"It must be so exciting to come out," sighed Florence. "We can't do it in this little place, for we're never in, very much. I should be sorry to leave the girls, Kit, but I almost wish I lived in a city, the way you do."

"You wouldn't, if you had tried it," said Katharine decidedly. "I used to long for the time when I could be in society, as mamma is.

Why, only last year I felt as if I couldn't wait; but since I have been here, I don't care half so much about it. It will probably be fun for just a little while, and then I shall get tired of it and wish I could stop, and be cross and pale and headache-y, the way mamma used to be. But, at least, I've had this one year, and I can think about it over and over again, and remember just what we have all done and said. Perhaps sometime we can all be together at our house."

"I do wish you didn't have to go away," said Florence a little forlornly. "We feel as if you belonged to us, Katharine, and we four girls don't seem half so many as we did before you and Jessie came."

"What an idea! And, besides, you have Alan, and he is equal to all the rest of us put together. Dear fellow, how I shall miss him! I wish I had a brother. But, Florence, it isn't as if we weren't likely to drop in on you again, before long. It takes such a little while to go back and forth, now; and I mean to go to Europe in a year or two, and then I shall stop here on the way. It isn't as bad as it would be if papa couldn't afford to let us travel."

But Florence shook her head.

"No," said she, "I know how it will be. You think now that you'll come, but you'll go out there and get so interested in society that you will forget all about New England, and all about us. Or, if you do remember us, it will be when you are dancing all night, and you'll stop a minute to pity us because we go to bed and to sleep like civilized beings." And Florence laughed, in spite of herself, at the idea.

"Now, Florence, that isn't fair to me. I really don't mean to be just a silly girl who thinks of nothing but her clothes. I shall have to go into society, but I believe I can be good for a little something besides that. If I find I can't do both, why, then I'll give up the society part of it; but I won't be a do-nothing all my days. I know there are always more chances for a woman to do good than there are women to do it, and I mean to keep my eyes open to look for my own especial chance. I don't believe that all the helpful ideas auntie and Mrs. Adams have given me this year were intended to be thrown away, and I think the time will come when I can use them. If not, why were they given me? Wait a few years, Florence, and see if I am just a b.u.t.terfly. It is only fair to give me the chance to win my spurs." Katharine spoke earnestly, for her whole soul was in her words. The past year had been a revelation to her, and her rapid development towards womanhood had been in the line of all that was truest and n.o.blest in her character. She had come to New England an unformed girl whose nature was one of endless possibilities, only waiting for the word which should make them actual and turn her in one way or the other. The word was spoken and, thanks to her aunt's influence and to her a.s.sociation with the simple, natural girls about her, the impulse given was in the right direction. It was as if Katharine had suddenly been born into a new life. No drifting, idle maturity could satisfy her now; her womanhood must be one of purpose and of action. The time for it had come much nearer than she thought.

But now her little outburst was followed by a hearty,--

"Good for you, Kit!"

Both the girls started and looked up, to see Alan's head stretched out from his window, with a look of perfect approval on his boyish face.

"I didn't mean to listen," he said penitently. "I was up here reading and, honestly, I didn't hear a thing but Kit's last speech. That was such a good one that I did just want to pat her on the back. I'm going to stop up my ears now."

"Come down, and stay with us, Alan," his cousin, said.

"No, thanks; not even you can bribe me to leave this book. I want to know what they found in the bottom of the cave." And Alan returned to his reading.

However, the unexpected interruption had put an end to all serious talk, and the girls were chatting idly, now of this matter, now of that, when a boy stepped up on the piazza. He had a telegram in his hand.

"Miss Katharine W. Shepard?" he asked, referring to his address book.

Katharine rose, dropping the kitten on the floor.

"I am Miss Shepard," she said, taking the envelope from his hand and signing the receipt.

"I hope nothing is wrong," said Florence, eyeing the yellow paper with a true feminine dislike of a telegram.

"Wrong? Oh, no; it is probably from papa. He often telegraphs us,"

said Katharine carelessly, as she tore open the end of the envelope.

She glanced at the paper in her hand, then looked a little surprised.

"It's from mamma," she said. "Papa has probably changed his plans.

Listen: 'Start for home first of next week. Have written.'"

"The first of next week! That is so soon, Katharine; we can't let you go." And Florence sat up in the hammock and stared at her friend in bewilderment.

"It is very sudden," said Katharine slowly. "It doesn't seem as if I could go. But isn't it strange? Papa must have decided, all at once, to go to Alaska sooner than he planned, for this is such a little bit of a warning. Let me see, this is Thursday, and we can't get a letter before Monday. We must start on Tuesday. How I do hate to go!" And Katharine choked down a sudden lump that had risen in her throat. "Come in," she added. "I must tell auntie."

"No, I must go home," said Florence. "Oh, dear! Only four days more, Katharine!"

"Don't cry, dear," said Katharine protectingly. "Remember it isn't for always, for I shall come East often."

She stood and watched her guest until she was out of sight, then ran into the house in search of her aunt, to whom she showed the telegram. In spite of herself, Mrs. Hapgood was very uneasy over the sudden summons to the girls. It certainly did seem strange that the message should come from their mother; but for Katharine's sake, her aunt hid her fears as best she could, and only tried to make the girls' last days as pleasant as possible, while she waited with a burning impatience for the letter which should explain everything. However, the girls, accustomed as they were to their father's rapid changes in his plans, were not at all disturbed, but quietly made their arrangements for the journey, sure that Mr. Shepard would either come for them, or else meet them on the way.

Friday and Sat.u.r.day pa.s.sed only too quickly for the young people, who were dreading the approaching separation, and Sunday afternoon found them all a.s.sembled at Mrs. Hapgood's for a farewell dinner together. But it was rather a silent, subdued party that gathered about the table; the conversation was fitful and broken by long pauses, and the jokes were rather forced and feeble; while Molly's red eyes and Florence's white cheeks showed that something was wrong. If it was bad at the table, it was worse when they all sat in the front porch after dinner, with nothing to do but watch the darkness settle slowly down over the valley, and listen, to the last sleepy twitterings of the birds. They talked little as they sat there. Now and then Alan would attempt a jest, or Katharine would try to start some fresh subject; but soon the voices would die away, and another silence follow the momentary interruption.

So they lingered until long past the time for separation. At length Polly started up.

"Come, girls," said she; "I can't stand this any longer. We may as well say good night now, for it won't be any easier by and by."

"Oh, why did you girls ever come here and make us so fond of you, and then have to go and leave us!" wailed Jean. "I wish you hadn't come in the first place."

"I don't," said Polly steadily; "I'm glad I've had just this one year of knowing you. It's ever so much better than nothing, and I'm thankful even for this. Besides," she added, valiantly brushing away the tears, "I don't mean to cry yet, for we have all day to-morrow, and Tuesday morning; and then, you'll come back again some day. When you are gone is time enough to do the crying." And smiling resolutely, she bade them good night, then went away up the street, with the tears running down her cheeks.

"Come, Alan," said Katharine, early the next morning; "come down to the post-office with me. My letter from home must be here by this time, and I'm in a hurry to get it, to see if papa is going to come for us. It takes Jessie so long to get ready, that we won't wait for her."

They walked away together, laughing and talking as they went, determined to forget the morrow, and only enjoy the bright, beautiful morning and their pleasure in each other's society. At the post-office, Alan ran inside, leaving his cousin to wait for him at the door.

"Here it is, sure enough, Kit," he said, as he joined her again.

"What a little thin one, and from mamma, too!" said Katharine, as she deliberately tore it open. "Papa must be away on one of his business trips, I suppose."

Alan made no reply, but left her to read her letter while he walked along at her side, whistling softly to himself. All at once he heard a low exclamation, like a half-smothered cry of pain.

Turning quickly, he saw his cousin's face was ashy white, and her breath was coming in short, quick gasps.

"Katharine! What is it?" he cried, in terror at the change in her face.

For answer, she held out the letter to him. "Oh, Alan, what does it mean?"

He thought she was going to fall, and threw his arm around her to support her, but she rallied quickly.

"Read it, Alan," she begged. "I can't seem to understand it."

Alan read it. But before he was half through it, his face was as white as hers had been. "Oh, Kit!" he began; then he paused, not daring to offer one word of pity.

The short letter was the bitter outcry of a selfish woman who forgot her children's suffering in her own, for it bore its sad message abruptly and with no word to soften the blow. Mr. Shepard had proved to be a defaulter and, after he had for years been using money from the bank of which he was president, he had saved himself, on the eve of exposure, by hastily quitting the country, leaving his wife and children to bear the burden of his guilt as best they could.

"Papa has taken money that didn't belong to him; is that it, Alan?" said Katharine slowly, as if dazed by the sudden shock. "I can't believe it. How can mamma say such a cruel thing?" she added indignantly.

Alan made no reply, beyond drawing the girl's limp hand through his arm. Katharine felt the unspoken sympathy of his gesture and pressed closer to him.

"Do say you don't believe it, Alan," she urged. "You must know that papa couldn't do such a thing."

"Oh, Kit, I wish I knew what to say!" the boy burst out. "I am so awfully sorry for you, dear." But Katharine stopped him with a motion of her hand.

"Don't pity me, Alan, or I shall begin to cry; and I mustn't do that here. We must hurry home to tell auntie." And she quickened her pace, almost to a run.

Alan kept by her side, watching the white, set face, and marvelling that she did not give way to her sorrow. His own eyes were full of tears, and his throat was aching with a dull, dry pain; but his cousin, after her first exclamations, was perfectly quiet. So they went up the long, sunny street, deaf to the gay bird-songs, blind to the sunlight that slanted down through the arching elms and set the dewdrops to twinkling, only anxious to reach the safe refuge of the old house, and the motherly woman within it.

They found her on the piazza watching for them, eager for the news the letter must bring.