"Did he get my telegram?" she asked, leaning forward to look at a monument they were pa.s.sing.

"A little before noon," replied Bobby. "Louise and Esther and I had such a violent argument as to which of us should come to meet you that we didn't even dare draw lots; it seemed safer for us all to come along."

Esther, who sat opposite Betty, had noticed her interest in the Washington Monument.

"We're going to take you sightseeing to-morrow," she promised.

"Aren't we, Bobby? And I don't see why we don't go home by way of Fort Myer. It doesn't take any longer, and dinner isn't till seven, you know."

"All right." Bobby leaned forward and spoke to the chauffeur. "Take us round by Fort Myer, please, Carter," she directed.

The car turned sharply, and in a few minutes they were rattling over an old bridge.

"We live out in the country, Betty, I warn you," said the voluble Bobby. "But it has its compensations. You'll like it."

Betty, a stranger to Washington, decided that the Willard must be a country hotel. It would be like Uncle d.i.c.k, she knew, to shun the heart of the city and establish himself somewhere where he could see green fields the first thing every morning.

"What is Fort Myer?" she asked with lively curiosity, as the car began to climb a steep grade. "Is that where they had training camps during the war?"

"Right," said Bobby. "It's an army post, you know. See, here are some of the officers' houses. I only hope we live here when Louise and I are eighteen--they give the most heavenly dances and parties."

Betty looked with interest at the neat houses they were pa.s.sing. The names of the officers were conspicuously tacked on the doorsteps, and there was a general air of orderliness and military spic and spanness about the very gravel roads. Occasionally a dust-colored car shot past them filled with men in uniform.

"Do you ride?" asked Betty suddenly. "Uncle d.i.c.k has always wanted me to learn, but I've never had a good chance."

"Well, you can begin to-morrow morning," Bobby informed her. "We've three ponies that are fine under the saddle. Betty, I do wish you'd make up your mind to live in Washington this winter. There's no reason in the world why you shouldn't, and we were talking it over last night, making plans for you."

"Why! that's entirely as Uncle d.i.c.k says," returned Betty, surprised. "I haven't any say in the matter."

Bobby shot a triumphant glance toward the other girls.

"He said he hadn't much right to dictate, but I told him I knew better," she said with satisfaction. "He wants you as much as we do, and that's considerable, you know."

Again a wave of doubt swept over Betty. Uncle d.i.c.k had said he had not much right to dictate! When he was her only living relative!

"Uncle hasn't a fever or anything, has he?" she asked apprehensively.

"I mean the injury to his foot hasn't, it didn't--" she floundered.

"Oh, that old hurt to his head never amounted to anything," declared Bobby with convincing carelessness. "No, indeed, he's perfectly well except for the crutches, and the doctor says keeping him indoors for a few days will give him a much-needed rest."

Betty recalled the accident in which her uncle had been stunned when he had slipped down a bank into an excavation made along a road on which they had been driving. Bobby evidently referred to that old injury.

"Now you can begin to watch for the house," said the silent Esther, as Carter swung the car around another curve in the beautiful road.

"I don't see why I couldn't have been named Virginia!"

"Esther has a personal grievance because she's the only one of us born in the South, and she had to be named for an aunt like the rest of us," laughed Bobby. "Every tenth girl you meet down here seems to be named Virginia."

"But was she born in Virginia?" asked Betty. "Where did you live then?"

Bobby stared. Then she laughed.

"Oh, I see," she said. "We lived at Fairfields. Of course you know that. But, like so many friends, you have always thought of us as living in Washington. We're in Virginia, Betty, didn't you know that?"

"No." Betty's puzzlement was plainly written on her face.

"When we crossed the bridge, we left the District of Columbia,"

explained Bobby. "Of course we're very close to the line, but still we are not in Washington."

"There's the house!" exclaimed Louise. "I wonder if mother got back from shopping. I don't see her on the porch."

Betty saw a beautiful white house, dazzlingly white against a background of dark trees, with a broad lawn in front circled by a wide white driveway. A terraced garden at the side with a red brick walk was arranged with wicker chairs and tables and a couple of swings protected with gay striped awnings. It was a typical Southern mansion in perfect order, and Betty reveled in its architectural perfections even while she told herself that it did not look in the slightest like a hotel. What was it Bobby had called her home?

"Fairfields"--that was it; and she, Betty, wanted to go to the Willard. Had they made a mistake and brought her to the wrong place?

There was no time to ask for explanations, however. The girls swept her out of the car and up the low steps through the beautiful doorway. A well-trained man servant closed the door noiselessly, and the three bore Betty across the wide hall into a room lined with books and boasting three or four built-in window seats, in one of which a gentleman was reading.

"We found her! Here she is!" shouted the irrepressible Bobby. "Don't tell us we can't pick a girl named Betty out of a crowd!"

The gentleman closed his book, and, steadying himself with a cane lying near by, rose slowly. There was no recognition in the gaze he fastened on Betty, and she for her part hung back, staring wildly.

"You're not Uncle d.i.c.k!" she gasped accusingly.

CHAPTER XII

STRAIGHTENING THINGS OUT

Betty's speech was shock number one. Another quickly followed.

The gentleman tugged quizzically at his short gray mustache.

"And you," he announced quietly, "are not my niece, Betty Littell!"

Esther and Louise stared, round-eyed, while Bobby collapsed dramatically on a convenient couch.

"Have we kidnapped anybody?" she asked, a bit hysterically. "Good gracious, Dad, don't tell me I've forcibly run off with a girl?

Haven't you made a mistake? She must be Betty--she said so."

"My darlings, I'm sorry to be late," said a new voice, a rich, sweet contralto, and a stout woman with a kindly, florid face swept through the doorway. "Why, what is the matter?" she demanded hurriedly, confronting the tense group.

"Momsie!" exclaimed Bobby, hurling herself upon the newcomer. "Oh, Momsie, isn't this Betty Littell? We went to meet her and she said her name was Betty, and all the way home she talked about Uncle d.i.c.k, and now she says dad isn't her uncle! I'm afraid I've made a mess of things."

"Yes, I think you have," said Betty, with blazing cheeks. "I came to Washington to meet my uncle, Mr. Richard Gordon, who is stopping at the Willard. Of course my name is Betty. I'm Betty Gordon, and he's my Uncle d.i.c.k. And goodness only knows what he is doing now--he'll be about crazy if he came to meet me."

Bobby began to laugh uncontrollably.

"I never heard of such a thing in my life!" she giggled, wiping her eyes. "Dad's name is Richard Littell, and we've been expecting our cousin Betty Littell to arrive to-day from Vermont for a long visit.