith they were at first too much amazed to do anything but stand perfectly still and watch him. Then, as the back of the buggy disappeared behind the trees, their wrath found words.

"Mean old things!" exclaimed Janet. "They've gone off and left us, an' I tickerlarly wanted Neal to tell us a story. What can we do?"

Bob joined the group, his tail disconsolately lowered. His master had been very harsh and unfeeling to leave him at home, he thought. The trio stood in a row on the top step of the piazza. Then, with a feeble and melancholy wag of the tail, Bob again stretched himself on the grass and prepared to make the best of a bad bargain.

The others were not so easily appeased.

"We've got nuffin' to do," grumbled Willy. "I wish we could play wif de chickens."

"We can't do that," said Janet, decidedly. "We can't touch those chickens if we don't want a turrible spanking. You know what papa said."

"Maybe mamma wouldn't let him spank us."

The chickens presented a powerful fascination for Willy. He was revolving in his mind the question as to whether it would or would not pay to be spanked for the sake of having some fun with the chicks.

"No, no," said Janet, who had no fancy for a whipping. "We've got to do somethin' else."

She paused. Slowly a gleam of mischief came into her eyes, and a smile broke over her round and rosy face.

"Willy, we'll play barber."

"How do we do it?"

"I speak to be barber. Don't you remember when papa took you to have your hair cut? Well, you be papa an' you bring Bob, an' we'll cut his hair. Neal said it was turrible hot for him. Neal'll be glad when he comes home an' finds it all nicely cut."

"Course he will. Only I'd like to be barber, Janet."

"No, I will. It is my game, so I can be barber. Get the hat and be papa."

Willy obeyed, and presently returned in a large straw hat that had once been his father's farm hat, and was now relegated to a back closet for use in the children's games. Janet, meanwhile, had found a large pair of scissors in Edith's basket, unfortunately left on the porch, with which she was viciously snipping the air.

"We'll have some fun even if they did go off an' leave us," said she. "Bring along Bob. Here's the chair."

But Bob refused to be brought. He lay stretched on his side, now and then weakly wagging his tail in response to their commands, but otherwise not stirring. It was too hot to move for any one but his master.

"We'll have to do it there. We'll pretend he's a sick person that has to have her hair cut off. They do sometimes, you know," said Janet, with an air of superior knowledge. "You can be my 'sistant. Here's a scissor for you;" extracting another pair from the too convenient basket.

In a moment they were both hard at work. Snippity, snip, clip, clip, went the two pairs of scissors. Bob's beautiful long black hair, the pride of his master's heart and the means of securing a prize at the last dog-show, lay in a heap on the grass.

"That's nice," said Janet, surveying the result with satisfaction. "He must feel lovely and cool. Now let's do the other side."

But that was not so easy. Bob still refused to stir. They pulled and punched and pushed, but he would not turn over.

"Well, we'll just have to leave it an' do it 'nother time," said Janet at last, with a parting clip at ear and tail. "Let's go down an' play in the brook."

And flinging the scissors on the grass, these two young persons deserted the scene of their labors, and were soon building a fine dam across the brook in the pasture. There they remained until the sound of the bell on the carriage-house, rung to summon to dinner the men at work in the distant fields, warned them that it was twelve o'clock and almost time to go in themselves.

Edith and Neal plodded slowly homeward. It was very warm, for though it was not sunny in the woods the trees shut off the air. They turned in from the lane and walked up the avenue, Robin's hoofs falling regularly on the gravel with a hot, thumping sound.

"Jiminy, this is a scorcher!" said Neal, wiping his forehead. "Here comes Bob. He doesn't seem to mind the weather. No, it isn't Bob, either. What dog is it? Great Scott, Edith, it is Bob! What has happened to him?"

He dropped the reins, and Robin trudged off alone to his stall.

"Why, Neal, I never saw such a sight!" cried Edith.

Bob, bounding merrily over the grass, overjoyed at seeing his master return, was quite unconscious of the effect he produced. On one side he was the same beautiful, glossy-coated creature he had ever been; on the other, through stray, uneven bunches of hair gleamed touches of whitish skin. His ears, which had measured a proud eighteen inches from tip to tip, flapped on either side in ungraceful scantness; and his tail, from which so short a time before had waved a beautiful raven plume, now wagged in uncompromising stubbiness.

"Bob, Bob, what has happened to you? You look as if you had been in a fire!"

Edith, with an awful foreboding in her heart, hurried towards the house. Yes, her fears were realized! Two pairs of scissors and a mass of black hair told the tale. She sank down on the steps and covered her face.

"The children have done it," she murmured; "oh, Neal, we ought never to have left them!"

Neal stood there perfectly silent. He had grown very white, and his eyes looked dangerously dark.

"Confound those children!" he said at last, between set teeth; "you had better keep them out of my way for a time, Edith. I'd just like to murder them, the way I feel now."

"Oh, Neal, I am so sorry! I can't tell you how dreadfully I feel. But we oughtn't to have both gone. You see, I didn't know you were coming too."

"And I didn't know I was expected to act as child's nurse," said Neal, angrily. "The dog is done for, as far as shows are concerned. His coat will never be the same again; it ruins it to cut it." He stopped abruptly.

"I guess I had better get out of the way," he said, presently. "I can't answer for my temper. Come, Bob."

And he walked down across the grass and went off into the woods.

Edith, left alone, began to cry. She would not have had this happen for the world. Again she said to herself, why had the Gordons ever come there to disturb their peace of mind in so many ways? And where were the children? They should be severely punished.

She looked for them all over the house, but, of course, they were not to be found. After a long time she saw them coming slowly homeward. They were wet and bedraggled, for the stones had been as obdurate as Bob and refused to move. Willy had tumbled into the brook, and Janet had followed, in a vain attempt to help him out.

And now they were met by an irate sister who, seizing them roughly, dragged them up-stairs.

"You shall go straight to bed and stay there! You have ruined Neal's dog, and he'll never get over it. You are bad, naughty children!"

"I think you're silly, Edith!" screamed Janet. "We didn't hurt him, and we only cooled him off. You're mean to make us go to bed in the middle of the day, an' you'd orter not drag us this way. Mamma wouldn't."

"I don't care what your mamma would do; it's what I do."

Edith did not realize that a few words spoken calmly but sternly to Janet and Willy would have more lasting effect than this summary mode of punishment. The truth was, she was too angry to trust her tongue at all, and this reference to Mrs. Franklin annoyed her. Everything seemed against her, and the hot weather made things worse.

She ate her dinner in solitude, and then, when the afternoon had worn on for an hour or two, she at last saw Neal coming across the fields.

Edith went to meet him.

"You want something to eat," she said. "Come in and I'll find you something. Neal, I am so sorry."

"Oh, don't say anything. What's done can't be undone. Lend me your shears after dinner and I'll finish things up with a flourish. I can get him into better shape than he is. He looks like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde just now. I'm as hungry as a hunter, so I don't mind accepting your offer of a bite."

Edith went off to find something, and as she prepared a dainty meal for the boy she thought to herself that he set her a good example. She knew what pride he had taken in Bob's appearance, and she knew how angry he had been at first. It must have been a hard battle for him.

And it was. Edith was far from realizing what a temper Neal had. He had felt that morning that his only safety lay in flight, and he had tramped many miles through the woods in the endeavor to overcome his anger.

After luncheon he took the scissors and set to work upon Bob's other side. He could not repress a groan of dismay once or twice.

"If they had only done it decently!" he said. "In some places it looks as if it had been torn out by the roots, they've cropped it so close, and here again are these long pieces. Well, well, Bobby, my boy, I fancy we were too vain of our appearance. Here goes!"

In a short time Bob had the appearance of a closely shaven French poodle.

Edith watched the process for a few minutes, but presently went to her room.

"I shall be held accountable for this too, I suppose," she said to herself. "Oh, why did those Gordons ever come!"

CHAPTER VIII

Miss Betsey Trinkett had risen betimes this Friday morning. She had planned to do some work in her garden, and, besides, Miss Betsey was always an early riser.

Ebenezer, the "hired man," when he came back from driving the cows to pasture, found her hard at work in her huge sunbonnet and garden gloves, pruning the box that formed the border of the old-fashioned garden.

Here bloomed together in delicious profusion roses, white, red, and pink, sweet-william, dahlias, peonies, mignonette, and heart's-ease, while the labyrinth which wound in and out among them was the pride of Miss Betsey's heart.

After a time she straightened herself and stood gazing at the view, her quaint little figure, in its old-time, gay-colored gown, looking not unlike the flowers among which it stood.

"Well, I want to know!" she said, aloud, her hand raised to shield her eyes. "Any one who says his view is better than mine must be just about daft. Land sakes! I'd just about die if I didn't get that sweep of the Merrimac and those mountings beyond!" And then, satisfied, she returned to her weeding.

Miss Betsey's house, in which she had been born and her father also, stood on the side of a hill. Behind was a steep pasture, full of rocks and stubby bushes. In front, on the other side of the road, the ground sloped abruptly to the village. Even the old white meeting-house, built on a hill though it was, stood lower than the Trinkett farm. Beyond the village flowed the beautiful Merrimac. A broad stretch of meadow land and cultivated fields rested the eye with their peaceful greens, and far away was the dim outline of the hills.

"Silas don't get a touch of the river," continued Miss Betsey, "and as for the medders, they're nowhere to be seen. He thinks because he can see the Common and the Soldiers' Monument his view's better than mine! He expects me to give up the Merrimac for the Soldiers' Monument! Sakes alive!"

She worked steadily for some time until the click of the gate attracted her attention.

"I want to know!" she exclaimed, laying down her tools and drawing off her old gloves; "if here ain't Nephew John and Jackie and that naughty Cynthy. Well, well! And this must be the bride." And she hurried down the path to meet them.

"'I WANT TO KNOW!' SHE EXCLAIMED, DRAWING OFF HER OLD GLOVES"

Cynthia came shyly forward after the introduction of her step-mother and the greetings were over. All the way in the train she had been meditating what she should say. With Jack's help she had composed a little speech. His help had consisted in acting as audience, for Cynthia was seldom at a loss for words. But when the time came the speech, deserted her, and all she could think of doing was to put her arms around Aunt Betsey's neck, and, looking into the depths of the big sun-bonnet, say, softly:

"Aunt Betsey, I'm so sorry! Will you forgive me?"

"Forgive you, child!" exclaimed the old lady, her resentment melting at sight of her favorite niece. "I want to know! Did you suppose I'd remembered to be angry all this time? La, Cynthy, when you're as old as I am you'll have learned to take a little joke. And don't you suppose I'm real pleased to have you look so much like me? If Mrs. Parker couldn't tell us apart there must be some resemblance."

"Nor Jack either," put in Cynthia, eagerly, with a lightened heart.

"I think you are too good to her, Aunt Betsey," said Mr. Franklin, as they walked towards the house. "I brought her up here to-day for the sole purpose of apologizing."

"Do tell! And I nearly disremembered it entirely! But I'm real glad to see you and my new niece. Come right into the best parlor."

She opened the door and, with reverent step, ushered them into the carefully kept "best parlor." An immaculate carpet, ever shielded from the light of day, covered the floor, and a horse-hair sofa and a few chairs of the same inhospitable material stood at regular intervals of distance from one another.

A pair of tall vases and some sea-shells decked the mantel-piece. During their childhood it had been a rare treat to Jack and Cynthia to hold these shells to their ears and listen to the "roar of the ocean" within. On a table between the windows were some wax-flowers under a glass, and on the marble-topped centre-table were a few books placed together in neat little piles.

Mrs. Franklin was given the place of honor, the large arm-chair. The chair being a high one and she being a rather small woman, her feet barely touched the floor, and she sat in constant terror lest she should slide ignominiously to the ground.

It was so dark when they entered the room that Mr. Franklin stumbled over a worsted-work footstool which stood in a prominent place, but Miss Trinkett opened the blinds a crack, and two bars of blazing July sunshine fell across the carpet. Then she sat down to entertain her guests, but her mind wandered. The Franklins all talked, but Miss Betsey was unusually silent. "I want to know!" and "Do tell!" came at random. Finally she said, with a hasty glance at the sunlight:

"I wonder now if you'd mind coming into my sitting-room? I'd be real pleased to have you, and maybe we'd find it cooler."

They all jumped to their feet with alacrity. Miss Betsey closed her blinds again with a sigh of relief, and in the freer atmosphere of the sitting-room, secure in the knowledge that her best-parlor carpet was no longer fading, she found her tongue.

"I was coming to see you, niece, just as soon as I could see my way to it. Marthy, my hired girl, has been off for a spell, and that's kept me busy. I'd have written, but I'm a poor hand at writing. Silas he says he wonders the letters I write ever get there, but then he's one of the doubting kind, Silas is. I've great faith in government. I think as long as they undertake to carry letters about at all, they've got sense enough to carry 'em safe, even if I do disremember part of the direction sometimes. And it's wonderful, as I've said many a time before, what you can send through the mails nowadays. But now tell me about those poor little orphans in the poultry-yard."

The success of the last hatch was described to her; in fact, all the news of Brenton was asked for and received, and in turn bits of Wayborough gossip were told to the attentive Mrs. Franklin, while Silas's latest sayings were repeated and commented upon.

When Jack and Cynthia had gone out-doors, Miss Betsey drew her chair a little closer to that of Mrs. Franklin.

"My dear—Hester, I think, your name is, and Hester it will be my pleasure to call you—my dear Hester, I want to tell you first and foremost that I'm real pleased you should come and be a mother to those children of Nephew John's. They needed you, they needed you badly. And now I'm going to treat you as one of the family, and talk over a little matter with you and John.

"You've probably heard of Silas Green. He's been courting me these forty years, and now he's got it into his head that he can't be climbing this hill any more of a Sunday night. He wants me to fix the day! I declare, it kind of takes the stiffening right out of me to think of fixing the day after all these years, and I still hold out, as I can't give up my view of the river."

"What are you going to do about it, Aunt Betsey?"

"That's just it, John. Well, I'm going to hold out a little longer, and I think—in fact, I'm pretty sure—that Silas is weakening. You see, it's kind of lonesome for him down there, now his sister's dead that kept house for him, and it is depressing to have nothing much to look at but the Common and the Soldiers' Monument. Yes, I think he's weakening, and I shouldn't wonder if you were to find him here next time you come. But I'll let you know in time to come to the wedding, you may be sure of that. But there's something else I want to speak about."

Here Miss Betsey paused. She folded her hands anew in her lap, and, rocking briskly, waited for some one to speak. The clock on the chimney-shelf ticked comfortably, and Miss Trinkett's canary chirped and hopped about in its cage at the window. Mrs. Franklin looked at her husband.

"And what is that, Aunt Betsey?" said he. "Somehow you have so taken my breath away by hinting that you are going to make Mr. Silas Green happy, after all these years, that I can't take in anything else."

"Ah now, my dear boy, don't jump too quickly at a conclusion. Things may not be any nearer a settling now than they were forty years ago. It's all a question of view, and men are terribly set in their ways. However, to continue: I want to make each of the children a present. I feel that I'm getting on in life—though I'm not so very old either, but, still, no one knows what may happen—and I'd rather do things up before I die than have it all a-going on after I'm laid away. I never did think much of wills, anyhow. So I'm going to send 'em each a present from time to time as I feel inclined."

"Nonsense, Aunt Betsey!" said Mr. Franklin. "You are not going to die for many a year yet, and you give the children enough. Keep your money—"

"Now you needn't say a word, John. My mind's made up, and it takes a deal to make me change it—it's in the Trinkett blood. And then I like to get the letters the children write to thank me. I must say I'm powerful fond of their letters, 'specially Cynthy's. She does write a beautiful letter. I'll send 'em each in turn, beginning with Edith and ending up with Willy. Of course, they can do what they like with the money, but it would be my advice to put it in the savings-bank. It's wonderful how money does roll up in an institution of that kind."

Miss Betsey could not be turned from her purpose, so her nephew was forced to content himself with begging her, if she sent money through the mails, to address it carefully.

"One would think, nephew, from the way you talk that I didn't know how to write," said the old lady, with some asperity.

Jack and Cynthia in the meantime were exploring the farm. It was a never-failing source of pleasure to them, accustomed to farm life though they were.

"This is a really true farm," said Cynthia; "not a make-believe, like ours, with a hired farmer to do it all. And Aunt Betsey's garden is a thousand times nicer than ours, and her hens are all so big and strong-looking."

"That's only because you've been looking so much at the 'little orphans.' By-the-way, I wonder how they're getting on. I do wish I hadn't had to leave home to-day. I wonder if Gordon will attend to things. Queer kind of a duffer, isn't he, Cynth?"

"Yes, but I like him. He's awfully lazy and all that, but I think I'd trust him."

"Oh, I'd trust him far enough, except where hard work's concerned. In that line I think I'd rather trust myself. But I wish it was time to go home."

"So do I," said Cynthia, thoughtfully. "I have a feeling that something is going on there and we are missing it. Aunt Betsey's isn't as much fun as usual, though she was awfully good to forgive me so easily. And you have been frightening me about it all the way, Jack."

At last the day wore on, and amid cordial good-byes from Miss Betsey, her relatives took leave.

"I'll send you something for those little orphans at Christmas-time, Jackie," she called after them, "though this being only July I hope to see you before then."

When the party reached home they found Bob shaven and shorn, Neal in his most careless and teasing frame of mind, Edith depressed and silent, and the children in disgrace.

"I knew something was happening while we were away," whispered Cynthia to Jack.

"If only we hadn't missed it," returned he. "Smashing the buggy and shaving Bob, all in one day! It's a regular shame that we weren't on hand."

"It seems to me that you were neglecting things somewhat to-day, Edith," said her father, when he heard the story.

There, it had come! Of course she was to be censured as she had expected.

"I didn't know I was to be tied hand and foot and look after the children every minute of the day," she answered, crossly, "and it was not my fault that we went to the woods and broke the buggy."

"I don't care in the least about the buggy, but about Neal's dog."

This was too much. Edith felt badly herself about the dog, but surely she was not responsible. She had not been the means of bringing him to Oakleigh, she said to herself. She was about to reply, when Mrs. Franklin interposed and diverted her husband's mind from the subject. This still further annoyed Edith.

Why should Mrs. Franklin feel called upon to interfere between her and her father? And she encouraged herself to dislike more than ever the "intruders" at Oakleigh.

The summer went by. More chickens were hatched, until they numbered four hundred, and then "Franklin & Gordon" concluded that they would not fill the machine again this season. The stock must be carefully tended during the winter, and Jack would have his hands full, though one of the men would help him if necessary.

Jack was to go to Boston to school this winter. Neal was going back to boarding-school; it was his last year, and next autumn he hoped to begin college life.

One fine day towards the end of the summer Cynthia and Neal walked out over the pasture to the "far meadow," and sat down in the shade of a huge hay-stack. The air was full of the hum of fall insects, and grasshoppers alighted here, there, and everywhere about them. Neal tried in vain to catch one with his hat. Then he tossed it to one side, and clasping his hands behind his head, leaned back against the hay with a heavy sigh.

"What is the matter?" asked Cynthia. "I should think you had the weight of the world on your shoulders."

"And so I have. I've a good mind to trot out the whole story to you, Cynth. I wonder if it would do any good."

"Of course it would," replied Cynthia, promptly. "There is nothing like talking a thing over, and, besides, I've wanted dreadfully to know what has been the matter with you."

"How did you know anything was?"

"I have seen you growing glummer and glummer. You haven't been nearly as jolly lately. And when you got that letter this morning you looked as if you would like to punch somebody."

"You do take in a lot! I never supposed anybody would notice. I wonder if Hessie did."

"I saw her looking at you."

"I wish she'd look to some purpose, and hand out what I want. She's so taken up with you Franklins nowadays."

"What do you want?"

"Money, of course."

"Why, Neal, mamma gave you a lot the other day!"

"Oh, that was a mere drop in the bucket. Yes, I really think I'll have to tell you what a fix I'm in. Perhaps you'll see some way out of it."

"Do," said Cynthia, sympathetically; "I am sure I will."

"Well, it's just this. I owe a lot of money to a fellow that goes to St. Asaph's, and I had a letter from him this morning asking me to fork out at once, or he would write to my guardians or speak to the trustees at the school. It's a nasty thing to do, anyhow. I don't think the fellow is a gentleman."

"Then why did you ever have anything to do with him?"

"That's just like a girl! I'm sorry I told you."

"Oh, don't say that! Indeed, it only just struck me that people who are not gentlemen are so horrid. Please go on, Neal, and tell me the rest."

"There's nothing to tell except that I owe him a hundred dollars."

"One hundred dollars! Neal!" To Cynthia this seemed a fortune. "Why, how did you ever spend it all?"

"Spend it! Easily enough. Suppers once in a while, ginger-pop, candy, cigarettes."

"I didn't know you smoked."

"Neither I do. I just do it occasionally to show I'm up to it. But it's no go if you're training, and I'm training most of the time. But you have to keep cigarettes on hand for the fellows."

"But, Neal, you told me once how large your allowance is, and I don't see how you ever in the world managed to spend so much more."

"Easily enough, as I said before. You see, I have the name of being a rich fellow, and I have to live up to it, which makes it hard. I have to live up to it, when, after all, I'm practically dependent on Hessie. I haven't a cent of my own until I'm twenty-five. This fellow, Bronson, offered to lend me a fiver one day, and I got into the habit of asking him. I didn't mean to let it run on so long. He's a queer lot—awfully smooth on the outside, and inside hard as nails. We were good friends at first; then he did something I didn't like and I cut him, but he didn't seem to mind it, and afterwards when he offered me the fiver I thought I might as well take it. What a mean will that was anyhow of grandmother's."

Neal moodily tugged at a wisp of straw which he held in his teeth, and looked across the meadow. A herd of cows came down on the opposite side of the river for a drink, and Bob barked at them loudly, running as near to them as he dared.

For a time Cynthia did not speak. Then she said:

"Aren't you going to ask mamma?"

"I suppose I'll have to. I wouldn't mind a bit if she were not married, but I suppose your father will have to know about it."

"I suppose," said Cynthia, sagely, "mamma would have just given it to you without saying anything, while papa will ask questions."

"That's just about the size of it. And he will not only ask the questions, but he won't like the answers. I think I won't tackle them for a hundred all at once. I'll put it at fifty, and try to get Bronson to wait for the rest. I suppose I'll get some tips at Christmas-time."

"I think it would be ever so much better, Neal, to tell the whole truth. It will save ever so much trouble in the end."

"But it won't save trouble now, and I hate a fuss. The fifty business will be bad enough. I like to take things quietly."

"That's just it, Neal. Do take my advice, and tell mamma the whole thing."

"That's the worst of telling a girl anything. They always want to give advice. I wonder why it is that a woman from her earliest years loves to advise."

"Much you know about it," said Cynthia; "and you needn't have told me about your scrape if you didn't want me to say anything."

"Well, I've told you now, and you must give me your word of honor that you will never give me away. Now promise, Cynthia."

"Of course I'll promise, Neal. I wouldn't tell it for the world if you don't want me to. But oh, I wish you would tell the whole thing yourself!"

But Neal was obdurate; and when he found how his brother-in-law received his demand for fifty dollars he thought he had acted wisely.

"Of course it is not really my affair," said Mr. Franklin, "except that I am your sister's husband and have a right to advise her. The money is hers to do with it what she likes, and she can spend it all on you if she wishes. But I think fifty dollars is a good deal for a school-boy, with the allowance that you have, to owe. If you were my boy I should look into the matter pretty carefully, you may be sure. However, I am neither your father nor your guardian. But it is a bad precedent. If you spend money in this way at school, what will you do in college?"

Hester expostulated with her brother, but wrote a check and gave it to him. Neal was almost sorry then that he had not placed the sum at one hundred. It would have been about as easy, perhaps.

He sent the check to Bronson, assuring him that he would pay him the balance before long. This done, Neal became as gay and debonair as ever. Cynthia, knowing the facts, wondered that he could so completely forget the burden of debt that was still resting upon him. She thought that he must have discovered some other way of settling the matter.

CHAPTER IX

The last excitement of the summer before school began was a river picnic, given by Gertrude Morgan. A note was brought to Edith one afternoon which ran thus:

"My DEAREST EDITH,—Will you, Cynthia, Jack, and Neal Gordon join us on the river to-morrow? My cousins, Tom and Kitty Morgan, are here, and another fellow, awfully nice, that Tom brought with him, and we want to do something to entertain them. This is such perfect weather for the river. We will come up from Brenton early, and reach Oakleigh before noon. You can join us in your boats, and we will go higher up above the rapids for dinner. If you will bring your chafing-dish and your alcohol lamp for the coffee it is all I ask. On the whole, you need not bring the lamp. We will build a fire. But the chafing-dish would be nice. Do come! Don't fail. Au revoir until to-morrow at about twelve. Devotedly,

"GERTRUDE.

"P.S. I am sure you will lose your heart to Tom's friend. I have!"

The next day, shortly before noon, the Franklins were awaiting their friends on the Oakleigh boat-landing. They had two canoes, one that the family had owned for a year or two, and another that Mrs. Franklin had given her brother on his birthday.

Baskets were packed in the boats, containing the chafing-dish, some sandwiches, and delicious cake that Mrs. Franklin had had made as her contribution to the picnic, and a large box of candy which Neal had bought.

It was a glorious day. The September sun shone brightly, and a trifle warmly, on the dancing river. The gay foliage along the banks—for the autumn tints had come early this year—was reflected in the clear water, and a gentle wind stirred the white birches. An army of crows had encamped near by, and the woods rang with their cawing as they carried on an important debate among themselves.

Presently around the curve came the advance guard of the picnic, a canoe containing Dennis Morgan and his cousin Kitty, while closely following them was another, paddled by Tom Morgan, in which sat Gertrude and a stranger.

They all waved their hats and handkerchiefs, and when they came within speaking distance Gertrude shouted:

"Isn't it fun? Such a perfect day, and more fellows than girls! You know my cousins, don't you, except Neal? Kitty and Tom, let me present Mr. Gordon, and this is Mr. Bronson. The Misses Edith and Cynthia Franklin, Mr. Tony Bronson. There now, did I do it correctly? Did I mention the ladies' names first, and then the gentlemen's? I picked up a book on etiquette in a shop the other day, and it said you must."

Every one laughed, and no one noticed but Cynthia that Neal's face darkened when he heard Bronson's name and saw him for the first time. Of course, she knew at once who he was.

"There ought to be a grand change of partners," continued the lively Gertrude, "but it's too much trouble. However, Tom, you had better get out and take one of the Oakleigh canoes, and an Oakleigh girl and Jack can get in here—unless Mr. Bronson would rather be the one to change."

This was said with a coquettish glance at Bronson, who in a low voice hastened to assure her that he was more than satisfied with his present position.

He was a handsome fellow of about seventeen, tall and of somewhat slight build, with very regular features. His eyes were his weak point. They were of a pale greenish-blue, and were too close together.

His greeting to Neal was most cordial. "Holloa, old fellow!" he said, "this is a piece of luck. Miss Morgan told me you were stopping here, so I was prepared for the pleasure."

"As if he hadn't known it before," muttered Neal to Cynthia, as he helped her into the canoe, and they pushed off. "He sent that letter here and he got mine from here. He's a hypocritical ass."

"Look out, Neal!" cautioned Cynthia; "you know how sound carries on the water." And she was quite sure from the expression on Bronson's face that he had heard.

There was some discussion as to where their destination should be.

"Let's go as high as we can," said Gertrude. "Above Charles River village."

"But there is the 'carry,'" objected her brother.

"What of that? We've often carried before."

"Not with an average of one fellow to a boat. No, I say we stop the other side of the small rapids. If any one wants to explore above there on his own account he can do so."

THE START FROM OAKLEIGH

It was finally settled thus, and the party set forth. It was a pretty sight. The cedar canoes, with gay carpets and cushions, and freight of girls and boys in white boating costumes, gave the needed touch of life to the peaceful Charles River. So Mrs. Franklin thought when she came down to see them off.

"I have not been invited," she said, "but I really think I must drive up this afternoon and see your encampment."

"Oh, do, Mrs. Franklin!" cried Gertrude, enthusiastically. "We would just love to have you come, and we ought to have a chaperon, though we are all brothers and sisters and cousins! She is the most perfect creature," she added to Bronson, as they moved off. "You know she is the Franklins' step-mother. Isn't she a dear, Jack?"

Jack, who was paddling, acquiesced. Bronson sat at ease in the bow. He was always lazy. Neal, though averse to hard work which was work only, was ready for anything in the way of athletics. He was now an accomplished paddler, and had already far outstripped the others.

Their destination was some two or three miles up the river. The water was low, and Cynthia kept a sharp look-out for rocks.

"Keep to the left here, Neal," she directed; "that ledge runs all across the river."

"I bet those Brenton fellows will scrape going through here. Not one in a hundred would take the left. I haven't scraped once since I had the canoe. The bottom is as smooth as the day she came, and that is saying a good deal when the river is as low as it is now."

They skirted a huge oak-tree which had fallen half across the river, and, passing through some gentle rapids, reached the cleared shady spot on the bank where they were to eat their luncheon. The others soon arrived, and preparations were immediately begun for building a fire. The boys explored the neighborhood for dry sticks, and a cheerful little blaze was soon crackling away on the bank. Potatoes had been buried beneath to roast in the ashes, and the coffee-pot, filled with water from a neighboring spring, was placed above. Dennis Morgan, whose coffee was far-famed and unrivalled, superintended this part of the work.

The girls unpacked the baskets, and spreading a tablecloth, arranged the goodies most temptingly thereon.

"Edith, you must do the oysters on the chafing-dish," said Gertrude; "no one does them like you."

"Oysters! Have you really got oysters? How perfect!" cried Cynthia, who, laden with cups and saucers, was stumbling over some stray boughs at the imminent risk of herself and the crockery.

"Let me help you, Miss Franklin," said Bronson, coming languidly forward.

"Oh no, thanks!" returned Cynthia, tartly. "I would not trouble you for the world. You have quite enough to do."

Dennis Morgan, who heard her, turned away to hide a laugh. Bronson had been leaning against a tree most of the time with his hands in his pockets.

"Come now, don't be too hard on a fellow, Miss Franklin. I'll do anything you ask. A fellow feels kind of out of place, don't you know, with so many working."

"Really! Well, if you are truly anxious to make yourself useful, perhaps you will get some ferns to decorate the table?"

"Certainly," said Bronson, looking about him in a helpless way; "will these do?" and he broke off a large brake.

"No, of course not. The ones I want grow at quite a distance from here, over in those woods there," pointing. "Please get some."

"Oh, Miss Franklin, so far? But you will go with me, of course."

"'Of course,' did I hear you say?" asked Cynthia, straightening herself from her arrangement of the table and standing very erect, with a bottle in one hand and an olive on the end of a fork in the other. "What can you be thinking of? Of course not. I am busy. But you have no time to lose if you want to get them here before lunch is ready. It is a good half-mile there and back."

"When Miss Franklin commands I have but to obey," said Bronson, with a bow, though there was a disagreeable light in his steely eyes. "Who will take pity on me and go with me? Miss Morgan, surely you will be so good?"

Gertrude was much pleased at being singled out by the guest of the occasion, and although she knew that the ferns which were growing in profusion all about them would adorn the table just as well, she gave no hint of it, for she was not averse to taking the walk with Bronson.

"Tell me about the Franklins," said he, as he took her red umbrella and opened it. "Are they fond of their step-mother?"

"All but Edith, and she can't bear her, and I don't think she is over-fond of Neal, either. Tell me something about him, Mr. Bronson. He is a school-mate of yours, you say?"

"Oh, don't ask me! I think it's awfully bad form for one fellow to give away another, don't you know. Of course, some fellows would, but I'm not that kind."

Gertrude admired these sentiments extremely. She wished that Bronson would hold the umbrella at an angle that would shield her a little more. It was entirely over him, while she herself was in the sun, and it was rather warm walking. However, it was a pleasure to have her umbrella carried by such an elegant-looking individual, even though she derived no benefit from it.

From his words and manner Gertrude gathered the idea that Bronson, if he chose, could tell something very much against Neal Gordon, but his high sense of honor held him back.

"What a lovely fellow he is!" thought Gertrude; then she said aloud, "Of course I would not have you for the world. I have always fancied there might be something, don't you know?"

Now Gertrude had really never fancied anything of the kind, and yet she did not dream of being untruthful. It was an idea born of the moment. Her vanity prompted her to agree with Bronson, who was apparently such a very charming fellow.

"Oh, don't say that, Miss Morgan! I didn't mean to give you that idea. You're so awfully clever, you have guessed what I never intended to say. Don't ever tell what I said, will you? I wouldn't take away the fellow's character for the world."

Gertrude blushed and promised, pleased to find herself in the position of having a secret with Bronson. She told her cousin Kitty, afterwards, that he really talked most confidentially with her.

When they returned, luncheon was ready. Cynthia took the ferns with a cool "Thank you," looked at them critically and somewhat dubiously, and laid them on the impromptu table.

"Terribly anty," she said, shaking a spray vigorously in the air. "Ugh! look at the ants!"

"Perhaps those that grow over here would not have had any ants," said Bronson, "but I am so much obliged to you for sending me for these, Miss Franklin. I had such a charming walk. It quite repaid me, even though you are so chary of your thanks."

"I'm so glad," returned Cynthia, "but not as glad as I am famished."

She left Bronson, and walking around to the farther side of the table, sat down. Neal followed her, and presently they were all seated and enjoying the dainty meal. Never was there such clear and fragrant coffee, and the rich cream that the Franklins had brought made it "equal to the nectar of Olympus," said Bronson; he was addicted to airy speech.

The oysters were done to a turn and seasoned to a nicety, and the sandwiches melted in one's mouth. In the midst of the feast they heard the sound of wheels on the bridge, and looking up, they saw Mrs. Franklin, who was driving herself.

"You see I couldn't stay away," she called to them. "Jack, come tie Bess for me, and then let me have a bite, if you have anything to spare."

Edith's face clouded. "Why did she have to come so soon?" she thought, and her expression was not lost on Bronson.

"So this is the rich sister and step-mother," thought Bronson; "and the eldest daughter doesn't like her coming. Now, I don't exactly see why Gordon can't settle the balance if she has such a pile. But I'll lie low and work him easily."

He watched his opportunity, and after luncheon he followed Neal to the river-bank, where he was getting a pail of water for dish-washing purposes.

"I say, Gordon, old fellow, I haven't had a chance before to thank you for sending me the fifty. You see I was in a confounded hole myself, and there was no way out of it but to ask you. I hated to dun you. As for the rest, there's no hurry about that whatever."

Neal looked at him. His brown eyes could be very searching when occasion required. Bronson stooped, and picking up a fiat stone from the little beach on which they were standing, he tossed it across the river.

"Five skips," said he, lightly, as he turned away.

"Hold on a minute," said Neal. "Your offer is very kind, but you may be pretty sure that I'll pay you as soon as I can. I've no wish to be under obligations to you any longer than is necessary."

"As you like," returned Bronson, with a shrug; "I only thought it might ease your mind to know that there's no actual hurry. Ah, Miss Franklin," as Cynthia drew near, "can't I persuade you to go out on the river with me?"

"I am afraid not. I should think that you hadn't paddled a great deal, as I noticed that you took your ease coming up."

"Miss Franklin, I never should have imagined that you were timid on the water. How little one can tell!"

"I am not a bit timid, but I don't care to be upset."

"Upset!" laughed Bronson. "Why, I've been upset a dozen times. In such a shallow ditch as this it wouldn't make much difference, as long as we're suitably dressed."

Cynthia looked at him slowly, criticisingly, scornfully. Then she said:

"I should think bathing clothes were the only things suitable for upsetting. And the Charles River isn't a ditch. Of course you didn't know, and we can pardon the ignorant a good deal."

Bronson turned away and left them.

"That last was a scorcher," chuckled Neal, who had been listening attentively. "If there is one thing Bronson hates above another, it is to be thought not to 'know it all,' and he caught on to what you meant."

Cynthia, however, felt a little remorseful. She was quite sure that she had been rude. Bronson was a stranger, and should have been treated with the politeness due to such. But then he was Neal's enemy, and Cynthia could never be anything but loyal to Neal. Thus she soothed her conscience.

When luncheon had been cleared away and the baskets packed to go home, Bronson asked Edith if she would go out with him on the river.

"Just for a little paddle, Miss Franklin," he said. "Do come!"

Cynthia heard him, and she frowned and shook her head vigorously at her sister, hoping that she would not go, but Edith had no intention of declining the invitation. She said yes, with one of her prettiest smiles, and accompanied Bronson to the place where the canoes were drawn up on the bank.

"I suppose it doesn't make any difference which one I take," he said, and, either by accident or design, he singled out Neal's boat and put it into the water. Edith stepped in, and then watched Bronson's movements with some trepidation. He did not seem to know much about the management of a canoe, and they rocked alarmingly with his short, uncertain strokes.

"I'll soon get the hang of it," he said, reassuringly. "I have never been much on a river, but it's easy enough."

Cynthia walked along the bank, watching them.

"I hope you've got a life-preserver, Edith! Mr. Bronson says he is in the habit of upsetting—likes it, in fact—and I'm dreadfully afraid for you. You know you can't swim, and Mr. Bronson will never be able to save you as well as himself. Do be careful of my sister, Mr. Bronson. The ditch is rather deep just there. Oh, look at him wiggle!" she added to Neal, who had followed her.

"And the fellow has taken my canoe!" growled Neal.

"Poor Neal! You boasted too soon. You'll never again be able to say there isn't a scratch on the bottom."

"I only hope I shall ever see the boat again. He'll probably smash her all to smithereens."

"I suppose it makes no difference if Edith is 'smashed to smithereens,' only the canoe," remarked Cynthia, demurely.

In the meantime Edith was having an exciting voyage. Bronson paddled slowly and unevenly up the river until he found himself in the rapids, which were much swifter and more dangerous than those they had passed through on the way from Oakleigh. The canoe scraped and creaked over the rocks. The only wonder was that a hole was not stove at once in the bottom.

They were in the midst now of the rushing water. Suddenly the boat lodged for a moment on a rock, and swayed to and fro. Down to the very water's edge went first one side and then the other. A half-inch more and they would have capsized.

Edith sat perfectly silent, scarcely daring to breathe. Bronson, never before so quick in his movements, righted the craft, and with a vigorous push of the paddle got off the dangerous rock.

"I—I think it would be rather pleasanter to tie up," faltered Edith.

"So do I. Wish you had said so before. Not that I mind exploring, but it's hot work such a day as this."

They found a shady bank and drew up under the bushes. Edith gave a sigh of relief.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" asked Bronson, getting out a silver cigarette-case with a blasé air.

"Oh, not at all."

"That's nice. Now we can be comfortable. I am so glad you came with me this afternoon, for I want to talk to you, Miss Franklin. I want to talk freely to you about something."

Edith's face expressed her astonishment.

"You look surprised," he continued, "but you will not be when I tell you what it is. You are the only person whom I can rely on to manage the matter well and to help me. It is connected with Neal Gordon."

CHAPTER X

Tony Bronson was the son of a man who had made a great deal of money in a doubtful line of business by rather shady proceedings. In other words, he was not strictly honest, and had amassed a large fortune in a manner that would not bear investigation.

Of this Tony, of course, was ignorant; but he inherited from his father a mean spirit and a determination to turn every circumstance to his own account. He had been sent early to St. Asaph's school that he might associate with the sons of gentlemen and become a gentleman himself, but he had acquired only the outward veneering. His manners were most courteous, his language carefully chosen, and he had sufficient wit to enable him to readily adapt himself to his companions, but he had not the instincts of a true gentleman. He was mean, he was something of a coward, and he was very much of a bully.

Years ago, soon after the two boys first met at St. Asaph's, Neal detected Tony in a cowardly, dishonorable action, and had openly accused him of it. Tony never forgave him, but he bided his time. With an unlimited amount of pocket-money of his own, he soon discovered that Neal was running short. When a convenient opportunity came he offered to lend him a small sum. Neal, after a moment's hesitation, weakly accepted the money, assuring himself that it was only for a short time and that he could easily repay it, and then have no more to do with Bronson. It saved him trouble, and Neal was only too ready to save himself trouble.

Thus it had gone on. The time never came when Neal felt able to pay the debt; on the other hand, he borrowed more, and now it had reached alarming proportions. His monthly allowance, when it arrived, was gone in a flash, for Neal had never been in the habit of denying himself. It would have been hard for him to explain why he did not go frankly to his sister, tell her the whole story, and ask for her help, except that he was thoroughly ashamed of having placed himself in such straits and did not want to acknowledge it.

Tony Bronson had become intimate with Tom Morgan at St. Asaph's, Tom not being particular in his choice of friends. In that way he had come to visit the Morgans in Brenton. His handsome face and apparently perfect manner attracted many to him who could not see beneath the surface, and his languid man-of-the-world air made an impression.

He cultivated this to the last degree. He was not naturally so lazy, but he thought it effective.

When he said to Edith that he wished to tell her something about Neal Gordon she looked at him in still greater surprise.

"I want to ask your help, Miss Franklin. A girl can manage these things so much better than a fellow. I like Gordon immensely, and I want to do all I can to help him out of a scrape."

"Does he know that you are speaking to me about him?"

"No, of course not. The fact is—"

"Then I think, Mr. Bronson," interrupted Edith, gently, but with decision, "that perhaps it would be better for us not to discuss him."

"But you quite misunderstand me, Miss Franklin. I am speaking only for his own good. I can't bear to see a fellow going straight to the bad, as I really am very much afraid he is, and not lift a finger to help him. I thought if I told you that perhaps you might speak to his sister—"

Edith interrupted him again, with heightened color. "I can do nothing of the sort. Nothing would induce me to speak to Mrs. Franklin on the subject. I—I couldn't possibly."

Bronson looked at her compassionately.

"Ah, it is as I thought! You and Mrs. Franklin are not congenial. I am so sorry."

Edith said nothing. She knew that he should not make such a remark to her, a perfect stranger. She felt that he did not ring true. And yet she could not bring herself to administer the reproof that Cynthia would have given under like circumstances.

"I am afraid I have offended you," said Bronson, presently; "do forgive me! And if you like I will say no more about the bad scrape Gordon is in. I thought perhaps I could prevent a letter coming from the faculty, but I see it's of no use. I'm awfully sorry for the fellow. You don't really think you could do anything to influence his sister?"

At last Edith found her voice.

"I don't think I can. And if you don't mind I would rather not discuss the Gordons—I mean, Mrs. Franklin and her brother."

"Certainly not, if you don't wish, and you won't repeat what I said, of course. If we can't help him, of course we had better not let it get out about Gordon any sooner than necessary. But holloa! What's this? The carpet seems to be getting damp."

It undoubtedly was, and gave forth a most unpleasantly moist sound when pressed. Upon investigation they found that the bottom of the canoe was filled with water. They had sprung a leak.

"We had better get back as quickly as possible," said Edith, rather relieved to have the conversation come to an end. "Is there a sponge there? I can bail if it gets any worse."

But no sponge was to be found, and it rapidly grew worse; Edith's skirts were damp and draggled. Presently there was an inch of water above the carpet.

"We shall sink if this goes on," she said.

"'WE SHALL SINK IF THIS GOES ON,' SHE SAID"

"Oh, I fancy not," returned Bronson, easily; "we haven't very far to go."

But their progress was not rapid, and the pool in the canoe grew deeper.

"Perhaps you will lend me your cap," said Edith; "I can use it as a dipper." He did so, and she bailed vigorously. "It must be a very large leak. I suppose we got it on that rock in the rapids, and we scraped again just before we tied up, which made it worse. If it were our boat I would not care, but I think it is Neal's."

She was so occupied that she did not see Bronson smile. His smile was not attractive, though his teeth were perfect.

Matters would have gone badly with them if they had not at this moment met Jack and Kitty Morgan in the Franklins' canoe.

"What's the row?" called Jack.

"Nothing much," said Bronson. "We've sprung a little leak, that's all."

"A little leak! I should think so. My eye! Why, man, you must have a regular hole for the water to come in like that. Where have you been, anyhow? You had better put in here at this little beach and step over into my boat."

"What's the matter with stepping over right where we are? No need of going to shore."

Jack eyed him with curiosity and contempt. He looked so much like Cynthia that Bronson felt withered. He did not care for Cynthia, for he knew that she did not like him.

Jack did not speak at once, but paddled towards the bank. Then he said:

"You won't try stepping from one canoe to another in mid-stream if I have anything to say about it."

The change was safely accomplished, and they proceeded down the river towing the injured boat, the carpet and cushions having been transferred with the passengers. Relieved of the weight it did not fill as rapidly, and they at last reached the picnic ground.

Bronson was mortified at coming back in such ignominious plight, but he made the best of it.

"I am awfully sorry, Gordon, if it is your canoe. It must have been pretty frail, though, to go to pieces at a mere scratch."

"She's the finest cedar canoe to be found in the city of Boston, and it would take more than a mere scratch to do her up this way. From appearances I should say you had pounded round in the rocks pretty freely," growled Neal, who had turned the boat upsidedown, and was examining it carefully.

Bronson stooped over him. For the moment they were alone.

"Of course I would feel worse about it if it were any one's but yours. As it is, we'll just call ten off of that fifty still owing. That will go towards repairs. More than cover them, I should say."

Then he sauntered off, his hands in his pockets.

"What a cad the fellow is!" muttered Neal. "It would give me real pleasure to knock him down."

"I heard him," said Cynthia. Her cheeks were red and her blue eyes had grown very dark. "He is an odious, hateful creature, and I de-spise him!"

Having delivered herself of this, Cynthia felt better.

They all went home soon afterwards, Edith leaving earlier in the carriage with Mrs. Franklin, for her shoes and skirts were too wet for her to wait for the slower movements of the canoes. It was an unfortunate ending to the day, and Edith was uncomfortable also about her conversation with Bronson. She knew that she ought not to have listened to a word of it.

She wondered if it were really true that Neal was in difficulty. She thought she must talk it over with Cynthia that night. Of course Cynthia would stand up for Neal, that went without saying, but it was always a relief to Edith to talk things over with her.

It was a rather silent drive home, and Mrs. Franklin sighed to herself when Edith barely replied to her remarks. It seemed perfectly hopeless; she and Edith would never grow any nearer to each other; but there was nothing to be done.

That night, when the girls went to their room, Edith was spared the necessity of opening the subject, for Cynthia began at once.

"What a perfectly hateful creature that Bronson is! I don't see how you could go on the river with him, Edith. I think you got well paid for it."

"I don't see why you dislike him so, Cynthia. You take such tremendous prejudices. He is awfully handsome."

"Handsome! I don't admire that style. That la-de-da-it-is-I-just-please-look-at-me kind doesn't go down with me."

Cynthia thrust her hands into imaginary pockets, leaned languidly against the bedpost, and rolled her eyes.

"Er—Miss Franklin—carnt I persuade you to go out on the rivah?" she said, with, an exaggerated manner and accent, and a throaty voice.

Edith laughed. Cynthia was a capital mimic.

"I like a broad A, and, of course, I never would use anything else myself, but his is broader than the Mississippi. It just shows it isn't natural to him. To hear him talk about 'darmp grarss,' and he'd just come from 'Southarmpton.' He is a regular sharm himself. I dare say he was brought up to say 'ca'm' and 'pa'm' and 'hain't' and 'ain't.'"

"Cynthia, what a goose you are!"

"Well, I can't bear him, and neither can Neal. Jack doesn't like him either."

"There, that is just it. You are so influenced by Neal and Jack. Tony Bronson spoke very nicely of Neal, as if he were a true friend of his."

"Pooh! Much friend, he!"

"Well, he did, Cynthia, and that is just what I want to talk over with you. Neal must be in some terrible scrape."

"Has that Bronson been telling you about that?" cried Cynthia, indignantly.

"Oh, then it is really true! I thought it must be."

"No, it isn't—at least, not what Bronson told you. I am just certain that whatever he told you wasn't true," said Cynthia, who felt that she had said more than she should. "I shouldn't think you would have discussed Neal with him. Neal is one of our family."

"I didn't," said Edith, somewhat curtly, "though I don't exactly see why you should speak of Neal Gordon as one of our family. I told Mr. Bronson I preferred not to talk about him. But he spoke so nicely of Neal, and said he wanted to help him, and he was afraid the faculty would write about him, and he wanted to get him out of the scrape if he could."

"Oh, the hypocrite! But what is the scrape? Did he say?"

"No, I wouldn't let him. But it is absurd to call him a hypocrite, Cynthia. I shall never believe it unless you tell me why you think so."

"I can't do that, but I know he is," said Cynthia, stoutly; "you have just got to take my word for it, for I can't explain."

The girls talked far into the night, but Edith was not convinced. She felt that there was something at the bottom of it all, for Cynthia could not deny it. After all, she was sorry. Edith liked Neal, a Gordon though he was. But she did not doubt that he was in a difficulty of some kind.

The summer was over and the glorious autumn leaves dropped from the trees, leaving the branches bare and ready for the coming of snow. One could see the course of the river plainly now from Oakleigh windows. Beautiful October was swallowed up by chill November, and the wind grew biting. One was glad of the long evenings, when the curtains could be drawn and the lamps lighted early to shut out the gray skies and dreary landscape.

Neal was back at St. Asaph's and the winter work had begun. Cynthia and Jack went every day to Boston, and Edith also went in three times a week for lessons. She objected to this on the plea of expense, much as she desired a thorough education. She greatly feared her stepmother had brought it about. But her father reprimanded her sharply when she said something of this, and insisted that she should do as he desired.

The poultry had already begun to bring in a little money, for Jack sold a few "broilers" to his mother at market prices, though she usually added a few cents more a pound.

"They are so delicious, Jack," said she; "better than I could get anywhere else, and worth the money."

He kept his accounts most carefully, and it was pleasant to write down a few figures on the page for receipts, which thus far had presented an appalling blank.

In due time came a present to Edith from Aunt Betsey: a package containing an old-fashioned camel's-hair scarf that had belonged to "Grandmother Trinkett," and, scattered among its folds, five ten-dollar gold pieces.

Government had proved worthy of the old lady's trust, for the money had come safely; but then she had actually addressed the package clearly and correctly.

Edith, of course, was much pleased, and notwithstanding her aunt's suggestion that she should place it in the savings-bank, she determined to expend the money in a handsome winter suit and hat. She dearly loved nice clothes.

Cynthia looked somewhat scornfully at the new garments.

"If Aunt Betsey sends me fifty dollars, you won't catch me spending it on finery," she informed her family; "I have other things to do with my money."

She did not know how truly she spoke, nor what would be the result of her manner of spending Aunt Betsey's present.

The fall slipped quickly by, and the Christmas holidays drew near, Neal was coming to Oakleigh, and many things were planned for the entertainment of the young people.

Cynthia went about fairly bursting with excitement and secrets. This was her best-loved time of the whole year, and she was making the most of it.

The 25th of December fell on a Wednesday this year, and Neal came down from St. Asaph's on Monday, to be in good season for the festivities of Christmas Eve. Plenty of snow had fallen, and all kinds of jolly times were looked for.

Outside the scene was wintry indeed, and the white walls of Oakleigh looked cold and dreary in the setting of snow which lay so thickly over river, meadow, and hill, but in the house there was plenty of life and cheery warmth. Great fires burned briskly in all the chimneys, and the rooms were bright and cosey with warm-looking carpets and curtains and comfortable furniture. There had been a good deal done to the house, both outside and in, since the coming of Mrs. Franklin. Edith still maintained to herself that she did not like it, but every one else thought matters vastly improved.

"Hurray! hurray!" cried Jack, rushing into the house on Tuesday and slamming down his books; "good-bye to school for ten days! It was a mean shame that we had to have school at all this week. Neal, you were in luck. St. Asaph's must be mighty good fun, anyhow. By-the-way," continued he, holding his chilled hands to the fire, "I saw that Bronson fellow in town to-day—the one that smashed your canoe."

"You did?" said Neal, glancing up from his book, while Cynthia gave an exclamation of disgust.

"Yes," said Jack, "and he said the Morgans had asked him out here for the holidays, so I guess we are in for another dose. It strikes me they must be pretty hard up for company to want him."

Neal said nothing. Edith looked up from her work and watched him sharply, but his face told little.

"Hateful thing!" exclaimed Cynthia; "I would like to pack my trunk and take a train out of Brenton as he comes in on another."

"I can't see why you all dislike him so," observed Edith. "You detest him, don't you, Neal?"

"Oh, Edith, do hush!" cried Cynthia. "Yes, of course he does; he's hateful." But Neal still said nothing, and Edith got no satisfaction.

Christmas Eve closed in early. At about four o'clock it began to snow, and the wind blew great drifts against the side of the house. Every one said it was going to be an old-fashioned Christmas.

It was the custom in the Franklin household to look at the presents that night. As Cynthia said, when arguing the point with some one who thought it a shocking idea to see one's gifts before Christmas morning, it made it so much more exciting to open their own packages and to look at their treasures by lamplight. Then in the morning they had the pleasure of seeing them a second time, and of investigating their stockings, which, of course, were hung ready for the coming of Santa Claus.

After supper Jack and Neal carried in the great clothes-basket which for days had been the receptacle for packages of all sizes and kinds, those that had come by post and those which the family themselves had carefully tied up, until now it looked like Santa Claus's own pack.

Mrs. Franklin presided at the basket and read the names, and when the colored ribbons were untied and the tempting-looking white parcels were opened there were shrieks and exclamations of delight, for every one declared that this particular gift was just what he or she most desired.

Each one had a table covered with a white cloth, upon which to place his treasures, and when all was done the "long parlor" at Oakleigh looked like a fancy bazaar, so many and varied were the articles displayed.

There was an odd-looking package addressed to Jack and Cynthia. It was heavy and was covered with postage-stamps in consequence, and proved to be a large box stuffed with straw.

"What under the sun is it? Of course it's from Aunt Betsey," said Jack, as he rooted down into the hay, scattering it in all directions. Out came what appeared to be an egg tied up with old-fashioned plaided ribbon, and an ancient-looking beaded purse. The purse was marked "Cynthia," so Jack appropriated the egg, but with an exclamation of chagrin.

"She is sending coals to Newcastle," said he. "Aunt Betsey must have thought it was Easter. But it is the queerest-feeling egg I ever came across. It's as heavy as lead."

He shook it and held it up to the light.

"Ha, ha!" said he; "a good egg! I'd like to have the machine packed with just such eggs."

Inside were ten five-dollar gold pieces, and Cynthia found the same in her purse.

"I will put mine away for a 'safety' in the spring," said Jack, clinking his gold with the air of a miser, and examining the empty egg-shells. "Isn't Aunt Betsey a daisy and no mistake? Just see the way she's fixed up this egg-shell; she cut it in half as neat as a pin. I don't see how she ever did it."

"I wish I had an Aunt Betsey," remarked Neal; "those gold pieces would come in pretty handy just now."

"Aunt Betsey is so fond of giving gold," said Cynthia. "She always says it is real money, and bills are nothing but paper. I shall put mine away for the present, until I think of something I want terribly much, and then I will go grandly to Boston and buy it like a duchess. Goody Two-shoes, but I feel rich!"

And she danced gayly up and down the room, waving her purse in the air.

Neal had very nice presents, but he was disappointed to find that there was no money among them. He suspected, and correctly, that his sister and her husband had thought it wiser not to give him any more at present.

"Then I'm in for it," thought he. "I'll have to ask Hessie, and there'll be no end of a row. Of course she will give it to me in the end, but it would have been nicer all round if she had come out handsomely with a Christmas check. Of course these skates are dandy, and so is the dress-suit case and the nobby umbrella and the sleeve-buttons; but just at present I would rather have the cash they all cost."

He said something of this afterwards to Cynthia.

"Bronson is screwing me for all he's worth," said he. "I'll have to get the money somehow, and fifty dollars is no joke. Of course, I am not going to take off the ten he so kindly offered for the canoe; I'd like to see myself! If Hessie doesn't see matters in the same light I'll have to do something desperate. But, of course, she will give it to me."

"Neal," said Cynthia, impulsively, "if mamma doesn't give you the money you must borrow it of me. There is that fifty dollars Aunt Betsey has given me. You can have it just as well as not."

"Cynthia, you're a brick, and no mistake," said Neal, looking at her affectionately, "but you know I wouldn't take your money for the world. You must think me a low-down sort of fellow if you think I would."

"How absurd! It is a great deal better to owe it to me instead of to a stranger like Bronson, or any one else. I'm sure I think of you just as if you were my brother, and Jack wouldn't mind taking it. You can pay it back when you get your own money."

"Yes, nine years from now," said Neal. "No, indeed, Cynth, I'll have to be pretty hard up before I borrow of a girl."

"I think you are too bad," said Cynthia, almost crying; "I don't see the difference between a girl and anybody else. I don't need the money; I don't know what to buy with it. I would just love to have you take it. It would be lovely to think my money had paid your debts, and then you could start all fresh. Please, Neal, say you will if mamma does not give it to you."

But Neal would not promise.

CHAPTER XI

Christmas morning dawned cloudy and very cold, but it had stopped snowing, and after a while the sun came out and turned the country into a radiant, dazzling spectacle.

Cynthia and the boys went forth to dig out some of the paths and have a good time in the snow. Bob, frantic with delight, ploughed about in the drifts, jumping, diving, shaking off the dry flakes, and turning wonderful somersaults, to the great entertainment of Janet and Willy, who, too small to venture out before the paths were cut, watched the others from the window.

A gigantic snow man was in course of construction when it became time to go to church, and they all bundled themselves up in furs and warm clothes, and packed themselves in the three-seated sleigh under the buffalo-robes. It was great fun to drive the three miles to the village after such a storm, the children thought, for, although a four-horse team had been sent out early from Oakleigh to break the road, their progress was slow and exciting.

Then came the Christmas dinner, with turkey and plum-pudding and mince-pie, and plenty of laughter and jokes, and after that the family settled down to read their new books, look at their presents anew, and amuse themselves in various ways.

The Franklins were to have a party during the holidays, and it had been planned for the following Tuesday—New Year's Eve.

"If we had only arranged to have it earlier we might have escaped that horrid Bronson," said Cynthia, regretfully, the day after Christmas. "Now, of course, he will come with the Morgans, and, worse still, we shall have to be polite to him in our own house."

"I should hope so," said Edith. "You were rude enough to him at the picnic, and I do think good manners are so attractive. I am going to cultivate them as much as possible. No one will ever like you unless you are polite, Cynthia."

"I seem to have plenty of friends," returned her sister, composedly, "and I don't really care to have Bronson like me. In fact, I would rather prefer that he shouldn't. I wouldn't consider it much of a compliment to be liked by a—a—creature like that!"

It would be impossible to convey an idea of the contempt in Cynthia's voice as she said this.

"And if you are going to have such lovely manners, I should think it would be just as well to begin at home," she added.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't suppose you will like it, but really, Edith, sometimes it does seem as if you just tried to hurt mamma's feelings. I know I ought not to say this, perhaps, for you think I am only a younger sister, I suppose, and haven't any right to lecture you; but when I remember how nice you really are, I can't bear to have you act so. If you only would try to like her, instead of trying not to like her! There, don't cry, dear; I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

And Cynthia threw her arms around her sister and kissed her.

"You have hurt them," said Edith, with a sob, "but I know I deserve it. I don't know what has gotten into me since the Gordons came. I can't like her being here. Oh, Cynthia, you don't know how I feel sometimes! I wish I didn't have such bad, wicked thoughts."

"Do you really try to get over it, Edith?"

"No-o, not very hard," she faltered; "I can't forgive her for coming and taking my place, and—and—I don't want to forgive her. There, I know you will think I am bad and horrible and everything else, but I can't help it."

And, rising abruptly, she left the room.

"Poor old Edith!" sighed Cynthia, compassionately. "She will come round some time; she can't help it."

Now that Christmas was over, the Franklins devoted themselves to coasting, which, owing to a slight thaw and a freeze, had become excellent. It slightly lessened the pleasure of Cynthia and Neal that the Morgans, with Tony Bronson in attendance, usually met them on their favorite hill with their sleds; but the Christmas spirit was in the air, and nothing was said or done to mar the peace, and to outward seeming the two boys were perfectly good friends.

On New Year's Eve was to be the Franklins' party.

"Edith, we must have it very original and unique, something quite different from anything we have ever had in our lives," said Cynthia, a few days before.

"How can we? There's nothing new."

"Yes, there is, right in my head. I have an idea."

"What in the world is it?"

"Well, I'll tell you," and she proceeded to unfold it.

It proved to be a good one, and with Mrs. Franklin's help it was carried into effect. The suggestion was to have a "character" party, but to enact the parts without dressing especially for them. A list was made of persons well known in history or fiction, and from this list Mrs. Franklin chose those she considered the best, and wrote against each name that of some girl or boy in Brenton. This she did without telling her daughters how she had apportioned the parts, that they might be as ignorant as their guests about one another's characters.

"It is a truly Bostonese party," said Mrs. Franklin, laughing, when they talked it over. "There is an intellectual flavor to it that you wouldn't find far away from 'the Hub,' but it is a capital idea, nevertheless, Cynthia."

When the list was duly made Mrs. Franklin drove about Brenton to the various girls and boys who were expected, and invited them for Tuesday evening, explaining to them at the same time what they were to do.

It was an old-fashioned tea-party, and the guests began to arrive at six o'clock. There were twenty in all, and they came hurrying in out of the cold, and up-stairs to remove their heavy wraps, the girls tripping down again in their dainty evening dresses, while the boys stood about the doorways in rather an aimless fashion, wondering what they were expected to do at such a very peculiar tea-party as this seemed to be.

It added to the mystery that each was given a card with his or her own name prettily printed upon it, and a little pencil attached.

"I never heard of anything like it, don't you know," drawled Bronson. "I'll be hanged if I know what to talk about."

After supper, which was very jolly and effectually broke the ice, Mr. Franklin made a little speech.

"You are all supposed to be somebody, and no one but my wife knows which is which," he said. "The object is for each one to guess as many characters as possible from their conversation, and when you have made up your mind who some one is, you will write the name on your card, with the name of the person you are guessing about. When your card is filled with twenty-four names, which means that you have given a guess about every one here, you will hand it in. Then the prizes will be bestowed."

"Prizes!" was murmured by the girls; "how lovely!" while the boys looked relieved as the matter became clearer.

Cynthia turned to her nearest neighbor and began to talk.

"Good-evening!" she said; "did you see anything of my broom? I forgot to bring it along. Dear me, there's a lot to be done up there," gazing towards the ceiling; "why didn't I bring it along?"

The neighbor chanced to be Dennis Morgan.

"I haven't seen your broom," he replied, "but I'm going to find out why you want it. The trouble is, I've come too soon, I think, and I can't find my way; but I can't tell you where I want to go, or you would guess me on the spot."

"Ho!" laughed Cynthia; "I know where you want to go. I think you would like a glass of water, wouldn't you? For I am sure you have burned your mouth," she added, in a whisper.

Then she wrote on her card: "Dennis Morgan—Man in the Moon."

"Pshaw! How did you guess me so soon? And I haven't the ghost of an idea who you are. Let me see, you want your broom. I can't imagine why you need a broom."

"Cobwebs, cobwebs everywhere," murmured Cynthia, as she turned away and listened to the conversation that was being carried on between Neal and Gertrude Morgan.

"I'm a wonderful man," said Neal. "In fact, I don't know but what I'm about as great a person as you ever heard of. You can't mention my name without alluding to it."

"I don't believe you are half as great as I am," retorted Gertrude, "only I don't talk as much about it. Why, I am a queen."

"And I am a king. What kind of a queen are you?"

"I rule over a very important kingdom, and not only do I reign but I can cook, too. I am one of those very convenient people to have about that can turn their hand to almost anything, but I am chiefly celebrated for my cookery. I made something very nice one hot summer day—"

"Take care, Gertrude!" cried Cynthia; "I know you." And she wrote on her card: "Gertrude Morgan—Queen of Hearts."

"Oh come, Cynth, that's too bad!" exclaimed Neal. "I can't guess her at all, but it's because I am so taken up reading a wonderful book when I am very young, and making colored candles, and all that sort of thing."

"Why, I thought you said you were a king?" said Gertrude.

"So I am; a terribly good sort, too."

At last Gertrude guessed him, and wrote "Alfred the Great" with his name on her card.

Neal, however, could not discover who she was, not being as well posted in "Mother Goose" as was Cynthia.

The one who was most mysterious was Edith. For a long time no one could imagine who she was.

"I have had a great many adventures," she said, as they gathered about her. "I have travelled to places that the rest of you have never been to. I have played games with a duchess, and I've taken care of a duchess's baby. A great many of my friends talk poetry. I have long, light hair, and sometimes I'm tall and sometimes I'm short."

"Never short, Edith, I'm sure," said Neal. Every one laughed, for they teased Edith about her stately height.

"I know you! I know you!" cried Cynthia, dancing with glee; "you told too much that time," and she hastily scribbled "Alice in Wonderland" on her card.

She herself, as the "Old woman who swept the cobwebs from the sky," was easily guessed, much to her own chagrin.

At last each one had written twenty-four names on his or her card, and they were given to Mrs. Franklin for inspection. Some funny mistakes were made, and as they were read out they created much merriment.

Somebody thought Yankee Doodle must be Paul Revere, because he had been spoken of as a rider; Julius Cæsar and Columbus were hopelessly mixed, both having mentioned themselves as crossing the water, and it being impossible, from the description given, to distinguish between the Rubicon and the Atlantic Ocean; the Lady of the Lake and Pocahontas were confused, as they each saved a life; and every one mistook the Old Woman that lived in a Shoe for Puss in Boots, because of her persistent talk about foot-wear.

Cynthia bad made a greater number of correct guesses than any one, but as she was one of the hostesses she could not, of course, claim a prize, so it fell to Tony Bronson, who was next on the list. Cynthia turned away to hide the grimace which she could not repress when the dear little clock in a red-leather case was given to him as first prize.

Kitty Morgan, Gertrude's cousin, was awarded the "booby" prize, for having made the poorest guesses—a dainty little pin, which, she said, quite repaid her for her stupidity; while one of the Brenton girls, whose list was next best to Bronson's, received a pretty silver-framed calendar as "Consolation."

It made a merry evening, and after the game was over they danced and played other games until it was time to go home. It was eleven o'clock when the last sleigh drove away.

"Only an hour to midnight," said Cynthia; "can't we sit up and see the old year out? Do, papa, let us! We never have, and it must be such fun. We couldn't go to sleep, anyhow, after such an exciting evening."

Mr. Franklin consented, and they sat about the fire discussing the success of the game and the girls and boys who had been there, one or two of whom remained for the night at Oakleigh.

Neal and Cynthia were alone for a few moments. They had gone out into the hall to see the hour by the tall clock, and they found the hands pointing to ten minutes of twelve.

"Let us wait here for it to strike," said Cynthia, going to the window.

The lamp had gone out in the hall, and it was but dimly lighted from the room where the family were sitting. Outside, the moon was shining on the white fields and frozen river. The old year was dying in a flood of glory.

"I always feel so full of good resolutions on New Year's Eve," said Cynthia, in a low voice; "I wish I could keep them all."

"So do I," returned Neal. "I am always turning over a new leaf. I must have turned over three volumes of new leaves by this time. But they don't amount to much."

"It is discouraging, isn't it? I have never said anything about it to any one before. It seems to me I am always breaking my good resolutions."

"I don't see how. First of all, it doesn't seem as if you did anything that is wrong—a girl doesn't have much chance to."

"Oh yes, she does. You don't know. And I have so many faults. There are my bureau drawers—I can't keep them neat, and my clothes would be all in tatters if it were not for Edith and mamma. And, worst of all, there is my tongue."

"Your tongue?"

"Yes. It is such fun to make fun of people and say sharp things when I don't like them—the kind of thing I am always saying to that Bronson."

Neal laughed, and then he sighed.

"You are putting me into a bad corner. If you think your faults are so tremendous, what must you think of mine? I'm a thief and a coward."

"Neal!"

"Yes, I am. I am a thief because I don't pay that money. I had no business to borrow it in the first place, and I could save it out of my allowance if I would take the trouble, but I am too lazy; and I am such a coward I won't ask Hessie for it, because I am ashamed to have your father know it. It's all a nasty business, anyway."

He looked moodily out on the snow, drumming his fingers on the window-pane.

"Neal," said Cynthia, softly touching his arm with her hand as she spoke, "let's turn over one more new leaf. I will look out for my tongue and my bureau drawers, and you will tell mamma everything and start fresh. Will you, Neal? Promise!"

Before he answered the clock began to strike.

"Happy New Year! Happy New Year!" was heard from the parlor. "Neal and Cynthia, where are you? Come in here, that we may all be together when the clock stops striking."

So the old year died, and Neal had not given the required promise.

One day, shortly before he returned to St. Asaph's, he said to his sister:

"Hessie, if I had been of age I think I would have tried to break that will of grandmother's."

"Oh, Neal dear, don't say that! What do you mean?"

"Well, it isn't that I mind your having the money; you have always been a brick about keeping me supplied; but the trouble is, I need more than you give me."

"Neal, I am afraid you are spending too much," said Mrs. Franklin, looking at him anxiously. "Are you in debt again? You know I would love to give you all I have, but your guardians and the trustees of the estate and John all think that you have a very large allowance for a school-boy, and it would not be a good plan to let you have any more."

"Bother them all!" exclaimed Neal, seizing the poker and giving the fire an angry thrust. A shower of sparks flew out, but he let one burn a hole in the rug without noticing. "I'm tired of being tied to your apron-string. I've a good mind to cut loose altogether."

"Don't say that!" cried Mrs. Franklin, in distress, going to him and putting her arm through his. He was taller than she, and she had to look up at him.

"If it were only you, it would be different," continued her brother; "but you see you're married now, and everything is changed."

"But John is fond of you, Neal; I know he is. But he knows all about boys, and his advice is good. Would—would five dollars help you?"

"You're a good little soul, Hessie," said Neal, looking down at her affectionately, his momentary ill-humor passing, "and I suppose it is not your fault if you can't give me any more. No, thank you; I won't take the fiver. Don't worry about me. Here comes Jack in the cutter; we're going to the village." And in a moment he was off.

The next day he went back to St. Asaph's.

The winter passed quickly after Christmas had come and gone, and all had settled down again to the regular routine of work. Mrs. Franklin could not help feeling anxious about Neal. She confided her fears to her husband, but he made light of them.

"The boy only wanted more spending-money, Hester. He is very extravagant, and you will be doing very wrongly if you supply him with more money. His allowance is too large, at any rate, for a boy of his age. Jack gets along perfectly well with just one-fifth the amount."

"But Jack is different,"

"Very different, and Neal ought to be different, too. You paid his debts in the fall, which were enormous for a school-boy, and then he was free to start afresh. You will never cure him of extravagance if you keep him supplied with all the money he wants."

Mrs. Franklin was forced to acknowledge the truth of her husband's remarks. She said no more, though she was none the less worried.

Cynthia noticed that her step-mother was not as light-hearted as formerly. They were going in to Boston one Saturday morning to do some shopping together. Cynthia had decided to buy a watch with Aunt Betsey's money, and she had brought the gold pieces with her.

"I am so afraid of losing them I don't know what to do," she said. "Fifty dollars is so enormous, isn't it? Please take it in your bag, mamma; I know I shall lose it."

Mrs. Franklin smiled absently, and when she had put away the money she looked out of the window again.

"Mamma," said Cynthia, leaning towards her, "you are worried about something, aren't you? Tell me, is it Neal?"

Mrs. Franklin looked startled.

"I did not know I had such a tell-tale face," she said; "yes, you have guessed it, Cynthia. I cannot help feeling worried about him. I have not heard from him for some time, and that makes me uneasy. But it is just fancy, and will pass off. Probably there will be a letter from him to-night."

Cynthia also had remarked on Neal's silence, and this confirmed her fears. She did not say anything more to Mrs. Franklin, however, for Neal had again made her promise to repeat nothing he had told her.

"I'll never confide in you again if you tell," he had said; so, of course, Cynthia had promised.

Her mind was busy during the remainder of the trip to Boston, and when the train glided into the station she had determined to put her thoughts into action.

"We will go to Shreve's and then to Bigelow's to look at watches," said Mrs. Franklin, as they walked across the Common. "We had better look at both places before you decide."

"I have changed my mind, mamma. I don't think I will buy a watch."

"Why, Cynthia!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin, almost stopping short in her surprise; "you want one so much!"

"No, I don't think I do—at least, not just now. Let us just go buy the clothes, and I'll keep Aunt Betsey's money a little longer."

She would give no further explanation, and her mother could not induce her even to glance at the watches in Shreve's window. No; she had decided that she did not need one.

When they reached home she took the money and went to her own room. She was standing by the window, carefully packing the coins in a little box with cotton, and about to do it up for the mail—for she knew no better way of sending the money—when she heard the sound of wheels on the drive.

Looking out, she saw one of the depot carriages approaching, and in the vehicle was Neal himself.

Full of apprehension, dreading she knew not what, Cynthia dropped the box of money and flew down-stairs.

It was not vacation, it was the middle of the school-term.

Why had Neal come home?

CHAPTER XII

"Why has he come home?"

This was the question on the lips of each one of the family when they heard of Neal's arrival.

It was soon answered. He had been suspended.

He would give little explanation; he merely asserted that he was innocent of that of which he was accused. Some of the boys, the most unmanageable at St. Asaph's, had plotted to do some mischief. Neal, being more or less intimate with the set, was asked to join in the plot, but refused. He was with the boys, however, up to the moment of their putting it into execution. Afterwards, circumstances pointed to his having been concerned in it, and his known intimacy with these very boys condemned him.

There was but one person who could prove absolutely that he had not been with the culprits that night, and that person held his peace.

Of course Cynthia rightly suspected that it was Bronson.

A letter came from the head-master of the school, stating the facts as they appeared to him, and announcing with regret that he had been obliged to suspend Neal Gordon for the remainder of the term.

It was an unfortunate affair altogether. Neal was moody and low-spirited, and he was deeply offended that his story was not universally believed, for the household was divided in regard to it.

Jack and Cynthia stoutly maintained his innocence, Mr. Franklin and Edith looked at the worst side of it, while Mrs. Franklin was undecided in her opinion.

She wanted to believe her brother's word, she did believe it, and yet all the proven facts were so hopelessly against him. The other boys that had been suspended were his friends. Neal had been reproved before for mischief that he had been in with them. It was one of those sad cases when a man's past record counts against him, no matter how innocent he may be of the present offence. But Hester could not believe that her brother would lie to her.

One morning Edith drove her father to the train. Not a vestige of snow was left near the road; only a patch or two on the hills, and even that was rapidly disappearing in the spring sunshine which every day grew warmer.

"Have you heard much about St. Asaph's from any one but Neal?" asked Mr. Franklin, abruptly. "Doesn't that cousin of the Morgans' go there?"

"Do you mean Tom, papa? Yes, he does, and Tony Bronson, too, who stays at the Morgans' occasionally. Don't you know? He was at our New Year's Eve party."

"I think I remember. Did you ever hear either of them speak of Neal, or discuss him in any way?"

Edith hesitated.

"Tom Morgan never did," she said at last.

"And the other fellow?"

"Yes, he said something. Really, papa, I wish you wouldn't ask me."

"What nonsense! Of course it is your duty to tell me, Edith. It is right that I should know how Neal stands with his class. What did the boy say?"

"He spoke as if Neal were in some scrape, and he wished that he could help him out."

"He is a friend of Neal's, then?"

"I don't know. He spoke very nicely of him and really seemed to want to help him, but Cynthia didn't believe that when I told her. She seemed to think he was an enemy of Neal's. But then Cynthia can't bear him, you know. She took one of her tremendous prejudices against Tony Bronson, the way she often does, and she wouldn't believe there was a bit of good in him."

"But you liked him?"

"Yes, very much. I think he is conceited, but then so many boys are that. As far as I could see he is a very nice fellow and the Morgans like him ever so much. The only people that I know of who don't like him are Jack and Cynthia and Neal."

"I don't believe there is much doubt that Neal has been very wild all the time he has been at St. Asaph's," observed Mr. Franklin; "this only goes to prove it. Bronson was not in that set, evidently, as he was not one of those who were suspended, and I have no doubt he is a very good sort of fellow. It is a pity Neal doesn't see more of him."

They drew up at the post-office, and Mr. Franklin went in to get the letters. He came out with quite a budget, and stood at the carriage looking hastily over them.

"All of these are to go home," he said, giving a number to Edith; "here is one for me with the St. Asaph's post-mark. I will see what it is."

He tore it open and glanced at the signature. Then he looked up quickly.

"What was that Bronson fellow's name, Edith?"

"Tony."

"Then this is from him. Odd we should just have been talking about him. Humph!"

Mr. Franklin's face grew grave, then angry, as he read the letter.

"That boy will come to no good end," he muttered. "I don't know what we are going to do with him."

Edith watched him curiously. She wished that her father would give her the letter to read, but he did not. People were hurrying by to the station, which was but a few steps from the post-office.

"You will miss your train, Franklin," said some one, tapping him on the shoulder.

Mr. Franklin glanced at the clock in the station tower, found that he had but half a minute, and with a hasty good-bye to Edith, and strict injunctions not to mention Bronson's letter at home, he ran for his train, thrusting the mysterious note into his pocket as he went.

Edith did the errands and drove home again, after a brief call upon Gertrude Morgan, who was full of curiosity about Neal's return.

"I always knew he was pretty gay," she said. "Of course Tom and Tony Bronson wouldn't say much—boys never do, you know; but I gathered from certain things that Neal was—well, rather sporty, to say the least."

Edith drove homeward rather slowly. She was very sorry about it all: sorry for Neal himself, whom she liked, despite the fact that he was a Gordon; sorry for her stepmother, whom she told herself she disliked; and yet Mrs. Franklin's unvarying kindness and sweet temper had not been without good results. Edith had softened greatly towards her, more than she herself was aware of. She still continued to assure herself that it was an unfortunate day for them when the Gordons came, and she worked herself into a temper when she thought of the added worriment it gave her father to have Neal behave as he had done.

"Papa looked so anxious this morning when he read that letter," she said to herself; "it is too bad. I do wonder what was in it, and from Tony Bronson, too! What would Gertrude have said if I had told her?"

In the meantime Mr. Franklin was reading his letter again.

"MY DEAR MR. FRANKLIN [it ran],—It is with great regret that I am obliged to call a little matter to your attention. I had hoped that it would not be necessary. Your brother-in-law, Neal Gordon, owes me a small amount, fifty dollars, in fact, and I am at present really in need of the money. I have waited for it a good while, nearly a year, and there are one or two bills that I am expected to pay out of my allowance, which I am unable to do until Gordon pays me.

"Of course, I dislike very much to dun him for it when he is in disgrace, but really I see no other way out of the difficulty than to ask you if you will kindly forward a check to my order.

"Very truly yours,
"ANTHONY BRONSON.

"St. Asaph's, April 2d."

This letter had cost the writer much thought. He had written several copies before he was altogether satisfied, but at last the result pleased him.

"I call it rather neat," he said, as he folded it carefully and addressed the envelope with an extra flourish. "This will bring the roof down on our fine high-and-mighty Mr. Gordon, if nothing else does. I fancy that brother-in-law of his has a nice little temper of his own, and it will be so pleasant for Gordie to be nagged by a brother-in-law!"

When Edith got back to Oakleigh the morning that Bronson's note was received, she found wild excitement raging, which, for a time, made her forget the letter.

Some of the Leghorn pullets, which, unfortunately, could fly high, had escaped from the yard, notwithstanding the wire netting which enclosed them, and had been having a fine time scratching and pecking in entirely new hunting grounds, when Bob happened along.

Here was his chance. For many months he had been waiting for this very moment. What was the use of being a sporting dog, if he could not now and then indulge his hunting proclivities? His master had gone on the river and left him at home—his master did not treat him well, nowadays. Bob felt neglected. He would have one good time.

He waited his opportunity, and when it came he made the most of it. A fine fat hen, peacefully pecking a worm, found the tables suddenly turned. Instead of the worm being in her mouth, she found herself in the mouth of the horrible black object which she had often seen peering greedily at her through the fence. Oh, that she had never flown over that fence! She gave one despairing "cluck" as she was borne madly through the air, and then was silent forever.

Janet and Willy, playing near, heard the noise and followed in pursuit, calling Cynthia as they did so, who, seeing what was the matter, flew from the house, dog-whip in hand. The boys were both on the river.

For a time the chase was hopeless. Bob had not waited all these months for nothing; he had no intention of dropping the prize at the first command. Round and round he tore, leading his pursuers a pretty dance, through orchard and field, over the lawn and through the currant-bushes. Cynthia fell at this particular point with Janet and Willy on top of her, but they picked themselves up and started again.

At last Mrs. Franklin, coming out, headed Bob off, and Cynthia grasped his collar.

"Bad dog!" she cried. "Neal told me I was to punish you, and I mean to do it."

She cut him with the short whip, but it was of no avail. Bob had dropped the chicken, and, wild with excitement, sprang for her hand. She only succeeded in lashing herself with the whip.

"It's no use," she said, at last; "I've got to punish him some other way. The boys won't be home for ever so long, and it won't do to wait."

"I have always heard the only way of curing a dog of killing hens was to tie one around his neck," said Mrs. Franklin, doubtfully. "Perhaps it had better be done. We will call one of the men."

"No, I will do it all," said Cynthia; "it's not a very nice piece of work, but I'll do it."

"POOR BOB: HIS JOY HAD BEEN QUICKLY TURNED TO MOURNING"

Cord was brought, and she finally succeeded in attaching the defunct hen to Bob's collar. Poor Bob! His joy had been quickly turned to mourning. And now this stern Cynthia—she who had hitherto been apparently so affably disposed towards him—fastened him to the hitching-post, and came with a horrid horsewhip to chastise him! Bob never forgot that morning. He always thought of Cynthia with more respect after that.

When Neal came home he highly approved of all the proceedings except the horsewhip.

"Couldn't you do it with his own whip?" he asked. "It places a dog at a mean disadvantage to tie him up and then whip him. It is so lowering to his dignity."

"One of us had to be at a disadvantage," said Cynthia, indignantly, "and I should think it was better for Bob to be at it than for me. And as for his dignity, I think it ought to be lowered."

To which wise remark Neal was forced to agree.

Jack was much disgusted at losing one of his best hens. What with the fox last winter, and a neighbor's dog that had killed seven, and a peculiar disease which had taken off fifty, luck seemed to be against the poultry business. But, undiscouraged, Jack had refilled the machine and was awaiting results. Some of last year's hens had begun to lay, and he was sending eggs to the Boston markets. There were actually a few more figures on the page for receipts.

Bob's misdemeanor temporarily diverted the minds of the family from the trouble about Neal, but Mr. Franklin's return that night brought up the subject again to some of them.

He told his wife that he wished to speak with her, and together they went into the library and shut the door. He laid two letters before her on the table—the one he had received that morning from Bronson, and a second one from the same source, which had come by the evening mail. The latter was very brief:

"MY DEAR MR. FRANKLIN,—The very day that I sent my letter to you I received a money-order from Gordon for the amount he owed me.

"Regretting very much that I should have troubled you, I have the honor to be

"Very truly yours,
"ANTHONY BRONSON."

"What does it mean?" asked Mr. Franklin, when his wife had finished reading the letters.

"I cannot imagine," said she, looking up, completely mystified.

"Did you lend him the money?"

"No, certainly not. I should have told you, John, if I had," she added, reproachfully.

"I know," he said, as he walked up and down the room, "but I could not account for it in any other way. It is extraordinary."

"Suppose we send for Neal and ask him about it."

When Neal came he was given the two letters to read. He did so, and laid them down without a word.

"Well, what have you got to say for yourself?" asked his brother-in-law, impatiently.

"Nothing."

"Neal, dear, you must explain," said Hester.

"Why should I explain? I paid the debt. It doesn't make any difference to either of you how I did it."

"It makes a great deal of difference," exclaimed Mr. Franklin, who was rapidly growing angry. "In the first place, how did you come to be owing fifty dollars so soon after the other debt was paid? What did you do with the first fifty your sister gave you in the fall?"

"Spent it."

"Neal!" cried Hester. "Didn't you pay your debts then? Why didn't you?"

He said nothing.

"It is an abominable affair altogether," said Mr. Franklin. "You were in debt, which you had no business to be. You obtained money from Hester to pay the debt, and then, according to your own words, you spent it otherwise. You get into a bad scrape and are suspended. And now you obtain money in some peculiar way, and refuse to explain how."

"Hold on a minute, Mr. Franklin," said Neal, who was in a towering rage by this time. "You go a little too far. I don't consider that it is at all necessary for me to explain to you, but I am willing to do it on Hessie's account. I did not say that I spent her money otherwise. I merely said that I spent it, which was perfectly true. I spent it paying half my debt. I owed a hundred dollars at that time, instead of fifty as I told you. I paid half then, and the rest I paid a few days ago, and it doesn't make any difference to you or any one else how I got the money. As for the scrape, I was not in it. You can believe my word or not, as you like. I've said all I am going to say, and if you don't mind I'll leave you. I've had enough of this."

He stalked out of the library, and went up to his own room. No one saw him again that evening.

"You are too hard on him, John," said Mrs. Franklin.

"Hard on him! It would have been better for the boy if some one had begun earlier to be hard on him. It is the most extraordinary thing where he got that money."

Nothing was said to the others about it all. They knew that Neal was in fresh disgrace, but Mr. and Mrs. Franklin withheld the details at present. Neal himself was dumb. Not even to his only confidante, Cynthia, did he unburden himself. He was too angry with her father to trust himself to speak to her on the subject, and his silence made Cynthia miserable.

Neal did not acknowledge for a moment that the stand taken by Mr. Franklin was perfectly justifiable and natural, and he allowed his resentment to burn furiously, making no effort to overcome it.

His mistake from the beginning had been concealment, but this he had yet to realize. He fancied that it would be lowering to his pride to make any explanation whatever.

Let them think what they liked, he did not care, he said to himself again and again.

CHAPTER XIII

During these early months of the year a change had come over Miss Betsey Trinkett's life. Silas Green had died.

Mr. and Mrs. Franklin went to Wayborough for the funeral, and found Miss Betsey quite broken.

"To think that the day was fixed at last," she said, "and he died only the week before. Well, well, it does seem passing queer, after all these years. It doesn't do to put a thing off too long. And yet, perhaps, it's all for the best, for if I'd given up and gone down there to live, I should have had nothing now to look at but the Soldiers' Monument, and I'd have felt real lonesome without the Merrimac."

And with this consolation the old lady took up her life again, and found it very much the same thing it had been before, with the exception of Sunday night. On that evening she would not have the lamps lighted, but would sit in her favorite window and look out across the valley at her beloved view, her eyes turned in that direction long after it became too dark to see.

Sometimes then she regretted that she had not yielded to Silas's arguments, and gone to live in the house in the village. It would have pleased him. And it seemed very lonely Sunday night without Silas.

After a while—it was a day or two after the communications came from Bronson—Mr. Franklin received a letter from his aunt. She was pretty well, but felt as if she had not heard from them for a long time. She would send Willy's present soon. Had Janet's been placed in the savings-bank? She had not heard from Janet since she sent it. Why did not the child write?

As nothing had come to Janet from Miss Trinkett, this caused some surprise.

"I am afraid Aunt Betsey has trusted to government once too often," said Mr. Franklin, "for evidently the package has gone astray. I wonder what was there besides the gold dollars."

"Something to make it an odd-looking package, you may be sure, papa," said Cynthia.

Mr. Franklin inquired of the postmaster. That personage was a nervous little man, much harassed with the responsibilities and duties of his position.

"Something lost, Mr. Franklin? Now that's very strange. I can't think it's lost. Yes, I remember a number of odd-looking packages that have come for your family from Wayborough. There may have been one lately, though I can't say for sure. Let me see. I remember young Gordon coming for the mail one day, and getting—no, he didn't get one, he sent it—a money-order. Happen to remember it because he paid for it in gold. That's all I can safely say about anything, Mr. Franklin. There may have been a package—what did you say, Miss? Stamps and postal-cards? Yes, yes."

And the busy little man turned to the next comer.

Mr. Franklin left the office with a thoughtful face. He was a very impulsive man, too apt to say the first thing that occurred to him, without regard to consequences. Therefore, when he got into the carriage and, taking the reins from Edith, drove hurriedly out High Street towards Oakleigh, he exclaimed:

"I am almost inclined to believe that Neal knows more about Aunt Betsey's present to Janet than any of us."

Janet, who was perched on the back seat, heard her own name mentioned, and proceeded to listen attentively. Both her father and sister forgot that she was there, and she took especial pains not to remind them of her presence.

"How do you mean, papa?" asked Edith.

"I think it is a remarkable coincidence, if nothing more. I had a letter the other day from young Bronson, stating that Neal owed him fifty dollars. The same night I had another letter from him, saying that he had received a money-order from Neal for the amount. We questioned Neal, and he would give no satisfactory answer as to where he got the money. The postmaster tells me that Neal paid for his money-order in gold. Aunt Betsey's present to Janet is missing; we all know that Aunt Betsey always sends gold. The postmaster seems to think that a package may have come through the office to us, though he is not absolutely certain of it. What more natural than to suppose that the gold Neal had was meant for Janet? He may have called for the mail that day, recognized the package from Aunt Betsey, and the temptation was too much for him."

"Oh, papa!" cried Edith, much shocked, "I can't believe that Neal would do a thing like that."

"I can't either," said her father, cutting the air with his whip in his impatience, and making his horse prance madly—"I can't either, and I am sure I don't want to! Let us forget that I said it, Edith. Don't think of it again, and on no account repeat what I said. The idea came into my head, and I spoke without thinking. I wouldn't have Hester know it for the world. But it is strange, isn't it, that Neal paid gold for his money-order. Where did he get it?"

"It is strange, papa, but indeed I think Neal is honest. I am sure—oh, I am very sure—that it couldn't have been Janet's."

"Then where did he get it?" repeated Mr. Franklin, with another cut of his whip.

"Perhaps Mrs. Franklin gave it to him."

"Of course she didn't," exclaimed her father, with irritation, "and I wish you would oblige me, Edith, by not calling my wife 'Mrs. Franklin.' If you do not choose to speak of her as the rest of my children do, you can at least call her 'Hester.' You annoy me beyond measure."

Edith turned very white as she said:

"I am sorry, papa. Then I will call her nothing. I can't possibly say 'mamma' to her, and I don't feel like speaking to her by her first name."

"What nonsense it all is," said Mr. Franklin. "I am thoroughly disappointed in you, Edith."

"I don't know why you should be, papa. I have nothing to do with it. If the Gordons had not come here this would never have happened. The money would not be missing, you wouldn't have had the letters from Tony Bronson, and I—oh, I would have been so much happier!"

"If you are not happy, it is entirely your own fault," said her father, sternly. "Now let me hear no more of these absurd notions of yours. I have too much to think of that is of more importance."

Edith wanted to cry, but she controlled herself. She was to drive with her father over to Upper Falls, where he had to attend to some business, and now she had made him seriously angry, she knew. She swallowed the lumps that rose in her throat, and presently she managed to speak on some indifferent subject; but her father made no reply, and they soon turned in at Oakleigh gates. Janet, the small, quiet person on the back seat, could scarcely wait to get home. She must find Neal at once.

But Neal was not easily to be found. She trotted up to his room, but he was not there. She went to the cellar stairs and called, but Neal had neglected his duties of late as partner in the poultry business; in fact, he had retired altogether, and the eggs reposed there alone. Janet was not allowed to descend the stairs because of her misdemeanors last year.

She went to the workshop, but all was quiet. Looking out from the upper window, however, she spied Bob in the pasture; perhaps Neal was with him. She went down and unfastened the big gate that opened into the barn-yard.

Country child though she was, Janet was sorely afraid of venturing through the barn-yard alone. Were there any pigs there? Yes, there were a great many. Janet detested pigs, ugly grunting creatures! And there were some cows also, and she had on her red jacket. She promptly laid it aside and made a bold rush through the yard.

On the whole, she rather enjoyed the excitement. She was alone, for Willy had gone to Boston with her mother, and Cynthia and Jack were at school. Janet herself was enjoying an unlooked-for holiday owing to the illness of her teacher, and she was about to fulfil the proverb which tells of the occupation that is found for idle hands to do, though in this case it was an idle tongue.

The dangers of the barn-yard overcome, Janet pursued her way along the cart-road that led to the far meadow, and there, sitting on a rock near the river, she found the object of her search. He was whittling a boat while he pondered moodily about his affairs.

"Neal, Neal!" she called, breathless from excitement and haste, "I want to speak to you. What have you done with my present?"

"Where did you come from, you small imp?" said Neal, with lazy good-nature. Preoccupied though he was, he was fond of children, and particularly of mischief-loving Janet, and he was not sorry to have his solitude relieved by her coming.

"Where's my present?" repeated Janet; "I want it dreadful bad."

"Your present! What do you mean, young one? You don't suppose for an instant that I'm making this boat for you, do you?"

"Boat!" cried Janet, disdainfully; "I don't want any old boat; I want Aunt Betsey's present."

"I suppose you do. I would myself if I were so lucky as to own an Aunt Betsey. But I'm afraid I can't help you in that line, my child."

"Yes, you can," said Janet, tugging at his elbow, "you can too. You've got it. Papa said so."

"Got what?"

"Aunt Betsey's present. He and the postmaster man said you took it."

"Said I took it?"

"Yes. Come, Neal, give it to me. I don't want the gold dollars—you can have those—but I'd like the funny thing she sent with them. Aunt Betsey allus sends funny things. Come along, Neal. Give it to me."

"Did your father say I took that money?"

"Yes, he did. Didn't I say so lots of times? Edith said you didn't, and papa said you did. What's the matter with your face? It looks awful funny."

"Never mind what it looks like. Tell me what your father said."

"Oh, I don't know what he said, and I've told you ten hundred times. Don't hold my arm so tight; it hurts. Let me go, Neal."

[Illustration: "'DON'T HOLD MY ARM SO TIGHT; IT HURTS'"
(Missing from source book)]

"I won't, till you tell me what he said."

"I'll never tell unless you let go. I'll scream and people'll know you're killing me dead, and then you'll get punished."

She opened her mouth and gave a long, shrill shriek.

"Oh, hush up!" exclaimed Neal, roughly; "if I let go will you tell me?"

"Yes, if you'll give me that boat. I think I'd like it, after all."

Neal released her and thrust the boat into her hand.

"Now what?" he said.

"Oh, nothing much, except papa came out of the post-office and told Edith the postmaster man said maybe you'd taken Aunt Betsey's package, 'cause you gave him some gold dollars. And papa said it must have been my present, 'cause you couldn't get gold dollars any other way no-how, and papa was mad, I guess, 'cause his face looked the way it does when some of us chillens is naughty, with his mouth all shut up tight. There, that's all. Now, Neal, give me the thing Aunt Betsey sent."

"I haven't got it and I never had it. And now good-bye to you, every one of you, forever! Do you hear? Forever! I'm not going to stay another minute in a place where I'm insulted."

He strode away, and Janet, frightened at she knew not what, sat down on a rock and began to cry. How very queer Neal was, and how queer his face looked! She wondered what he was going to do. Perhaps he was going down to the cellar to smash all the eggs. He looked that way.

She sat there a while, but it was cool without the red jacket, left on the other side of the barn-yard—for although it was spring according to the almanac, there was still a sharpness in the air—and very soon she too went towards home. She had not found Aunt Betsey's present, after all, and she had nothing to repay her for her search but a half-made wooden boat and an aching arm.

And there were those pigs, still at large. She got through safely, but left the gate open, thereby allowing the animals to escape, and incurring the wrath of the farmer.

When she reached the house Neal was not to be found. There was no one at home, for Edith and her father had driven over to Upper Falls on business, after leaving Janet at the door. There was nothing to do but to go out and tease the good-natured kitchen-maid into giving her a huge slice of bread and butter and sugar. Mary Ann and Martha, the old servants, would never do it, but the youthful Amanda was more lenient.

"Where's Neal, 'Manda?" asked Janet, as she munched the delicious portion which was placed before her. They were in the pantry, beyond the ken of the other maids.

"I don't know. He came a-stalkin' past the latching windies a little while ago, an' I heard him run up-stairs an' down like a house a-fire, an' out the front door with a bang."

"Guess he's excited," murmured Janet, with her mouth full; "guess that must be it. He's gone off mad. We had a fight out in the pasture."

"La, child! What do you mean?"

"Oh, I'm not going to say any more, 'cept me and Neal, we fit a fight in the pasture. I made him awful mad," with another huge bite.

"La, child, you do beat everything! But there's Mary Ann calling me. Don't you take a bit more sugar. Now mind!"

But Janet, left to herself in the pantry, made a fine repast.

The family came home to dinner, with the exception of Mr. Franklin and Edith, and although Neal's absence was commented upon, no one thought anything of it. He frequently went off for a long day alone on the river.

When the meal was nearly over and dessert had been placed upon the table, Janet thought that she would announce what had taken place. She felt quite important at being the cause of Neal's disappearance.

"Guess Neal's awful mad with me," she said, suddenly. No one paid much attention. She would try again.

"Guess Neal's awful mad with me 'bout what I said 'bout Aunt Betsey's present."

"What did you say about it?" asked Jack, who sat next to her. There was a lull in the conversation, and every one heard her reply.

"Oh, I told him to give it to me. I said papa said he took it, and he could have the gold dollars, but I wanted the funny thing. Why, maybe it was a doll or a purse or some other nice thing. Course I wanted it. My, though, Neal was mad!"

"What did you tell him, Janet?" asked Mrs. Franklin, in much astonishment; "that your father said Neal had taken your present? When did he say so, and what do you mean?"

"Goody, mamma, you're asking most as many questions as Neal did. Guess you're excited, like he was. I told him papa said he'd taken my present from Aunt Betsey. The postmaster man said so this morning. And Neal looked awful queer when I told him, and he hurted my arm awful bad. And then he went off and left me."

Mrs. Franklin became very white.

"I think you will have to excuse me, children. I—I do not feel very well. I will go lie down. Jack, your arm, please."

Jack sprang to help her and led her from the room. Cynthia only waited to scold Janet for her idle chatter and then followed.

"But it's true, Cynthia," her small sister called after her. "It's true, and you're real mean to say it isn't. You just ask Edith."

When Mr. Franklin returned and learned that his hastily uttered words of the morning had been repeated to his wife and to Neal, he was distressed beyond measure.

"My dear, I never meant it," he said. "Hester, you must know that I could not really believe that Neal would do such a thing. It was impossible to help remarking upon the singular coincidence. I never thought the child would hear me. What shall I do with her? She ought not to have repeated what I said."

"Do nothing, John. Janet is not to blame; naturally a child of her age would get it wrong. But oh, I am relieved to find you did not really think it! It gave me such a shock to hear that you thought him capable of such an action."

"Where is the boy? I want to tell him myself."

But Neal could not be found. Cynthia and Jack hunted over the place, looking for him in all his haunts. He was not on the river, for his canoe was in its place. He had not gone to the village, for no horse was out, and, whether he had walked or driven, his sister would have met him when she returned from Boston. He could not have gone for a walk, for Bob had been left at home, and Neal never walked without Bob.

A horrible foreboding seized Cynthia. What if Neal had run away? But no, surely he would never do such a thing. The idea of her even thinking of it when such a course would only make people believe that he had really taken the money. Cynthia scolded herself severely for having allowed the supposition to come into her mind. But where was he? As a last resource she called Janet to her and again questioned the child closely. They were standing on the drive in front of the house.

"What did Neal say to you, Janet, when he went off?"

"Oh, he was awful mad, I told you, Cynthia. He was just mad."

"But did he say anything?"

"Oh yes, lots. But I forget what."

"Can't you remember anything, Janet? Not one word? Did he say where he was going?"

"No-o," drawled Janet, "he just said— My, Cynthia, look at that bluebird! It's a real bluebird, sure's you're alive. Wish I could catch him."

"But, Janet, never mind the bird. What did Neal say?"

"Oh, he said good-bye and he was going. Cynthia, I b'lieve if I had some salt to put on that bird's tail I could catch him. Mayn't I, Cynthia? Mayn't I get some salt and put it on his tail?"

"No, you can't!" cried Cynthia, stamping her foot. "I do wish you would tell me all Neal said."

"There now, you're in an angry passion," observed her small sister, gazing at her calmly; "you've let your angry passions rise. You frightened that bird away, a-stampin' of your foot that way. Aren't you 'shamed!"

"Oh, Janet, never mind. Please tell me. Did he really say good-bye?"

"Will you give me your coral necklace if I tell you all he said?" said Janet, who was ever prompt to seize an opportunity.

"Yes, yes! Anything!"

"Well, he said—are you sure you mean it, Cynthia? I want the coral necklace with the nice little gold clasp and—"

"Yes, I know," groaned Cynthia. "I've only got one coral necklace, you dreadful child! Go on, do go on!"

"My, Cynthia! You're terrible impatient, and I guess your angry passions have riz again. Well, he said, 'Good-bye forever, I'm going away,' and off he went."

"Was that all? Truthfully, Janet?"

"Yes, truthfully all. He said he wouldn't stay any longer 'cause he was salted, or something."

"Salted!"

"Yes, or sulted, or some word like that."

"Insulted, do you mean?"

"Yes, I guess so. And now, where's the necklace?"

CHAPTER XIV

It was true, then. Neal had gone.

Cynthia went to her mother's room and told her what Janet had said.

"It is what I feared," cried Mrs. Franklin; "he has left me forever! My dear and only brother! And where is he? Cynthia, Cynthia, why did he go? It almost makes me think he may have taken the money."

"Mamma, how can you!" exclaimed Cynthia, indignantly. "Neal never took it. I—I—oh, I know he didn't take it! Can't you believe me, mamma?" She was almost crying.

"Dear child," said Mrs. Franklin, looking at her affectionately, "you have more faith in him than I have. But this running away is so much against him, Cynthia. If he had been innocent, would he not have stayed to brave it out?"

"No; he is so proud, mamma. That is the reason he went, I am sure. He thought papa suspected him. Oh, why did papa ever think it? Why did he say anything to Edith for Janet to hear?"

"Hush, dear. Your father spoke thoughtlessly, but it was natural; of course it was natural. But Neal should not have gone. It is a false kind of pride. If he is innocent he should have the pride of innocence and stay here."

It was what they all said. Cynthia went from one to the other, trying to convince them and to imbue them with her own belief in Neal, but she could not. Even Jack, her beloved twin-brother, was on the other side.

"Of course I want to believe in Neal, Cynth," he said. "I like him, and I never supposed before he'd do a low-down thing like this. In fact, I can't really believe it now. But why on earth did the fellow run away? If he came by the money all fair and square, why under the sun didn't he say so, instead of shutting himself up like an oyster and never letting on where he got it?"

"He had his reasons," persisted Cynthia. "Oh, Jack, can't you believe me? You always used to believe me."

"Well, you used to tell a fellow more than you do now. You get mighty shut up yourself now and then. You won't tell me what you're going to do with Aunt Betsey's money, or why you didn't buy a watch, or anything. I'm sure I don't want you to if you don't want to, but there's no reason why I should always think as you do."

If they had not been sitting side by side Jack could not have failed to notice the peculiar expression that came into Cynthia's face when he mentioned Aunt Betsey's present. They were on the stone wall which crossed the river path. Bob was with them, darting hither and thither, perhaps in the vain hope of finding his master.

"I don't need a watch, I've told you over and over again," said Cynthia. "But oh, Jack, I wish you would agree with me! Indeed, Neal is honest."

"I believe he is myself, on the whole," said Jack at last; "but it's a mighty queer thing he doesn't own up and tell where he got that money, and he's a great ass not to. You see the postmaster thinks that perhaps the package did come from Aunt Betsey, and Neal paid gold just a few days later. Of course it looks queer."

It was the same way with Edith. She would not be convinced, and after a vain argument with her Cynthia retired to the only place where she was sure of being undisturbed, and cried until her eyes smarted and her head ached. It was to the garret that she went when she wished to be alone, and, amid the piles of empty paper boxes and bars of soap and all the varied possessions that were stored there, she sat and thought over the matter.

"CYNTHIA CRIED UNTIL HER EYES SMARTED AND HER HEAD ACHED"

"Ought I to tell?" she said again and again, speaking in a hoarse whisper; "oh! why did I ever promise?"

For Cynthia had at last prevailed upon Neal to borrow her money to pay Bronson with, and had promised that she would not tell, and Cynthia had a very strict sense of honor.

"Ought I to tell?" she repeated; "no, a promise is a promise, and I have no right to break it. I was silly, I was idiotic ever to promise such a thing, but how did I know it was coming out this way? If Neal had only not gone off! Perhaps he will come back soon; then I can make him tell. He does not realize how foolish, how wrong it is to keep it a secret. Oh, if he would only come back!"

But Neal did not come back. Instead of that, the next morning Mrs. Franklin received a letter from him. He repeated the same words. He could not stay where he was insulted. If they could not believe him he would go. He had a perfect right to use the money which he had paid for the money-order, and he would never condescend to explain where he got it. He was visiting a friend at present, but he was going at once in search of some work. He intended to support himself henceforth.

It was a very absurd letter, and it made Mr. Franklin more angry than ever and his wife more distressed.

"It is perfect nonsense," said he. "The boy is not of age and he can be stopped. I will write at once to his guardians. In the meantime we will look him up in Boston; from the postmark I suppose he is there."

"One of his guardians is abroad, and the other is that old Quaker cousin of my mother's," sighed Mrs. Franklin.

"Give me his address, and don't worry, Hester. The affair will come around all right, I have no doubt. He is a headstrong boy and he needs a leash."

They could not find him in Boston. On going to the houses of his various friends there they learned that he had spent the night with one of them, but had left to go to his guardian in Philadelphia, they said.

"I am inclined to let it stand as it is," said Mr. Franklin, when he returned; "if he has gone to Philadelphia, let him stay there. His old guardian will probably keep him in better order than we can; perhaps it will be better not to interfere. I don't want to prejudice him against the boy, and yet how can I explain why he left here? He can tell his own story."

His wife, however, wrote a letter to her brother, and addressed it to the care of her cousin, William Carpenter, of Philadelphia. She hoped for an answer, but none came, and in a few days Mr. Franklin wrote to Mr. Carpenter, asking if his brother-in-law had arrived, and then, without waiting for a reply, he concluded to go himself to Philadelphia.

The following Sunday was Easter Day—it came late this year. Cynthia, sitting in the Franklin pew, saw to her dismay Tony Bronson on the other side of the church. He was with the Morgans. Gertrude, in a new spring hat with nodding flowers, looked triumphantly over at her friends. It pleased her immensely to have Bronson come so often.

"Dear me," thought Cynthia, "there will be more trouble now that he has come, for he will tell hateful things about Neal, I'm sure. I do hope Edith won't have anything to do with him."

Her thoughts wandered during the service. When it was over and the congregation streamed out of church into the mild spring air, the Morgans invited Edith to come home with them to dinner. This she agreed to do, much to her sister's disgust; but Cynthia was still further incensed when Edith came back that afternoon and announced, in a would-be careless manner, that she had promised to drive with Tony Bronson the next day.

"Why, Edith!" said Cynthia, indignantly, "I shouldn't think you would have anything to do with that Bronson. He has been hateful to Neal."

"I don't know why you should say that," returned Edith; "any one would say that he had been exceedingly nice to Neal. He lent him all that money, I'm sure. And besides, what difference does it make? Neal has behaved badly and run away. There is no reason why we should give up people that Neal doesn't happen to like. Papa said the other day that Tony Bronson was probably a very good sort of fellow, because he wasn't in that last scrape of Neal's."

"Papa doesn't know a thing about him, and, at any rate, papa wouldn't let you go to drive if he were at home. You know he wouldn't."

Mrs. Franklin came into the room just at this moment.

"Would not let Edith go to drive, Cynthia?" she said. "What do you mean, dear?"

"Go to drive with strange young men like that Bronson.'

"What nonsense!" said Edith, crossly; "of course I can go. Papa never in his life forbade my going to drive with any of the boys. How silly you are, Cynthia."

"Were you going to drive with Tony Bronson, Edith?" asked her step-mother.

"Yes, I am going, to-morrow."

"I think I agree with Cynthia, then. I hardly think your father would wish you to go."

"Why, how perfectly absurd!" exclaimed Edith, growing very angry. "There has never been any question of my going to drive with any one who asked me. Do you suppose I am going to give it up now?"

"I suppose you are, Edith," said Mrs. Franklin, quietly, but with decision. "In your father's absence you are in my charge, and I do not consider it desirable for you to drive with Mr. Bronson, nor with any other young man whom you know so slightly. It is not in good taste, to say the least. Please oblige me by giving it up this time. If I am mistaken in your father's views on the subject you can go after he gets home."

"I won't give it up!" exclaimed Edith, hotly. "Tony Bronson will be gone when papa gets home, and, besides, what can I tell him? I've said I would go."

"It is always possible to break an engagement of that kind," said her mother; "you can tell him that you find I have made other plans for you."

"I sha'n't tell him any such thing, Mrs. Franklin. I think it is too bad. You have no right to order me in this way."

"No right, Edith? I have at least a right to be spoken to with respect, and you will oblige me by doing so. Please send a note to Mr. Bronson by the man who goes to the village to-night."

She left the room, and Cynthia, who had restrained herself with great difficulty, now gave vent to her feelings.

"I don't see how you can be so horrid to mamma, Edith. What are you thinking of? And when she is so worried about Neal, too."

"Neal! Why should we suffer for Neal? She has no right to order me; I won't be treated like a small child. The idea of it not being in good taste to drive with Tony Bronson!"

"Don't be so absurd, Edith. Why, even I know papa wouldn't want you to. It's very different from going with the Brenton boys that we have known all our lives. You think I'm such an infant, but I know that much, and any other time you would yourself. It is just because it is that hateful Bronson. I can't understand what you and Gertrude see in him. You are both so silly about him."

Edith colored hotly.

"I am not silly. I think he is very nice, that's all. I wish you wouldn't interfere, Cynthia. You are silly to have such a prejudice against him. I suppose I shall have to write that note, and I do hate to give in to Mrs. Franklin. Oh, why, why, why did papa marry again?"

She raised her voice irritably as she said this, and added:

"All this fuss about Neal and everything! We never should have had it if the Gordons hadn't come into the family. Oh! I beg your pardon, I didn't see you." For standing in the doorway was her step-mother.

"I am sorry that the coming of the Gordons has caused you so much trouble, Edith. We—we are unfortunate."

She turned away and went up-stairs.

"Edith, I don't see how you can," exclaimed Cynthia. "Mamma had so much trouble when she was a young girl, and she was so alone until she came here, and now all this about Neal. Really, I don't see how you can."

And she ran after her mother.

Edith, left alone, was a prey to conflicting emotions. She knew she had done wrong—very wrong. She was really sorry for the grief that Mrs. Franklin was suffering on Neal's account, and she had not wanted to hurt her.

"Of course, I did not intend her to hear me. How did I know she was there? It makes me so angry to think that I can't do what I want."

That was the gist of the whole matter. Edith wanted her own way, and she was determined to have it. She sat for a long time, thinking it all over. She did not make any great effort to quench her resentment, and so, of course, it became more intense. After a while she rose and went to the desk.

"I simply can't write him that I won't go," she said to herself. "How they would all laugh if I said Mrs. Franklin 'had made other plans for me,' as if I were Janet's age! No, I'll write Gertrude that I'll come down and spend the day with her, and perhaps when I get there I can induce Tony to play tennis, or something, instead of going to drive. I'll try and get out of it, as long as I must, but I'm going to have a good time of some sort. I won't be cheated out of that."

She wrote the note, and it was sent to the Morgans that night. Mrs. Franklin supposed, of course, that it was merely to give up the drive; so she was surprised when Edith announced that she was going to spend the next day with Gertrude. However, she raised no objections, nor indeed did she have any. Her mind was too full of Neal to think of much else. Even the altercation with Edith, painful though it had been, failed to make any lasting impression. Hester longed for her husband to return and tell her what he had learned. She had an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. It was so strange that Neal had not written from Philadelphia.

Cynthia did not take it so quietly.

"I think you are a goose, Edith," she said, the next morning. "Every one will think you are running after Tony Bronson. You were there to dinner yesterday, and now you are going again to-day."

Edith was greatly incensed.

"I am not running after him. How can you say such things? I often go there two days in succession."

And she went off holding her head very high, being driven to the village by Jack. Arrived at the Morgans, she was warmly greeted by all.

"So good of you to come," murmured Bronson; "now we can start from here on our drive, and go over to Blue Hill."

"I think I can't go to drive to-day. I—I thought perhaps we would play tennis, instead."

"Oh, Miss Edith! After your promise? I am not going to let you off so easily. No, indeed, we are going to drive. It is a fine day, and I've engaged a gay little mare at the livery stable."

Edith remonstrated feebly, but Bronson would not listen. She had half hoped it would be this way, she wanted so much to go. However, she would try again. She supposed no one at home would object to her taking the drive if they all went together.

When she and Gertrude were alone for a minute, she said:

"Why don't you go too to drive? We might all go to Blue Hill."

"No indeed!" laughed Gertrude. "I am not going a step. I haven't been asked, and I wouldn't think of intruding."

"But it would be such fun," persisted Edith; "you know we always used to go in a crowd, and walk up the hill."

"Times have changed," returned her friend, pointedly. "This time you are asked to go alone. If it were any one but you, Edith, I should be wildly jealous."

Edith blushed and looked conscious, and afterwards when Bronson renewed his pleading she consented to go with him. Naturally it was great fun to drive off with Tony Bronson in that stylish little trap he had described. She had tried to get out of it; she would tell Mrs. Franklin how they overcame her scruples. After all, Mrs. Franklin had no real right to prevent her going, she said to herself. Perhaps it would not be necessary to explain. Unless they chanced to meet some of the family, why need she tell that she had been to drive at all?

Thus she deceived herself into thinking that she was doing no wrong, and gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment.

That afternoon Mrs. Parker, Miss Betsey Trinkett's old friend, called at Oakleigh.

"So glad to find you at home, Mrs. Franklin," she said. "I met Edith a while ago, and she did look so sweet and pretty, driving with that nice young man that stays at the Morgans'. What's his name?"

"You cannot mean Mr. Bronson?"

"Bronson, yes; that's it—Bronson. Yes, they were driving away over towards Milton. I guess they were going to Blue Hill; it's a favorite drive for young folks. You let her have plenty of liberty, Mrs. Franklin, don't you? Well, I suppose you have to, being but a step-mother. And now do tell me about your brother. They say all kinds of things in Brenton, but you can't believe half of them. I dare say you know just where he is, after all."

"My brother went to Philadelphia, Mrs. Parker," said her hostess, controlling herself with difficulty. The shock of hearing that Edith had directly disobeyed her was almost too much for her.

"To Philadelphia! Have you friends there?"

"Yes, I have a cousin."

"Well, now, I'm glad to hear that! I'll just tell people and stop their tongues; they do say so much they don't mean. Why, only this afternoon somebody said they'd been told that Neal Gordon had been seen walking over the Boston road. That's the very reason I came up here, to see if it was true, and here he is away off in Philadelphia!"

Mrs. Franklin started.

"The Boston road?"

"Yes, and to think of his being in Philadelphia all the time! Well, I must be going, Mrs. Franklin. Edith did look sweet. You dress her so prettily. I always did think those girls needed a mother. And here comes Cynthia."

Walking up across the green from the river came Cynthia, with a paper in her hand which she was reading. At sight of Mrs. Parker and her mother standing at the carriage door, she hastily thrust the paper into her pocket.

Cynthia had been after wild-flowers to plant in the bed she had for them. She was in the woods not far from home when a small and ragged boy approached her.

"Be you Cynthy?" he asked.

She looked up from her digging, startled.

"Yes," she said.

"Then here's for yer, an' yer not to tell nobody."

So saying, the messenger disappeared as rapidly and mysteriously as he had come, his bare feet making little noise in last year's dead leaves.

Cynthia opened the crushed and dirty paper, and to her astonishment found Neal's handwriting within.

"Meet me on Brenton Island near the bridge, Tuesday, as early as you can. And don't tell I am here. Remember, don't tell."

The last words were heavily underlined.

Cynthia's heart stood still from excitement. Neal so near, and his sister not to know it! But she would prevail upon him to come home. He could not refuse her after all they had been through on his account.

Full of hope, she gathered up her trowel and her basket of plants and ran towards the house. Fortunately that tiresome Mrs. Parker was there, and so her mother would not notice her excitement. For once Cynthia was glad to see the lady. Since her escapade of the year before she had always been somewhat ashamed of meeting her.

An hour or two later a closed carriage came slowly up the avenue. Dennis Morgan was on the box with the coachman. Inside were Gertrude, Dr. Farley, and Edith, and Edith was unconscious.

CHAPTER XV

The drive to Blue Hill had been delightful and the view from the top exceptionally fine, it being one of those clear, still days when distant objects are brought near. It seemed almost possible to lay one's finger upon the spires of Boston and the glistening dome of the State-house, miles away.

Bronson had exerted himself to the utmost. He wished to stand well with all men, and particularly with the Franklin family. From a worldly point of view it would have a most excellent effect for him to be seen driving with pretty Edith Franklin, of Oakleigh. He was glad whenever they passed a handsome turnout from Milton and he was obliged to take off his hat to its occupants. He felt that he had really gone up in the world during the last year or two. It was a lucky thing for him, he thought, that he had fallen in with Tom Morgan at St. Asaph's. By the time he left college, which he was entering this year, he would have made quite a number of desirable acquaintances.

His talk was clever, but every now and then he said something that made Edith wince. He spoke of Neal, and was sorry he had gone to the bad altogether. Had he really disappeared?

Edith hesitated; she had not the ready wit with which Cynthia would have parried the question.

"We think he is in Philadelphia," she said, finally.

Bronson laughed.

"Hardly," he said; "I saw him in Boston a day or two ago. He looked rather seedy, I thought, and I felt sorry for him, but I didn't stop and speak. Thought it wouldn't do, don't you know; and I'm glad I didn't, as you feel this way."

"I hardly know what you mean," said Edith, somewhat distantly; "we are sorry Neal went away, that is all."

Though she thought he must have taken the money, Edith felt obliged to defend Neal for the sake of the family honor. She had suffered extremely from the talk that there had been in Brenton; she did so dislike to be talked about, and this affair had given rise to much gossip.

"You are very good to say that," said Bronson. "How generous you are not to acknowledge that Gordon stole the money to pay me."

"Stole!" repeated Edith, shuddering.

"I beg pardon, I shouldn't have stated it so broadly; but I'm so mixed up in it, don't you know. It was really my fault, you see, that he felt obliged to—er—to take it. But, of course, I'd no idea it would lead to any such thing as this. I fancied Gordon could get hold of as much money as he wanted by perfectly fair means. Will you believe me, Miss Edith, when I tell you how awfully sorry I am that I should have indirectly caused you any annoyance?"

He looked very handsome, and Edith could not see the expression of triumph in his steely eyes. It was nice of him, perhaps, to say this, even though there was something "out" in his way of doing it.

What was it about Bronson that always affected her thus, even though she liked him and was flattered by his attentions? She said to herself that it was merely the effect of Cynthia's outspoken dislike. Unreasonable though it was, it influenced her.

But now it came over Edith with overwhelming force that she had done very wrong to come with Tony Bronson this afternoon. She was disobeying her step-mother, besides acting most deceitfully. Yes; she had deliberately deceived Mrs. Franklin when she wrote the note the day before; for had she not had it in her mind then to allow herself to be over-persuaded in regard to the drive? These thoughts made Edith very silent.

And then they had driven through Brenton. Unfortunately an electric car reached the corner just as they did. The gay little mare from the livery stable, which had been rather resentful of control all the afternoon, bolted and ran. A heavy ice-cart barred the way. There was a crash, and Bronson and Edith were both thrown out.

It was all over in a moment; but Edith had time to realize what was about to happen, and again there flashed through her mind the conviction of how wrongly she had behaved. What would mamma say?

It was significant that she thought of Mrs. Franklin then for the first time as "mamma."

Bronson escaped with a few bruises, but Edith was very much hurt—just how much the doctor could not tell. She was unconscious for several hours.

Cynthia never forgot that night; her father away; her mother, with tense, strained face, watching by the bed-side; and, above all, the awful stillness in Edith's room while they waited for her to open her eyes. Perhaps she would never open them. What then? Beyond that Cynthia's imagination refused to go.

She was sorry that she had been so cross with Edith about Bronson. Suppose she never were able to speak to her sister again! Her last words would have been angry ones. She would not remember that Edith had done wrong to go; all that was forgotten in the vivid terror of the present moment.

The tall clock in the hall struck twelve. It was midnight again, just as it had been on New Year's Eve when she and Neal stood by the window and looked out on the snow. The clock had struck and Neal had not promised.

Reminded of Neal, she put her hand in her pocket and drew out the crumpled note. It had quite escaped her mind that she was to meet him to-morrow. To-morrow? It was to-day! She was to see Neal to-day, and bring him back to her mother. Poor mamma! And Cynthia looked lovingly at the silent watcher by the bed.

Edith did not die. The doctor, who spent the night at Oakleigh, spoke more hopefully in the morning. She was very seriously hurt, but he thought that in time she would recover. She was conscious when he left.

The morning dawned fair, but by nine o'clock the sun was obscured. It was one of those warm spring days when the clouds hang low and showers are imminent. Mrs. Franklin was surprised when Cynthia told her that she was going on the river.

"To-day, Cynthia? It looks like rain, and you must be tired, for you had little sleep last night. Besides, your father may arrive at any moment if he got my telegram promptly, and then, dear Edith!"

"I know, mamma," faltered Cynthia. It was hard to explain away her apparent thoughtlessness. "But I sha'n't be gone long. It always does me good to paddle, and Jack will be at home and the nurse has come. Do you really need me, mamma?"

"Oh no, not if you want to go so much. I thought perhaps Edith would like to have you near. But I must go back to her now. Don't stay away too long, Cynthia. I like to have you within call."

Cynthia would have preferred to stay close by Edith's side, but there was no help for it; she must go to Neal. Afterwards, when she came back and brought Neal with her, her mother would understand.

She was soon in the canoe, paddling rapidly down-stream. A year had not made great alteration in Cynthia's appearance. As she was fifteen years old now her gowns were a few inches longer, and her hair was braided and looped up at the neck, instead of hanging in curly disorder as it once did; and this was done only out of regard for Edith. Cynthia herself cared no more about the way she looked than she ever did. She did not want to grow up, she said. She preferred to remain a little girl, and have a good time just as long as she possibly could.

It was quite a warm morning for the time of year, and the low-hanging clouds made exercise irksome, but Cynthia did not heed the weather. Her one idea was to reach Neal as quickly as possible and bring him home. How happy her mother would be! She wondered why he had not returned to the house at once, instead of sending for her in this mysterious fashion; it would have been so much nicer. However, she was glad he had come, even this way. It was far better than not coming at all.

Her destination lay several miles from Oakleigh; but the current and what breeze there was were both in Cynthia's favor, and it was not long before she had passed under the stone bridge which stood about half way between. She met no one; the river was little frequented at this hour of the morning so far from the town, for the numerous curves in the Charles made it a much longer trip by water than by road from Oakleigh to Brenton. A farmer's boy or two watched her pass, and criticised loudly, though amiably, the long, free sweep of her paddle.

Cynthia did not notice them. Her mind was fully occupied, and her eyes were fixed upon the distance. As each bend in the river was rounded she hoped that she might see Neal's familiar figure waiting for her.

And at last she did see him. He was sitting on the bank, leaning against the trunk of a tree, and when she came in sight he ran down to the little beach that made a good landing-place just at this point.

"Cynthia, you're a brick!" he exclaimed. "I was afraid you were not coming."

"Oh, Neal, I'm so glad to see you! Get in quickly, and we'll go back as fast as we can. Of course I came, but we mustn't lose a minute on account of Edith. Hurry!"

"What do you mean? I'm not going back with you."

"Not going back? Why, Neal, of course you are."

"Not by a long shot. Did you think I would ever go back there?"

"Neal!"

Cynthia's voice trembled. The color rose in her face and her eyes filled with tears.

"Neal, you can't really mean it."

"Of course I do."

"Then why did you send for me?"

"Because I wanted to see you. There, don't look as if you were going to cry, Cynthia. I hate girls that cry, and you never were that sort. I'll be sorry I sent for you if you do."

Cynthia struggled to regain her composure. This was a bitter disappointment, but she must make every effort to prevail upon Neal to yield.

"I'm not crying," she said, blinking her eyes very hard; "tell me what you mean."

"I don't mean anything in particular, except that I wanted to see you again, perhaps for the last time." This with a rather tragic air.

"The last time?"

"Yes. I've made up my mind to cut loose from everybody, and just look out for myself after this. If my only sister suspects me of stealing, I don't care to have anything more to do with her. I can easily get along until I'm twenty-five. I'll just knock round and take things easily, and if I go to the bad no one will care particularly."

"Neal, I had no idea you were such a coward!" exclaimed Cynthia, indignantly.

"Coward! You had better look out, Cynthia. I won't stand much of that sort of thing."

"You've got to stand it. I call you a coward. You ran away like a boy in a dime novel, just because you couldn't stand having anything go wrong. You were afraid to brave it out. Afraid!"

There was no suspicion of tears now in Cynthia's voice. She knelt in the canoe very erect and very angry. Her cheeks were crimson, and her blue eyes had grown very dark.

"I tell you again to take care," said Neal, restraining his anger with difficulty; "I did not send for you to come down here and rave this way."

"And I never would have come if I'd thought you were going to behave this way. I'm dreadfully, dreadfully disappointed in you, Neal. I always thought you were a very nice boy, and I was awfully fond of you—almost as fond of you as I am of Jack, and now—"

She broke off abruptly and looked away across the river.

If Neal was touched by this speech he did not show it at the moment. He stood with his hands in his pockets, kicking the toe of his boot against a rock.

"Of course I couldn't stay there," he said, presently; "your father as good as called me a thief."

"He didn't at all. He didn't really believe you had taken the money until you ran away. Then, of course, every one thought it strange that you went, and I don't wonder. And I couldn't tell how it really was, because I had promised you; but I'm not going to keep the promise any longer, Neal. I am going to tell."

"No, you can't. You've promised, and I won't release you. I am not going to demean myself by explaining; they ought to have believed in me. But I wish you would stop scolding, Cynthia, and come up here on the bank. I can't talk while you are swinging round there with the current."

After a moment's hesitation Cynthia complied with his request. It occurred to her that perhaps she could accomplish more by persuasion than by wrath. Neal drew up the boat and they sat down under the tree.

"Where have you been all this time?" asked Cynthia.

"In Boston, first. I've been staying with several fellows. I gave out that I was going to Philadelphia, for I thought you would be looking for me, and it is true, for I am going, some time soon. Then I went to Roxbury, and yesterday I walked out from there and found that little shaver to take the note to you."

"Have you told your friends that you ran away?"

"No. Why should I? Fortunately I took enough clothes, though these are beginning to look a little shabby. I spent last night in a shed. I've only got a little money left, but it will answer until I get something to do."

"Neal, do you know you are just breaking mamma's heart?"

Neal said nothing.

"She has looked so awfully ever since you left, and she wrote to you in Philadelphia and papa went on, but we had to send for him to come back on account of Edith."

"What about Edith?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? Edith had a fearful accident yesterday. She was driving with—she went to drive, and was thrown out and was terribly hurt."

"I'm awfully sorry," said Neal, with real concern in his voice; "how did it happen? Was it one of your horses?"

"No," said Cynthia, hurrying over that part of it, for she did not want Neal to know that Edith had been with Bronson; "but she was very much hurt, Neal. She was unconscious nearly all night, and the doctor thought perhaps she—she would die."

A great sob rose in Cynthia's throat, and this time Neal did not reprove her for it. Instead, he expressed his regret and his sympathy with such real feeling in his voice that Cynthia broke down altogether.

"Oh, it is all so dreadful!" she cried; "Edith so terribly hurt—dying, perhaps—and mamma looking as if she were in perfect despair, and you away. Oh, Neal, won't you come back? Won't you please come back?"

"'OH, NEAL, WON'T YOU COME BACK?'"

Neal rose abruptly, and began to walk up and down the little clearing.

"I wish you wouldn't, Cynthia," he remonstrated; "I've told you I couldn't, and you ought not to ask me. I'm awfully sorry about Edith, and I'm sorry Hessie feels so badly about me. I'll give in about one thing. You can tell her you have seen me and I am well. You needn't say I'm going to the bad, but very likely I shall. You mustn't say a word about having lent me the money; I will not have that explained. There, it has begun to rain."

A few big drops came pattering down, falling with loud splashes into the river.

"Oh, I must hurry back!" exclaimed Cynthia, hastily drying her eyes.

"It's only going to be a shower. Come up here where the trees are thicker and wait till it is over. See, it's all bright over there."

Cynthia looked in the direction indicated, and seeing a streak of cloud that was somewhat lighter than the rest, concluded to wait. Perhaps she could yet prevail upon Neal to come.

They went into the woods a short distance, and though there were not many leaves upon the trees as yet, they were more protected than in the open. It was raining hard now.

"Neal," said Cynthia, in her gentlest tones, "when you have thought it over a little more I am sure you will agree with me. Indeed, you ought to come."

"I have done nothing else but think it over, and I tell you I am not coming, Cynthia. I wish you wouldn't say any more. I sent for you because I wanted to see you once more, and now you're spoiling it all. I don't believe you care a bit about me."

"Oh, Neal, how can you say so? You know I do care, very much. I'm awfully disappointed in you, that's all. I always thought you were brave and good and would do things you ought to do, even when you didn't want to. It does seem selfish to stay away and make mamma feel so badly, when it would only be necessary to come home and say you had borrowed the money of me, to make everything all right. It seems very selfish indeed, but perhaps I am mistaken. I dare say I'm very selfish myself and have no right to preach to you, but if you could see mamma I'm sure you would feel as I do."

Neal remained silent.

"But I still have faith in you," continued Cynthia. "I think some day you will see it as I do. I am sure you will. Oh, dear, how wet it is getting! I ought to have gone home."

The rain was coming down in torrents. The ground was wet and soggy, and their feet sank in the drenched leaves. The canoe, drawn up on the bank, was full of water.

"I ought to have gone home. It is going to rain all day, and mamma will be so worried. It's not going to clear; that bright streak is all gone."

The clouds had settled down heavily, and there was no prospect whatever of the rain stopping.

"I must go right away; I am wet through now. Oh, Neal, if you would only go with me! Won't you go, Neal, dear?"

But Neal shook his head.

"Very well; then it is good-bye. But remember what I said, Neal. It's your own fault that the family think you took it. And if mamma or any one ever asks me any questions about what I am going to do with Aunt Betsey's present I'm not going to pretend anything. If they choose to find out I lent it to you they can. You won't say I can tell them, so of course I can't do it, as I promised, but I sha'n't prevent their finding it out. Oh, Neal, do, do come!"

She stood in front of him and put her hands on his wet coat-sleeve. Neal's voice was husky when he spoke.

"I'm a brute, Cynth, I know, but I can't give in. You don't know how hard it is for me ever to give in. I'll remember what you said. Please shake hands for good-bye to me, if you don't think I'm too mean and selfish and heartless and a coward and everything else you've said."

"Oh, Neal!" cried Cynthia, as she grasped his hand with both of hers, "some day I'm sure you will come. Good-bye, Neal."

They turned over the canoe, which was full of rain-water, and then Cynthia embarked. Suddenly an idea occurred to her; she would make one more effort.

"Neal, you will have to go part way with me. I'm really afraid to go alone. It is raining so hard the boat will fill up, and it will take me so long to go alone. I'm afraid, Neal."

Neal could not resist this very feminine appeal. He hesitated, and then got in and took the extra paddle.

"I'll go part way, Cynthia, but I won't go home. Of course I can't let you go off alone if you're afraid. I never knew you to be so before."

With long, vigorous strokes they were soon pulling upstream. Occasionally one of them would stop and bail with the big sponge, kept in the boat for emergencies.

The rain splashed into the river, and the dull gray stream seemed to run more swiftly than usual. It looked very different from its wont. Cynthia and Neal, many times as they had been together on the Charles, had never before been there in a storm. One could scarcely believe it to be the cheerful, peaceful little river on which they had passed so many happy hours.

"Everything is changed," thought Cynthia; "even my own river is different. Will things ever be the same again? Oh, if Neal will only give in when we get near home!"

CHAPTER XVI

But Neal would not "give in." Cynthia's renewed entreaties were of no more avail than they had been before.

"I will not come," he repeated again and again; and at last Cynthia gave up asking.

He got out of the canoe just below the Oakleigh landing, and where he was hidden from the house.

"I hope you won't be ill, Cynthia," he said. "I am sorry I made you come out such a day; it will be my fault if you take cold. One more bad thing I have done. My life isn't a bit of good, anyhow; I've a good mind to go and drown myself—I'm half drowned now."

He laughed, somewhat bitterly, as he looked down at his drenched clothes.

"Cynthia, I'm a brute. Hurry in and change your things. I'm off to Pelham; I'll take a train there for Boston. I'll let you know where I go; and I say, Cynth, won't you write to a fellow now and then? I don't deserve it, I know, but I'd like to hear from you, and I'll want to know how Edith gets along."

"Yes, if you will let me know your address. Good-bye, Neal," she said, sadly.

"Good-bye."

He stood and watched her. She rounded the curve where the boat-house was and waved her hand as she disappeared. She was only a few yards away, and yet he could no longer see her. He could easily imagine how it would all be.

A man would come down from the barn and help her with the canoe. She would go up the hill and follow the path to the side door behind the conservatory. There would be exclamations of dismay when she came in, all dripping wet. Hester and the servants would hurry to help her, and she would be thoroughly dried and warmed; his sister would see to that—his sister, who thought him no better than a common thief!

And then Cynthia would tell how she had met him, and that he would not come home. How astonished Hester would be to hear that he was so near. He turned abruptly when he thought of this, and sprang up the bank to the road that lay between Brenton and Pelham. He crossed the bridge, and with one more look at the dark river, struck out at a good pace for Pelham, the nearest railway station.

He glanced back once at the chimneys and white walls of Oakleigh when he reached the spot from which they could be seen for the last time on the Pelham road. Then, bidding good-bye to his past life, he hastened on.

The road that runs from Brenton to Pelham is very straight after one has passed Oakleigh. There are but few houses—nothing but meadows, trees, and bushes on either side. Neal, tramping over the broad expanse of gray mud, had nothing to distract his mind from the thoughts that filled it. At first they were very desperate ones.

"Cynthia had no right to come and rant the way she did. The idea of calling me a coward, and telling me I was like a boy in a dime novel because I ran away! It was the only thing to do. They had no business to suspect me. They—confound it! I won't put up with such treatment. I'll stick to my resolution and drop the whole concern. What a long, straight road this is, and how I hate the rain!"

At last he reached the end of it and entered the little town of Pelham, uninteresting at the best of times, and doubly so on such a day as this. The inhabitants were all within doors; not even a dog was stirring.

"Every one is dry and comfortable but me," thought Neal, miserably, as he went into the station.

Fortunately, the next train for Boston was soon due, and it did not take long for him to reach the friend's house in one of the suburbs at which he had left his possessions.

A merry party was staying there for the Easter holidays, and Neal was the subject of much speculation and concern when he appeared, weary and wet, in their midst. Every one supposed that he had gone to Brenton to visit his sister, and they wondered why he had come back on such a stormy day.

Though the story of Neal was well known in Brenton, oddly enough it had not yet reached his friends in Boston, and he did not enlighten them. He went to his room and stayed there for several hours. With dry clothes he came into a better frame of mind.

Poor little Cynthia! How good she was to come to meet him such a day, when she must have wanted to stay with Edith. And how badly she felt about him; much more so than he deserved. He was not worth it. How she had fired up when she told him that he was a coward! He must prove to her that he was not. He would never give in and go back there, never! But there were other ways of proving it; he could go to work and show her that he was made of good stuff after all. He should not have frightened Cynthia by saying that he would "go to the bad." But, then, he had been abominably treated. He could not go to college now, for he would never accept it from Hessie, who had been willing to believe he took the money. He lashed himself into a fury again as he thought of it. He was utterly unreasonable, but of course he was quite unconscious of being so.

Finally the better thoughts came uppermost again, and he decided what to do. He would go to Philadelphia and ask his guardian to put him in the way of getting some work. He would tell him the whole story. Fortunately, he did not remember that Cynthia had said her father went to Philadelphia; if he had he would not have gone, thinking that his guardian would have been prejudiced against him by his brother-in-law.

He packed his valise and started that night, though his friends urged him to stay longer. He felt a feverish impatience to be off and have things settled. With it was a feeling of excitement; he was going to seek his fortune. Thrown upon a cold world by the unkind and unjust suspicions of his nearest relatives, he would rise above adverse circumstances and "ennoble fate by nobly bearing it!"

It was a very heroic martyr that bought a ticket for Philadelphia that night.

He did not engage a berth in the sleeping-car; he was a poor man now and must begin to economize. Besides, upon counting his money he found that he had but just enough with which to reach his destination.

He was very tired with the adventures of the last two days, and the night before, spent in a shed, had not been comfortable, so he slept well, notwithstanding the fact that he was not in a Pullman sleeper. He did not wake until it was broad daylight, and the train was speeding along through New Jersey. The storm was over, the sun was shining down upon a bright and rain-washed world, and Neal Gordon was entering upon a new life.

"So this is the 'Quaker City,'" he thought, as the train glided over the bridges and into the huge station. "I wonder if every one is in a broad-brimmed hat! And now to find cousin William Carpenter. He's a Quaker of the Quakers, I suppose; I can never get into the habit of saying 'thee' and 'thou.'"

He did not see much of the Quaker element in the busy station, nor when he went down-stairs and out on to Broad Street. He was on the point of jumping into a hansom to be driven to his cousin's house, when he remembered that he had not a cent in his pocket with which to pay for it. It was a novel experience for Neal.

He inquired the way to Arch Street, and found that it was not very far from where he was, and he soon reached the designated number.

"Not a broad-brimmer have I seen yet," he said to himself, as he pulled the bell-handle. He looked up and down the street while he waited. It was wider than some that he had passed through, and rather quiet except for the jingling horse-cars. It was very straight, and lined with red brick houses with white marble steps and heavy wooden shutters.

He looked down, as he stood on the dazzling steps, at his boots splashed with Boston mud, and he shuddered at the effect they might have on his cousins. He should have had them cleaned at the station; but, then, he did not have five cents to spend.

The door was opened, and he walked into the parlor and sent up his card. It was a large room with very little furniture in it, and the few chairs and sofas that there were stood stiffly apart. Not an ornament was to be seen but a large clock that ticked slowly and sedately on the marble mantel-piece. There were no curtains, but "Venetian blinds," formed of green slats, hung at the windows. It all looked very neat and very bare, and extremely stiff.

It was not long before Neal heard a step in the hall, and an elderly man entered the room. He was very tall, and wore a long, quaint-looking coat that flapped as he walked. His face was smooth, and of a calm, benign expression that Neal afterwards found was never known to vary. He came in with outstretched hand.

"Thee is Neal Gordon. I am pleased to meet thee again, cousin. Come up-stairs to breakfast; Rachel will be glad to see thee."

Who Rachel was Neal could not imagine, as he followed his host up a short flight of stairs to the breakfast-room. He supposed she must be a young daughter of the house, for although William Carpenter was both his kinsman and his guardian, the relationship had until now been merely nominal, and Neal knew very little about him or his family.

Sitting at the table, behind the tall silver urn and the cups and saucers, was an old lady in a close white cap and spectacles. A snowy kerchief of some fine white material was folded about her shoulders over a gray dress. Her face, also, was calm and sweet, and wore the same expression as did her husband's.

"Rachel," said he, "this is our cousin, Neal Gordon. Neal, this is my wife, Rachel."

"I am glad to see thee, Neal," she said, extending her hand without rising; "sit down. Thee'll be glad to have a cup of coffee, doubtless, if thee's just arrived from the train, as thee has the look of doing." This with a glance at his travel-stained clothes.

Neal, very conscious of his muddy boots, thanked her, and sat down at the table, where a neat-looking servant had made ready a place for him. It seemed funny that they took his arrival as a matter of course, but he supposed that was the Quaker way. At any rate, they were very kind, and it was the best breakfast he ever ate. Even if he had not been so hungry, the coffee would have been delicious, and all the rest of it, too.

His cousins asked him no questions, but after breakfast he was shown to a room and told to make himself comfortable.

"But I would like to speak to you, sir," he said to his host—"that is, if you don't mind. I came on to Philadelphia on business." This with a rather grand air.

"Verily," said William Carpenter; "but I have no time now. I go to my office every day at this hour. Thee can come with me if thee wishes, and we will converse there."

Neal agreed, and hastily brushing his clothes and giving a dab to his boots he set out, much amused at the new company in which he found himself. Mr. Carpenter wore a tall beaver hat, of wide brim and ancient shape, which he never removed from his head, even though he met one or two ladies who bowed to him.

"They don't all seem to be Quakers, though," thought Neal, as, leaving Arch Street, they took their way across the city, and met and passed many people of as worldly an aspect as any to be seen in Boston—in fact, his companion's broad-brimmed hat seemed sadly out of place.

The houses too were different in this locality. Easter flowers bloomed in the windows between handsome curtains, and there were not so many white shutters and marble steps—in fact, with a street-band playing on the corner and the merry peal of chimes that rang from a neighboring steeple, it seemed quite a gay little town, thought Neal, with condescension.

His cousin pointed out the sights as they walked.

"There are the public buildings," he said, "and beyond is the great store of John Wanamaker. This is Chestnut Street, and yonder is the Mint. Thee will go there and to Independence Hall while thee is here, and to Girard College—that is, if thee has a proper amount of public spirit, as I hope to be the case."

Neal humbly acquiesced, and then remarked upon the distance of his cousin's place of business from his house.

"Do you always walk?" he asked.

"Always. I have found that exercise is good, and the car-fare worth saving. 'A penny saved is a penny gained,' I have made my motto through life, and for that reason I have never known want. I hope thee is neither extravagant nor lazy?"

"'I HOPE THEE IS NEITHER EXTRAVAGANT NOR LAZY'"

This with a keen, shrewd, not unkindly glance from beneath the level, gray eyebrows.

Neal colored and hoped he was not, knowing all the time that these were two serious faults of his.

They had passed through the fashionable part of the city, and were walking down a narrow, low-built street. In the distance was a huge space filled with great piles of boards that came far up above the high fence which surrounded the whole square.

"This is my office," said Mr. Carpenter, as he opened the door of a small, low building in the corner of the great yard. "I am in the lumber business."

It was some time before he could say any more to his cousin. There were letters to be opened, his head-clerk to be interviewed, men to be directed.

Neal sat at a window that looked out on the yard, and watched some men that were loading a huge dray. There were boards, boards, boards everywhere. How tired he should get of lumber if he had to stay here. He hoped that his business, whatever it might prove to be, would be more exciting, and more in the heart of things than this remote lumber-yard. He thought from what he had heard that he would like to be a stock-broker, as long as he was barred out of the professions by not going through college.

He was just imagining himself on 'Change, in the midst of an eager crowd of other successful brokers, a panic imminent, and he alone cool and self-possessed, when his cousin's voice rudely interrupted his revery. It sounded calmer than ever in contrast to Neal's day-dream.

"Cousin, if thee will come into my private office I will listen to thee for fifteen or twenty minutes."

Neal obeyed, but found it difficult to begin his story. It is a very hard thing to tell a man that you are suspected of being a thief.

"I don't know whether you know," he began, rather haltingly, "that I—that—in fact, I've left Hester for good and all. You are my guardian, so you must know all about that conf—that abom—that—er, well, that will of my grandmother's. Hester didn't give me a large enough allowance—at least, I didn't think it was enough—and I got into debt at school. It was not very much of a debt for a fellow with such a rich sister."

He paused, rather taken aback by the quick glance that was shot at him from the mild blue eyes of his Quaker cousin.

"What does thee call 'not much'?"

"A hundred dollars. I knew they would think it a lot, so I only told Hessie and John fifty, and she gave it to me. Afterwards the fellow I owed it to came down on me for the rest, and wrote to John, Hessie's husband. In the meantime I had got hold of some money in a perfectly fair, honorable way, and sent it to the fellow, and he wrote again to John Franklin and said I had paid up. Then, just because a present one of the Franklin children expected at that time didn't come, they accused me of taking it. They had no earthly reason for supposing it except that I paid fifty dollars in gold for the money-order I sent, and the child's present was fifty dollars in gold."

"And where did thee get the money?"

The question came so quietly and naturally that Neal was taken unawares, and answered before he thought.

"Cynthia Franklin lent it to me. I hated to borrow of a girl, and I made her promise not to tell; afterwards I was glad I had. If they choose to suspect me, I'm not going to lower myself by explaining. And I will ask you, as a particular favor, cousin William, not to tell any one. I didn't mean to mention it."

His cousin merely bowed, and asked him to continue.

"Well, there's not much more, except that I was suspended from school before that for a scrape I wasn't in, and it put everybody against me, and now I want to get something to do. I am going to support myself, and I thought I'd come to you, as you're my guardian and a cousin, and perhaps you would help me."

"Did thee know that thy brother-in-law, John Franklin, was here within a few days?"

Neal sprang to his feet.

"He was! Then he told you all this. I might have known it!"

"Thee may as well remain calm, Neal. Thee will gain nothing in this world by giving vent to undue excitement. John Franklin told me nothing, except that thee had left his home, and he had supposed thee was with me. He did not tell me of the gold, but he did say he feared thee was extravagant, in which I agree with him. Thee has nothing to find fault with in what he said."

Neal felt rather ashamed of himself. After all, it had been generous in his brother-in-law not to prejudice his guardian against him.

"And now what does thee wish to do?" asked the old man, as he looked at his large gold-faced watch.

"I want to get some work," replied Neal.

"Is thee willing to take anything thee can get?"

"Yes, almost anything," with a hasty glance at the piles of lumber without.

"Does thee know that times are hard, and it is almost impossible for even young men of experience to get a situation, while thee is but a boy?"

"Ye-es. I suppose so."

"Thee need not expect much salary."

"No, only enough to live on. I'm going to be very economical."

William Carpenter smiled, and looked at the boy kindly. He was silent for a few minutes, and then he said:

"Neal, as thee is my ward and also my cousin, I am willing to make a place for thee here. We can give thee but a small stipend, but it is better than nothing for one who is anxious for work, as thee says thee is. Thee will not have board and lodging to pay for, however, as thee can make thy home with Rachel and myself. Our boy, had he lived, would have been about thy age."

This was said calmly, with no suspicion of emotion. It was simply the statement of a fact.

"Oh, thank you, cousin William, you are very kind! But—do you think I could ever learn the lumber business? It—it seems so—well, I don't exactly see what there is to do."

"Thee is too hasty, by far. Thee could not be expected to know the business before thee has set foot in the yard. But thee must learn first that it is well to make the most of every opportunity that comes to hand. Will thee, or will thee not, come into my home and my employ? It is the best I can do for thee."

And after a moment's hesitation, and one wild regret for the lost pleasures of the Stock Exchange, Neal agreed to do it.

It was thus he began his business life.

CHAPTER XVII

With dripping clothes and a sad heart Cynthia went up to the house after Neal had left her. She was bitterly disappointed and extremely uncomfortable. Her hair, never very securely fastened, had fallen down and lay in a wet mass about her face and neck; her hat felt heavy as lead, and water oozed from her shoes as she walked.

"Nothing will ever be right again," she thought, as she gave a depressed glance at all the familiar objects on the place. "I feel as if it were going to rain forever, and the sun would never shine again. It would have been so different if Neal had only come home!"

Mrs. Franklin was thankful to see her appear, and refrained from reproaching her until she had been thoroughly dried and warmed. Then all she said was:

"I thought you would never come, Cynthia! Was it worth while to go on the river such a morning as this?"

"No, mamma, but you will forgive me when you hear why I went," said Cynthia, setting down the cup of ginger-tea which Mary Ann had made so hot and so strong that she could scarcely swallow it; "but tell me how Edith is, first."

"She is about the same. She seems anxious about something. She is restless and uneasy, but it is difficult for her to speak. Perhaps she wants you. I think that is it, for you know I do not satisfy her," added Mrs. Franklin, with a sigh.

Cynthia knelt beside her, and put her arms around her.

"Dear mamma!" she said, lovingly. Mrs. Franklin rested her head on her step-daughter's shoulder.

"Cynthia, darling, you are a great comfort to me! Are you sure you feel perfectly warm? You must not take cold."

"I'm as warm as toast. It won't hurt me a bit; you know I never take cold. But let me tell you something—the reason I went. You could never guess! I went to see some one."

Mrs. Franklin raised her head and looked at Cynthia eagerly.

"You can't mean—"

"Yes, I do. Neal!"

"Child, where is he? Is he here? Has he come back?"

"No, mamma," said Cynthia, shaking her head sadly, "he wouldn't come. I begged and implored him to, but he wouldn't."

"Oh, Cynthia, why didn't you tell me? I could have made him come; I would have gone down on my knees to him! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because he said I mustn't. He sent me a note yesterday. I knew he would never forgive me if I told."

"Yesterday! You knew he was coming yesterday? Cynthia, you ought to have told!"

"But, mamma, he told me not to, and I didn't have time to think it over, for we were so frightened with Edith's accident. It all came at once. But you could not have made him come."

"Where is he now?"

"He has gone to Pelham to take the train, and he is going to write to me, mamma. He says he—he is going to work."

"My poor boy!" said Mrs. Franklin, going to the window. "Tramping about the country such a day as this without a home! I wonder if he has any money, Cynthia?"

"I don't know, mamma."

Neither of them remembered that Neal had wilfully deserted his home, and that it was entirely his own fault if he had no money in his pockets.

"Cynthia," said Mrs. Franklin, turning abruptly and facing her daughter, "I want you to understand that I don't think Neal took that money. I cannot believe it. I am sure he got it in some other way. Why do you look so odd, Cynthia?"

There was no answer.

"I believe you know something about it. Tell me!"

Still no answer.

"Could you have helped him in any way? Where would you get it? Why, of course! How stupid we have all been! You had Aunt Betsey's present; you never spent it, you would not buy the watch. Cynthia, you cannot deny it, I have guessed it!"

The next moment Mrs. Franklin was enveloped in a vigorous hug.

"You dear darling, I'm so thankful you have! He wouldn't let me tell, but I said this morning I wouldn't deny it if you happened to guess."

"Oh, Cynthia, though I said I didn't believe the other, this has taken a thousand-pound weight from my heart!"

They were interrupted by the entrance of the nurse, who came to say that her patient was growing more uneasy, and she thought some one had better come to her. At the same moment Mr. Franklin arrived, so Cynthia went alone to her sister.

She found her perfectly conscious, with large, wide-open eyes, watching for her. Edith's head was bound up, and the pretty hands, of which she had always been somewhat vain, moved restlessly. Cynthia took one of them in her warm, firm grasp, and leaned over the bed.

"SHE FOUND HER PERFECTLY CONSCIOUS"

"Dearest, you wanted me," she said, in a low voice; "I am going to stay with you now."

But Edith was not satisfied. She tried to say something, but in so faint a voice that Cynthia could not hear.

"I can't hear you," she said, in distress; "don't try to speak, it will tire you."

But still Edith persisted. Cynthia put her ear close to her sister.

"Did you say 'mamma'?" she asked.

The great brown eyes said "Yes."

"Do you want her?"

No, that was not it. Cynthia thought a moment.

"Oh, I know!" she exclaimed. "You are sorry about the drive, Edith, is that it? You want mamma to forgive you?"

"Yes."

Cynthia flew down-stairs.

"Mamma, mamma!" she cried, scarcely heeding her father, whom she had not seen before, "come quickly! I have found out what Edith wants. She wants you to forgive her for going to drive, and you will, won't you?"

And in a few minutes, satisfied, Edith fell asleep with her hand in that of her mother's.

Many people came to inquire for Edith, for the news of her accident spread like wildfire. Cynthia was obliged to see them all, as Edith would scarcely let her mother go out of her sight. Now that her pride had given way, she showed how completely her step-mother had won her heart, entirely against her own will.

Among others came Gertrude Morgan.

"And how is your dear friend, Tony Bronson?" asked Cynthia. "He nearly killed Edith; what did he do to himself?"

"Oh, he didn't get very much hurt—at least, he didn't show it much. He went home right away. He thought he had better."

"Well, I should think he might have had the grace to come and inquire for Edith, after upsetting her in that style, and almost breaking her neck."

"He seemed to think he ought to get home. He thought he might be a good deal hurt, only it didn't come out just at first. He said there were inward bruises."

"Inward bruises!" repeated Cynthia, scornfully. "I guess the inward bruise was that he was ashamed of himself for letting the horse run away. Now don't you really think so, Gertrude? Don't you think yourself that it was outrageous of him not to find out more about Edith before he went?"

Gertrude was forced to acknowledge that she did think so; and, furthermore, she confessed that her brother Dennis was so enraged at Bronson's conduct that he declared he should never be asked there again.

"I'm glad of it!" declared Cynthia, emphatically. "It's about time you all found out what a cad that Bronson is. If you knew as much as I know about him you would have come to that conclusion long ago."

"Oh, of course you are prejudiced by Neal Gordon! I wouldn't take his word for anything. By-the-way, have you seen him lately?"

"Yes, very lately. He came out to Brenton the other day."

"Did he really?" cried Gertrude, curiously. "I thought he was never coming back. The last story was that your father had turned him out-of-doors."

"How perfectly absurd! I should think you knew enough about us to contradict that, Gertrude! Will you please tell every one there is no truth in it at all?"

"But where is he now? Is he here? Why has nobody seen him? Wasn't any of it true?"

"Dear me, Gertrude, you are nothing but a big interrogation point!" laughed Cynthia, who had no intention of replying to any of these questions; and Gertrude, baffled and somewhat ashamed of herself, soon took her departure without having learned anything beyond the fact that Neal had lately been in town and, as she supposed, at his sister's.

Aunt Betsey came from Wayborough as soon as she heard of what had happened. It was her first visit there since the death of Silas Green, and naturally she was much affected.

"Cynthy, my dear," she said, after talking about him for some time to her nieces, "let me give you a word of warning: Never put off till to-morrow what can be done to-day! It is a good proverb, and worth remembrance. If I hadn't put off and put off, and been so unwilling to give up my view, I might have made Silas's last years happier. Perhaps he'd have been here yet if I'd been with him to take care of him. Oh, one has to give up—one has to give up in this world!"

They were in Edith's room, and Edith, listening, felt that Aunt Betsey was right. She, too, had learned—many, many years earlier in life than did her aunt—that one must learn to give up.

Miss Betsey did not look the same. The gay dress that she once wore was discarded, and she was soberly clad in black. She really was not unlike other people now, but her speech was as quaint as ever.

She brought Willy's present with her, and was shocked to find that Janet's had never been received.

"Well now, I want to know!" she exclaimed, rocking violently. "I did it up with my own hands. I remember it exactly, for it was a few days after the funeral, and I was that flustered I could scarcely tie the cord or hold the pen. It was a large rag doll I had made for the child, just about life size, and a face as natural as a baby's. And I made a nice little satchel to hang at the side, and in the satchel was the money. Too bad she didn't get it! I remember I gave it to old Mr. Peters to mail. He was going down Tottenham way, and he said he'd take it to the post-office there. He'd stopped to see if there was anything he could do for me just as I was tying it up, so I let him take it along. He's half blind, and just as likely as not he went to the meeting-house instead of the post-office. He wouldn't know them apart. You may depend upon it, it warn't Government's fault you didn't get it. Of that I'm very sure."

And, true to her principles, the patriotic little lady rocked again. No one told her of the suspicion which had rested upon Neal. It would have distressed her too deeply, and nothing would be gained by it.

"And now, Jack, I must see those little orphans," she said to her great-nephew, when he came home that afternoon. "Poor little things, are they at all happy?"

Jack led her in triumph to the poultry-yard.

"Well, I want to know!" she exclaimed, throwing up her mitted hands when she saw six or seven hundred very contented-looking fowls of all sizes, kinds, and ages, each brood in its allotted habitation, pecking, running, crowing, and clucking, and enjoying life generally.

"You don't mean to say, Jackie, that not one of these hens ever had any mother but that heartless box in the cellar? Well, I want to know! They do look real contented. Do tell!"

Her nephew proudly assured her that they appeared to be exceedingly happy, and that he also was happy; for they paid well, and he would soon be able to return the money that he had borrowed of her.

And indeed in a few weeks Jack travelled out to Wayborough, and with his own hands gave back to his aunt the seventy-five dollars which she had advanced to him, and which he had earned with his own hard work.

The best part of it all was when his father spoke to him with unqualified praise.

"I am really proud of my son, Jack," he said. "You have done well. I have watched you carefully, and I saw the plucky way in which you met your discouragements. It makes me feel that I have a son worth having. Keep at it, my boy. If you put the same pluck and perseverance into everything you undertake you will make a name some day."

And when Jack remembered how his father had frowned down the idea of the incubator he felt more pleased than ever.

One day a letter came to Cynthia from Neal. It was the first they had received. Mr. Carpenter had written to Mrs. Franklin, telling her that Neal was with him, and that he had taken him into his office; and Hester wrote to her brother at once, but he answered neither that letter nor the many that followed. He was still obdurate. It was an exciting moment, therefore, when Cynthia recognized the bold, boyish handwriting on the envelope.

"DEAR CYNTH [he wrote],—I promised to write to you, so here goes. I am living with cousin William Carpenter, and probably shall for the rest of my days. He is in the lumber business, and lumber's awfully poky. However, I'm earning my living. Did you ever see a Quaker? They are a queer lot. It would not do for you to be one, for they never get excited. If the house got on fire cousin William and cousin Rachel would walk calmly about and thee and thou each other as quietly as ever. They don't say 'thou' though. Cousin William says it has become obsolete.

"I do nothing but measure boards and write down figures. Boards are tiresome things. I go to Quaker meeting sometimes, though I should say Friends' meeting. They call themselves Friends. All the men sit on one side and all the women on the other, and the men keep their hats on all through. Sometimes there isn't any sermon and sometimes there are five or six, just as it happens. The women preach too, if they feel like it. One day it was terribly still, and I was just beginning to think I should blow up and bust if somebody didn't say something—had serious thoughts of giving a sermon myself—when I heard a familiar voice, and I looked over, and there was cousin Rachel preaching away for dear life. And a mighty good sermon it was, too—better than any of the men's.

"Cousin William takes me to see the sights on Saturday (or, rather, Seventh day, as he would say) afternoon, and I have been about myself a good deal. I would like to get to know the people, but have no chance. I wish you would write to a fellow, Cynth. I would like to see you pretty awfully much. How you did give it to me that day on the river! You were a brick, though, to come. I have not forgotten what you said. I am going to show you I am no coward, though you said I was. I'll stick at the lumber trade until I die in the harness, and here's my hand and seal!

Yours,
GORDON.

"P.S.—Give my love to Hessie. I hope Edith is coming round all right."

It was better than nothing, though Mrs. Franklin wished that the letter had been to her. Still, it was far, far better than if it had not been written at all. And then he had sent his love to her. It was in a postscript and was probably an after-thought, but she was glad he did it. He seemed well and moderately happy, and for that his sister was very grateful. Fortunately, Hester could not read between the lines and learn that the boy was eating his heart out with homesickness and a longing to see his only sister.

Neal found this quiet life, so far from his family and friends, very different from that to which he had been accustomed, and sometimes it seemed very dreary and hard to bear. Then again, he was quite unused to steady occupation, and his cousin demanded unflagging attention to business. It was good for the boy, just what he needed; but that made it none the less irksome.

CHAPTER XVIII

Edith recovered slowly; but the shock had told upon her, and it was thought she needed a change of air.

"Take her to a city," suggested the doctor; "she requires diversion."

And very hurriedly and unexpectedly they decided to go to Washington for a week or two, stopping in Philadelphia on their way back for a glimpse of Neal.

The party consisted of Mrs. Franklin, Edith, and Cynthia, with the addition at the last moment of Aunt Betsey. Each of the three Franklins felt a slight pang of disappointment when they heard that Miss Trinkett intended to join them; it would have been just a little nicer to go alone. But the old lady never suspected this, and she met them in Boston on the morning of the 1st of June, full of excitement and pleasure at the thought of seeing "the inner workings of this wonderful government of ours."

Hester's one thought was that she should soon see her brother again. During the last few weeks a letter had come from the head-master at St. Asaph's, deeply regretting the unjust judgment that had been passed upon Neal in suspending him from school. It had since been proved that he was innocent, and the faculty would be only too glad to welcome him back. Mrs. Franklin felt that she could not do too much to atone to Neal for having suspected him, and she longed to tell him so.

"And if I once see him I can persuade him to come back. I know I can!" she said, joyfully, to Cynthia.

The visit was an unqualified success. The Franklin party did a vast amount of sight-seeing, Miss Trinkett being the most indefatigable of all. Indeed, Cynthia was the only one who was able physically to keep up with her energetic little grandaunt, and even she was sometimes forced to plead fatigue.

Miss Betsey left nothing undone. She journeyed to the top of the Monument, she made a solemn pilgrimage to Alexandria. She was never too tired to go to the Capitol, and her little black-robed figure and large black bonnet soon became familiar objects in the visitors' gallery, while she listened carefully to all the speeches, thrilling or dull as they chanced to be. When the latter was the case, as frequently happened, Miss Trinkett waxed warm with indignation at the lack of attention paid to the prosy old member by his inconsiderate colleagues.

"Look!" she would whisper to Cynthia; "they are actually reading and writing and talking quite loud to each other while that poor old gentleman is speaking; and some have gone out. How shocking!"

And she would lean forward again in an attitude of renewed attention, and listen to the reasons for or against some very unimportant project.

At Mount Vernon Miss Trinkett's joy and patriotism knew no bounds. She bought little hatchets by the score, and herself drew up the bucket from the general's own well. She was even guilty of breaking off a twig in Mrs. Washington's garden, notwithstanding the signs which informed her that she was doing it under penalty of the law.

"I just couldn't help it," she said afterwards to her nieces, in apologetic tones. "To think of that labyrinth and that box-border being Martha Washington's own, and me with the same thing in my garden at home! It made me fairly thrill to think of Martha and me having the same tastes in common. I knew she'd have let me take it if she'd been here, for I always heard she was real kind-hearted, if she was dignified, so I just did it."

But the most exciting day of all was when they visited the Dead-letter Office. Miss Trinkett, interested as she had always been in the mail service, was much impressed. She sat up-stairs for hours, and gazed over the railing at the rows of men who were opening and examining thousands of missent letters. She could only be torn away by the entreaties of Cynthia, who begged her to come see the collection of curiosities which had found their way to this vast receptacle.

At the first glass-case Miss Betsey stood appalled.

"Cynthy Franklin," she exclaimed, "look there!"

Cynthia looked. There was every conceivable thing in the place, from a bee-hive to a baby's rattle.

"Do you see?"

"What, Aunt Betsey?"

"There! Look, my own rag doll!"

"'THERE! LOOK, MY OWN RAG DOLL!'"

"Aunt Betsey, it can't be!"

"It is, Cynthy. Don't I know the work of my own hands, I should like to ask? Well, well, I want to know! I want—to—know! Find me a chair, Cynthy. I feel that taken aback I don't know but what I'm going to faint, though I never did such a thing. But do tell! do tell! Oh, this government of ours! It is an age to live in, Cynthy."

Cynthia brought her the chair, and the old lady seated herself in front of the case.

"I do declare, if there ain't the very eyes I sewed in with my own hands—black beads they are, Cynthy—and the hair I embroidered with fine black yarn! And the petticoats, Cynthy! The flannel one's feather-stitched. I could tell you what that doll has on to her very stockings. To think that something I made so innocently, away off in Wayborough, for our little Janet, now belongs to the United States Government! Well, well, it's a great honor; almost too good to be true. But the little satchel, Cynthy? The satchel that hung at her side with the gold in it, where's that?"

That indeed was missing.

"Well, well, we won't say anything. I'm sure Government deserves it for all the trouble it takes, opening all those letters and bundles."

But her family thought differently, and wheels within wheels were set in motion by which the fifty dollars in gold were recovered—the famous fifty dollars, the loss of which had so affected the fortunes of Neal Gordon.

It seemed that in her agitation after the death of Silas Green, Miss Betsey, though she stamped it generously, had put no address at all on the package, and having sent it off by the half blind Mr. Peters, the deficiency had not been discovered.

He had taken it to Tottenham post-office, where both he and Miss Trinkett were unknown, and hurried away, leaving the valuable package to the mercies of Government.

"And to think that Government takes care of things and gives them back to you when you are as careless as all that!" said Miss Betsey. The doll she would not receive.

"No, no," she said; "let it stay where it is. I'll make another for Janet, some day. It's an honor I never expected, to have one of my rag dolls set up in a glass case in a public building in the city of Washington for thousands and thousands of the American people to gaze at! Indeed, I want to know!"

The two weeks in Washington finally came to an end, and the Franklins bade farewell to the beautiful city with its parks and circles, its magnificent avenues, its public buildings, and towering Monument.

"Well, well," said Miss Betsey, as she took her last look, "I haven't lived all these years for nothing! I've been to the capital of my country and I've visited the tomb of Washington. And, Cynthy, now it's all over and we're safely out of the way, I'm real glad I took that twig from the garden. I had a kind of an uneasy feeling about it all the time I was in town, but now I feel better."

When they arrived at Philadelphia Mr. Carpenter was waiting for them at the station. Neal, he explained, was at the lumber-yard; he could not get off at that hour. They had intended going to a hotel, but William Carpenter, with Quaker hospitality, insisted that they should stay under his roof while they were in the city.

"Rachel expects thee," he said to his cousin when she remonstrated; "she has made the necessary preparations."

"But there are so many of us," said Mrs. Franklin.

"There is room for all, and more," he replied, calmly.

Miss Trinkett was much pleased with all she saw, though somewhat surprised when she heard herself called by her given name on so short an acquaintance.

"However, it gives you an at-home feeling right away," she confided to her nieces. "It seems as if I were back in Wayborough with the people that have known me ever since I was born, I wouldn't like to say how many years ago, though not so very many, either."

It was the middle of the afternoon when Neal came in. Hester heard his familiar step coming down the long, narrow hall to her room, where she was resting. There was a knock at the door, and she called to him to come in. In another instant his arms were around her.

"Neal, Neal," she cried, "is it really you at last? Oh, how I have longed to see you! Let me look at you."

She held herself away from him, and scrutinized the face which was far above hers.

"You've grown. You are taller than ever. I only come up to your shoulder, Neal. What a big man you are going to be! And you have altered—your face looks different. What is it?"

"Can't say," he laughed. "Don't stare a fellow out of countenance, Hessie; it's embarrassing. Did you have a good time in Washington?"

It was evident that he did not wish to refer to past events, but Hester insisted upon speaking. She felt that something must be said sooner or later, and there was no time like the present. It would be well to get it over.

"Neal," she said, tenderly, taking his hand as they sat together on the sofa, "I never really thought you took the money. I only did for an instant after you ran away. Of course that seemed strange. But, Neal, you will forgive us for thinking so at all. You will come back, won't you, dear? John wants you to as well as I, and you will go to college."

Neal rose and walked to the window. He stood there for a moment, with his hands in his pockets. Then he turned, and, coming back, stood in front of her.

"I'll tell you what it is. Hessie, we've both got something to forgive. I was beastly extravagant at St. Asaph's, and not at all fair and square when I asked you for the money that time. Then, being suspended was all against me, and of course John had a right to get mad. It's awfully hard to swallow the fact that he wouldn't believe me, and he thought I would steal; however, he had some excuse for it. My old pride was at the bottom of it all. You see I've had time to think it over since I've been here; two months is a good long time. I've been alone a lot, and when you're not measuring boards at a lumber-yard you have plenty of time for thinking over your sins. And I suppose I was pretty well in the wrong, too. I ought not to have run away; I know that."

Now that Neal had reached this conclusion he was courageous enough to acknowledge it.

"And you will come home now, and go to college."

"No, I don't think I will. Cousin William seems to think I do pretty well in the business, and I shouldn't wonder if he'd feel rather badly to have me go. He was very good to take me in. Then I made up my mind I'd stick at the old thing and show Cyn—show some people I'm no coward. Then I'm not very much gone on books, Hessie, and if I went to college I'd want to give a good deal of time to sports and all that, and I'd need a lot of money. Somehow I don't seem to be able to see other fellows spending a pile without doing likewise. I haven't got it, and I am not going to be dependent on you, Hessie dear, much as I know you would like to give me every cent you own. But, on the whole, I think I like better to make my own living. I rather like the feeling of it."

Hester felt that Neal was showing that he was made of good stuff. She was not a little proud of his independent spirit. She was greatly disappointed that he was not going through college; but, after all, she reflected, there was great wisdom in what he said. She determined to say no more until she had consulted with her husband, but she knew that he would agree with Neal.

"And now where are the girls?" demanded Neal, with a view to changing the subject. "I want to see them."

His sister called them in from the next room, and they had a merry meeting.

"How funny it is," thought Cynthia. "The last time I saw Neal we were like two drenched water-rats on the river at home. Whoever thought we should meet away off here in a strange house and a strange city, where all is so different? I believe things are really going to come right after all, and that day I was perfectly certain they never would. Here is Edith well and strong when I thought she was surely going to die, and mamma has seen Neal and seems as happy as a lark, and Neal himself looks fine. Somehow he seems more like a man. I'm proud of him."

All of which train of thought took place while Cynthia was indulging in an unwonted fit of silence.

Neal soon suggested that they should take a walk, and the girls acceding to it, the three set forth, Neal feeling extremely proud of the two pretty maidens with whom he was walking.

"Philadelphia has an awfully forlorn look in summer," he said, with the air of having been born and brought up a Philadelphian. "You see, everybody goes out of town, and the houses are all boarded up. You're here at just the wrong time."

"We are certainly here at a very hot time," remarked Edith, as she raised her parasol.

"They call it very cool for this time of year," said Neal. "You forget you are farther south than old Massachusetts. It is a dandy place, I think, though I wouldn't mind knowing a few people that are not Friends."

"How can you know people unless they are friends?" asked Cynthia, gayly.

"Cynth, what a pun!" said Neal, with an attempt at a frown. "I say, though, it's awfully jolly to have you two girls here, even if Cynthia does keep at her old tricks and make very poor puns. How long are you going to stay?"

"As long as we're bidden, I suppose," returned Cynthia, with one of her well-known little skips, as they set foot on Walnut Street Bridge.

It was six o'clock, but being June the sun was still high above the horizon. A gentle breeze came off the river, and the afternoon light threw a soft radiance over the masts of the vessels which, lay at anchor at the wharves, and the spires and chimneys of the town.

They wandered through the pretty streets of West Philadelphia; Neal, happy in having companions of his own age again, laughing and talking in his old way, care-free and fun-loving once more.

To Cynthia the past year seemed a hideous dream, now to be blotted out forever.

She and Neal had one conversation alone together. It was the night before the visitors were to leave Philadelphia, and the two were in the old garden that was at the back of Mr. Carpenter's house. It was not like Aunt Betsey's garden, nor the more modern one at Oakleigh, but the roses and the lilac blossoms suggested a bit of country here among city bricks and mortar.

Neal was very quiet, and Cynthia rallied him for being so, as she herself laughed heartily at one of her own jokes.

"Well, perhaps I am rather glum," said he; "but I think you are horribly heartless, Cynthia, laughing that way when you're going off to-morrow, and nobody knows when I shall see you again."

Cynthia was sobered in a moment.

"Neal, I want to tell you something," she said. "Mamma told me that you have decided to stay here and work instead of going to college, and I admire you for doing it. Of course, it's a great pity for a boy not to go to college, but then yours is a peculiar case, and I'm proud of you, Neal. Yes, I am! You're plucky to stick it out."

"Wait until I do stick it out," said Neal, coloring hotly at the unexpected praise. "But it's rather nice to hear you tell me I'm something besides a coward."

"Hush! Don't remember what I said that day. Just forget it all."

"Indeed, I won't! It is written down in my brain, every word of it, in indelible ink. There was something else you said, Cynth. You said you had faith in me. I mean to show you that you didn't make a mistake. It will be harder work than ever now, though. Having seen you all makes the idea of toiling and moiling here pretty poky. However, my mind is made up. I will stick it out!"

CHAPTER XIX

It was four years later, and it was again the day before Christmas.

Cynthia sat in her own room by the bed, which was covered with presents in various stages of completion; some tied up and marked, ready to be sent, others only half finished, and one or two but just begun. Bob, as usual, lay at her feet.

"There!" cried she, as with a loud snap her needle broke for the third time; "there it goes again. I believe I'll give up this wretched frame and all the other things that are not finished, and go to Boston this morning. I'll just buy everything I see, regardless of price."

"You would never get near the counters, the shops are so packed," observed Edith, who was hovering over a table full of lovely articles on the other side of the large room. "Just send what you have, Cynthia, and let the rest go. You can't possibly finish them in time. You give so many Christmas presents."

"Oh, it's all very well for you, with all those wedding-presents and the Christmas things you'll have besides, to think other people won't want them! You don't take half as much interest in Christmas as usual this year, Edith, just because you are going to be married so soon. Now I should never change about Christmas if I were to be married forty times—which I hope I sha'n't be. In fact, I've about made up my mind never to marry at all."

"Nonsense! I think I used to say that myself when I was as young as you are."

"And you're just two years older, so according to that you were saying so this time two years ago, which was not by any means the case, for you were already engaged to Dennis then! In fact, I don't believe you ever said it. Oh, another needle! I'm too excited to work, anyhow. What with weddings and Christmas and the boys coming home, I am utterly incapable of further exertion."

She tossed the unfinished photograph-frame across the bed and leaned back in her chair. Then she began to gather up her work materials. Finally she moved restlessly to the window.

"It is beginning to snow. I hope the boys won't be blocked up on the way. Wouldn't it be dreadful!"

"I suppose you mean Neal. Of course, Jack can get out from Cambridge. Ah, here comes Dennis!" and Edith hastily left the room.

"Dennis, Dennis—always Dennis!" said Cynthia to herself. "I wonder if I could ever become so silly. Certainly I never could about Dennis Morgan, though he is a dear old fellow, and I'm very glad I'm going to have him for a brother-in-law."

Cynthia stood for some time at the window, looking out at the swiftly falling flakes which were already whitening the ground. Bob stood beside her, his fore-paws resting on the window-sill. He belonged to Cynthia now; but she patted his head and whispered in his ear that his master was coming, which made the black tail wag joyfully.

Four years had, of course, made considerable change in Cynthia; and yet her face did not look very much older. Her fearless blue eyes were just as merry or as thoughtful by turns as they had always been—at this moment very thoughtful; and the pretty head, with the hair gathered in a soft knot at the back, drooped somewhat as she looked out on the fast gathering snow.

She was wondering how Neal would be this time. During his last visit he had seemed different. She wished that people would not change. Why was one obliged to grow up? If they could only remain boys and girls forever, what a lovely place the world would be! She had hated to have Edith become engaged, and now in two days she was going to be married and leave the old home forever. To be sure, she was to live in Brenton, in a dear little house of her own, but it would not be the same thing at all.

Of one thing Cynthia was sure. She would never marry and go away from Oakleigh; she would stay with her father and mother forever. The next wedding in the family would be either Jack's or Janet's. Jack had overcome his shyness and become quite a "lady's man," and as for Janet—but just then the young woman in question came into the room.

She was eleven years old now, tall for her age, and with her hair in a "pig-tail," but the roguish look in her eyes showed that, like the Janet of former times, she was ever ready for mischief.

She carried a pile of boxes in her arms, and was followed by Willy, who staggered under a similar load, and by Mrs. Franklin, also with her arms full.

"More wedding-presents," Janet announced. "Edith and Dennis have been looking at them, and they sent them up for you to see and fix."

As she uttered the last words one of the boxes slipped, and away went a quantity of articles over the floor—spoons, forks, gravy-ladles, and salt-cellars in wild confusion, cards scattered, and no means of telling who sent what, nor in which box anything belonged.

"Janet," groaned Cynthia, "if that isn't just like you! You ought to be called 'The Great American Dropper,' for everything goes from you."

"Never mind," returned Janet, cheerfully. "Willy, you pick them up while I see who's coming. I hear wheels. It's a station carriage."

"Is it?" cried Cynthia. "Can it be already?"

"It's Aunt Betsey," was Janet's next piece of information.

"Oh!" came from Cynthia, in disappointed tones.

"Why, who did you think it was?" asked her young sister, turning and surveying her calmly and critically. "Aren't you glad to see Aunt Betsey? And why is your face so very red? Are you expecting any one else?"

"No, only the boys," said Cynthia, busying herself with the scattered silverware.

"The boys! I don't see why your face should look so queer for them."

Mrs. Franklin glanced at Cynthia quickly.

"Come," said she, much to her daughter's relief, "we must go welcome Aunt Betsey."

The little old lady was as agile as ever. She had come for Christmas and for the wedding, which was to take place on the twenty-sixth.

"I am glad you didn't put it off," she said to Edith when she had kissed her and kissed Dennis, and patted them both on the shoulder. "Never put off till to-morrow what can be done to-day, as I learned to my cost late in life—though not so very late, either. And now I want to see the wedding-presents."

And she trotted up-stairs in front of them just as nimbly as she did years ago, when she went up to show her nieces her new false front.

Jack arrived in the afternoon. He was a sophomore at Harvard now—very elegant in appearance, very superior as to knowledge of the world, but underneath the same old Jack, good-natured, plodding, persevering. He still ran the poultry farm, though he paid a man to look after it while he was away.

The day wore on, night came down upon them, and still Neal did not appear. He was to have left Philadelphia that morning, where he had been living during the past four years. He had grown more accustomed to the confinement of business, he had made a number of friends outside of the Quaker element, and he expected Philadelphia to be his permanent home.

His cousin was apparently satisfied with his success, for Neal had risen steadily since the beginning, and would one day be a partner. He had come home to Oakleigh every summer for two weeks' vacation, but he had not spent the Christmas holidays there since the year that his sister was married.

This Christmas Eve Cynthia, in her prettiest gown donned for the occasion, grew visibly more and more impatient, in which feeling her step-mother shared. Mr. Franklin laughed at them as he sat by the lamp reading the evening paper as usual.

"Watching won't bring him," he said, when they opened the front door a crack for the twentieth time and then shut it hastily because of the snow that blew in; "and in the meantime you're freezing me!"

"Papa, how can you be so prosaic as to read a stupid old newspaper Christmas Eve?" cried Cynthia, as she caught the paper out of his hand, tossed it aside, and seated herself on his knee.

"Seems to me my little daughter looks very nice to-night," he said, looking at her affectionately. "She has on a very fine frock and some very superior color in her cheeks."

"Well, it is Christmas Eve, and the fire is hot," explained Cynthia.

"Ho!" laughed Janet, "that isn't it! You began to get blushy when you thought the boys were coming this morning. You thought—"

"Janet," interposed Mrs. Franklin, "run up-stairs quickly and get the little white package on my dressing-table, dear. I forgot to put it in the basket. You can slip it in."

For the old Oakleigh custom still obtained, and the presents were deposited in the basket in the hall.

Janet, her explanations nipped in the bud, departed obediently, her love of teasing overcome by her desire to see, feel, and even shake the "little white package," which had an attractive sound.

And at last Neal arrived. The storm had begun at the south, and there had been much detention; but he had finally reached his journey's end, and here he was, cold and hungry, and very glad to reach the friendly shelter of Oakleigh.

From the moment he came in Cynthia found a great deal to do in other parts of the house—things which seemed to require her immediate and closest attention. She left her mother and sister to attend to the wants of the traveller, and beyond the first shy greeting she had very little to say to him. When there was nothing left to be done she devoted herself to Aunt Betsey. But as soon as Neal had appeased his appetite the excitement of opening the presents began, and the assumption of indifference to his coming was no longer necessary.

On Christmas afternoon Neal asked Cynthia to go out with him. The day was clear, the sleighing fine, and he anticipated having an opportunity for a long talk with her, uninterrupted by the claims of relatives. It seemed to him that there were more people than ever who received a share of Cynthia's attention. He would like to have her all to himself just once.

Very much to his chagrin, however, Cynthia, who accepted his invitation with apparent cordiality, insisted that they should go in the double sleigh, and that Aunt Betsey and some one else should go too.

"It would be very selfish and quite unnecessary for us to go in the cutter when Aunt Betsey is so fond of a sleigh-ride," she said, severely.

Neal grumbled under his breath, but could say nothing aloud, as Miss Trinkett was in the room. To be sure, when they drove off, Cynthia sat in front with him, while his sister entertained her aunt on the back seat; but it was not by any means the same thing as going with Cynthia alone would have been.

That young woman, with apparent unconsciousness of his dissatisfaction, chatted gayly about the wedding, the various bits of Brenton gossip, and everything that she could think of to keep the ball of conversation rolling. Somehow it Lad never before been so difficult to talk to Neal. She wished that he would exert himself a little more.

"How do you like the idea of being usher," she asked—"you and Jack and four others, you know? Tom Morgan is to be best man, Gertrude and Kitty Morgan are to be bridesmaids, and I maid of honor. But, Neal, did you hear the story about Tony Bronson?"

"No; what?"

"Oh, he did some terrible thing not very long ago. He forged his uncle's name, I believe. It got into the papers at first, and then it was all hushed up, and his father paid the money. But wasn't it dreadful?"

"I should say so! But it is just what one might have expected Bronson to do, Cynth."

And then Neal relapsed into silence again, and Cynthia determined that she would make no further effort at conversation. If Neal would not talk he need not, but neither would she. And after this, with the exception of Miss Betsey's voice from behind, nothing was heard but the jingle of the sleigh-bells until the drive was over and they were at home again.

The wedding the next day passed off well. The bride looked lovely, as all brides should, and Cynthia was as pretty as, if not more so, than her sister. After the ceremony at the church there was a reception at the house, which, notwithstanding the winter aspect without, looked warm and gay in its dress of Christmas-greens and wedding-flowers.

Edith was up-stairs in her old room, and her mother and Cynthia were putting the last touches to her toilet when she had changed her dress to go away.

"Mamma, I want to say something to you," she said, putting her arms around Mrs. Franklin's neck. "You know how I love you now, and you know only too well how hateful I was to you when you first came to us. I look back on it now with horror, especially the day you heard me say it was so dreadful to have the Gordons come. I want to tell you, mamma, that next to Dennis the coming of the Gordons was the very best thing that ever happened to me in my whole life!"

Mrs. Franklin could not speak; she could only kiss her and hold her tenderly.

Cynthia said nothing aloud, but she thought that the coming of the Gordons was the very best thing that had ever happened to her, without any exception whatever. Dennis, in her eyes, was of minor importance.

The bride and groom went off amid a shower of old shoes, and then the guests slowly betook themselves to their homes. It was the first wedding at Oakleigh for many years, and it was celebrated in a manner befitting such an important occasion. Some of the intimate friends stayed during the evening, and when they left, the family, tired and worn with excitement, separated early.

The next day Neal went to see some of his former friends. He was absent several days, for he had been granted extended leave, and was not due in Philadelphia until the 2d of January.

It seemed very lonely and strange at Oakleigh after the wedding was over. It was the first break in the family of that kind, and Cynthia could not become accustomed to it. She thought that accounted for the unusual fit of depression which seized her the morning Neal went away, and which she could not shake off, try as she would.

Edith and Dennis were to return the last day of the year, and spend a short time at the old homestead before going to their new house. Neal also was to come back that day, and Cynthia found herself longing for New-year's Eve. She did want to see Edith so much, she said to herself a dozen times a day.

And at last New-year's Eve came, and with it the absent members of the household. A merry party sat about the supper-table that night. Cynthia was the gayest of the gay. Her contagious laugh rang out on all occasions, but, indeed, everybody laughed at every one else's joke, and particularly at one's own joke, apparently without regard to the amount of wit contained therein.

But as the evening lengthened Cynthia grew more quiet. The last night of the year always impressed her with its solemnity, young though she was. She left the others where they were sitting about the fire waiting for the clock to strike, and wandered off to the dining-room, to the library, up-stairs—anywhere. She could not sit still.

She was just coming down the broad old staircase when Neal suddenly appeared at the foot. He had been waiting for her. He was to go back to-morrow, and he had determined to speak to her before he left.

She paused a moment in surprise, and the light from the Venetian lantern which hung in the hall shone down on her soft curly hair and young face as she stood with her hand resting on the bannister. Neal thought he had never seen so lovely a picture.

"I want to speak to you, Cynth," he said, leaning against the carved post at the foot of the stairs and effectually barring the way. There was nothing for her to do but to listen. "I have tried for ages, ever since I came, and you never will give me a chance."

"'I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU, CYNTH'"

"Nonsense! You have been away. How could you expect to talk to me if you went away?"

"I know; but I had to go. Besides, you wouldn't have let me if I had been here."

"Let us go back to the parlor. It is almost twelve."

"No, I want you here."

Cynthia was about to reply defiantly, but something in Neal's eyes made her drop her own. She stood there in silence.

"Cynthia, do you remember that day on the river in the rain?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember what you called me then?"

No reply.

"Tell me, Cynth; do you remember what you called me?"

"Yes," very low.

"You called me a coward. Do you think I am one now?"

"Oh no."

"But you also said you had faith in me, Cynthia; and in Philadelphia that spring I told you I was going to prove to you that I was worthy of your faith. Do you think I have, Cynthia?"

"Yes, Neal."

He said nothing for a minute. Then he glanced at the old clock in the back part of the hall. It was five minutes of twelve.

"Come to the hall window, Cynthia," he said, taking her hand, and Cynthia went with him.

"That other New-year's Eve we stood here and looked out on the snow just as we're doing now. Do you remember?"

"And I made good resolutions which I never kept," said Cynthia, finding her voice at last. "Oh, Neal, my bureau drawers are just as untidy and my tongue is just as unruly as ever! I make the same good resolutions every New-year's Eve, but I always break them. You were wiser. You would not promise that night when I wanted you to, but you have done a great deal better than if you had."

"I would not promise when I should have done so. But won't you return good for evil, Cynthia, and promise me something? Promise me that before many more New-year's Eves have come and gone you will be my wife! For I love you—love you, Cynthia! I have loved you ever since that day on the river—indeed, long before that! Hark! the clock is beginning to strike. Promise before it stops."

And Cynthia promised.

And the old clock struck twelve, as it had done thousands of times before, and the old year died, and for us the story is finished. But for Neal and Cynthia a new year and a new life were dawning, and for them the story had but just begun.

THE END

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Table of Contents

- OAKLEIGH
- CHAPTER I
- CHAPTER II
- CHAPTER III
- CHAPTER IV
- CHAPTER V
- CHAPTER VI
- CHAPTER VII
- CHAPTER VIII
- CHAPTER IX
- CHAPTER X
- CHAPTER XI
- CHAPTER XII
- CHAPTER XIII
- CHAPTER XIV
- CHAPTER XV
- CHAPTER XVI
- CHAPTER XVII
- CHAPTER XVIII
- CHAPTER XIX
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE