"One real big one who is sixteen. She has gone to Hartford now. That's Betty Leverett. And I went there first, because--well, Uncle Leverett came for me when the vessel reached Boston."

"Oh, he is your uncle, too! Did you come from another Boston, truly now?"

"Yes, it was Boston."

"And like this?"

"Oh, no."

"Did you know ever so many girls?"

"No. We lived quite out of the town."

"And, oh, were you not afraid to cross the ocean? Suppose there had been a pirate or something?"

"I didn't know anything about pirates," said Doris. "But I was afraid at first, when you could not see any land for days and days. There were two little girls and they had a doll. We played together and grew used to the water. But it was worse when it stormed."

"I should have been frightened out of my life. Grandmamma has been to England. We have some cousins there, but they are grown-up people and married. Which place do you like best?"

"I had no real relatives there after papa died. Oh, I like this Boston best."

Then they branched off into school matters. Eudora and her sister went to a Miss Parker, and to a writing school an hour in the afternoon.

Eudora wished she was grown-up like Isabel and Alice, and could go out to real parties and have a silk frock. Grandmamma was going to give her one when she was fifteen.

A feeling of delicacy kept Doris from confessing that she owned the coveted article. Some of the girls had worn very pretty frocks. Eudora's was a beautiful soft blue, and had bands of black velvet and short sleeves with lace around them. But Doris had forgotten about her own attire, though she recalled the fact that there was only one little girl in a gray frock, and it didn't seem very pretty.

So they chattered on, and Eudora said they would have splendid times if she came in the summer. They had a big swing, and they went over on the Common and had no end of fun playing tag. The warm weather was the nicest, though there was great fun sledding and snowballing when the boys were not too rough. Oh, had she seen the forts and the great light out at Fort Hill? Wasn't it just grand?

"But, you know, Walter said if the redoubts had been stone instead of snow, the Rebels never could have taken them. You know, they called _us_ Rebels then. And now we are a nation."

Doris wondered what a redoubt was, but she saved it to ask Uncle Win.

She gave a sigh to think what an ignorant little girl she was.

"I think it is a great deal finer to be a country all by yourself and govern your own people. The King of England is half crazy, you know. You don't mind, do you, when we talk about the English? We don't really mean every person, and our friends and--and all"--getting rather confused with distinctions.

"We mean the government," interposed Helen. "It stands to reason people thousands of miles away wouldn't know what is best for us. Wouldn't it be ridiculous if someone in Virginia should pretend to instruct grandmamma what to do? Grandmamma knows so much. And she is one of the handsomest old ladies in Boston. Oh, listen!"

A mysterious sound came from the kitchen. A fiddle was surely tuning up somewhere.

"The big folks are going to dance, and that is black Joe, Mr. Winslow's man."

Mr. Winslow and a young lady had arrived also. They tendered many apologies about their lateness.

The people in the dining room left the table and came out in the hall.

Cary Adams had been having a very nice time, for a young fellow. Isabel poured the chocolate, and on her right sat a Harvard senior. Alice poured the tea, and beside her sat Cary, who made himself useful handing it about. He liked Alice very much. A young married couple were over on the other side, and now this addition and the fiddle looked suspicious.

"My dear Doris," exclaimed her uncle. He had been discussing Greek poets with the Harvard professor, and had really forgotten about her. "Are you tired? It's about time a young person like you, and an old person like me, went home."

He didn't look a bit old. There was a tint of pink in his cheeks--he had been so roused and warmed with his argument and his tea.

"Oh, do let Doris stay and see them dance, just one dance," pleaded Eudora. "We have been sitting here talking, and haven't tired ourselves out a bit."

The fiddler and the dancers went to the room where the children had their frolic. That was Jane Morse's cousin Winslow. How odd she should see him and hear black Joe, who fiddled like the blind piper. The children kept time with their feet.

The minuet was elegant. Then they had a cotillion in which there was a great deal of bowing. After that Mr. Adams said they must go home, and Madam Royall came and talked to Doris in a charming fashion, and then told Susan, the slim colored maid, to wrap her up head and ears, and in spite of Mr. Adams' protest Pompey came round with the sleigh.

"I hope you had a nice time," said Madam Royall, as she put a Christmas box in the little girl's hand.

"I'm just full of joy," she answered with shining eyes. "I couldn't hold any more unless I grew," laughingly.

They made her promise to come again, and the children kissed her good-by. Then they were whisked off and set down at their own door in no time.

"Now you must run to bed. Aunt Elizabeth would be horrified at your staying up so late."

Miss Recompense was--almost. She had been nodding over the fire.

They went upstairs together. She took a look at Doris, and suddenly the child clasped her round the waist.

"Oh, dear Miss Recompense, I was so glad about the beautiful sash. Most of the frocks were prettier than mine. Some had tiny ruffles round the bottom and the sleeves. But the party was so nice I forgot all about that. Oh, Miss Recompense, were you ever brimful of happiness, and you wanted to sing for pure gladness? I think that is the way the birds must feel."

No, Miss Recompense had never been that happy. A great joy, the delight of childhood, had been lost out of her life. She had been trained to believe that for every miserable day you spent bewailing your sins, a day in heaven would be intensified, and that happiness on earth was a snare of the Evil One to lead astray. She had gone out in the fields and bemoaned herself, and wondered how the birds _could_ sing when they had to die so soon, and how anyone could laugh when he had to answer for everything at the Day of Judgment.

"Everybody was so delightful, though at first I felt strange. And I did not make out at all playing graces. That's just beautiful, and I'd like to know how. And now if you will untie the sash and put it away, and I am a hundred times obliged to you."

Some of the children she had known would have begged for the sash.

Doris' frank return touched her. Mr. Adams no doubt meant her to keep it--she would ask him.

And then the happy little girl went to bed, while even in the dark the room seemed full of exquisite visions and voices that charmed her.

Cary had to go away the next morning. Uncle Win said he couldn't spare her, and sent Cato over to tell Mrs. Leverett. A young man came in for some instruction, and Doris followed the fate of the Vicar's household a while, until she felt she ought to study, since there were so many things she did not know.

Uncle Win found her in the chimney corner with a pile of books.

"What is it now?" he asked.

"I think I know _all_ my spelling. But I can't get some of the addition tables right when I ask myself questions. I wish there had not been any nine."

"The world couldn't get along without the nine. It is very necessary."

"Most of the good things _are_ hard," she said with a philosophic sigh.

He laughed.

"Eudora does not like tables either."

"I will tell you a famous thing about nine that you can't do with any other figure. How much is ten and ten?"

"Why, twenty, and ten more are thirty, and so on. It is easy as turning over your hand."