"Have you ever been to school?"

"Not very much. My mother taught me until she was not strong enough and then I went to school."

"Did you like it?"

"No, ma'am. Not a bit. The other girls were horrid to me and wouldn't make friends. At least the girls my own age wouldn't. They said I was only a little circus girl. I wasn't as far along in my lessons as they were, either, and had to go into a cla.s.s with real little girls who thought I was stupid and made fun of me until I read aloud to them. Then they liked me better.

"But that was before mother died. After that I couldn't bear to go to school any more that winter."

"You poor, motherless little girl!" cried Mrs. Hartwell-Jones again, with a catch in her own voice. "And was there no joy-no spot of color in all that dull, dreary time?"

"Ben was always good to me. He was very busy at the theatre all winter, but whenever he could spare the time he took me for walks. Once he took me to a concert. A lady sang, oh, so beautifully!

"And there was the church music, too. I loved it there; it was a very big church with beautiful stained gla.s.s windows. The organ hummed so grandly and little boys in white gowns and voices like angels sang. Oh, it was wonderful!"

"I see you are fond of music," observed Mrs. Hartwell-Jones, glancing with pleased surprise at the little girl's flushed cheeks and shining eyes.

"Oh, so fond!" replied Letty eagerly.

Then she stopped, seized with a new fit of shyness. How had it come about that she should be chattering so freely all this time to the great lady of whom she had felt in such awe an hour before; the writer of books! Somehow she had forgotten all about her greatness and riches; she had felt only the loving kindness and sympathy of her manner.

Ever since her mother's death Letty had had an odd, tight feeling around her heart; as if it had been tucked into a case that was too small for it. When Ben died the case had grown smaller and tighter until it cut like a metal band. She had never been able to talk to any one of her grief until something in Mrs. Hartwell-Jones's manner had appealed to the trustfulness of the sensitive, lonely child. And her heart felt less swollen and sore after she had spoken.

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones asked no more questions for a time, and Letty went over in her mind her day's experience; the gay, happy children, the big, sunny farmhouse with its green lawns and orchard and last, but not least, the good dinner and general homey feeling.

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones's thoughts were busy too, and all that Letty had told her made her the more decided to take the girl from her present surroundings. But she said nothing to Letty. She would wait until she had had her talk, as she had determined, with Mrs. Drake.

In the meantime the twins, left at home at Sunnycrest, felt a bit flat.

"I'm glad Mrs. Hartwell-Jones has bought the ponies," said Jane, idly swinging on the gate. "'Cause she'll take us driving with them lots of times, I think."

"It's lucky Josh found 'em all right," responded Christopher. "He knows a lot about horses, Josh does, and he might have found something wrong."

"Oh, he couldn't have been so mean as to say anything was wrong about 'em. He just couldn't help loving the cunning little things."

"It isn't a question of loving," retorted Christopher grandly. "It's a question of spavins or-or heaves, or heart disease. Those are horse's diseases, you know."

"They aren't all horse's diseases. People can have some of 'em.

Leastways, nurse said Norah Flannigan had heart disease and that was what made her eyes stick out, like a frog's."

"What did her eyes sticking out have to do with it?"

"Why, greeny, don't you know that when people have heart disease their eyes always bulge? It's a symptom. I asked mother and she said so. But who I'm sorry for is Letty," she went on hastily. She saw that Christopher was about to question further about this most interesting symptom of heart trouble and she did not wish to betray the fact that she had come to the end of her knowledge.

"What are you sorry for Letty for? Has she got heart disease?"

"No, but she hasn't any home."

"Well, but she's got a circus to belong to and that's lots more exciting."

"But she doesn't like a circus. She said so. She doesn't like traveling around and living in a tent. And now that Punch and Judy are gone from the circus she won't have anything to do. I wish grandmother had let her stay here to help Huldah."

"So do I," replied Christopher cruelly. "'Cause then she'd be around to play dolls with you and I could get off more to go with the boys."

"If you want to play with the boys, why don't you go?" said Jane loftily. "I'm sure I don't want your company if you don't want to stay."

Just then she spied something enveloped in a cloud of dust coming up the road, and her tone changed.

"Kit Baker, who's that?"

"Huh?" asked Christopher, glancing at the approaching dust cloud with pretended surprise. "Oh, that's just Bill Carpenter coming out to see the pups. Grandfather said I might give him one. And we're going to talk baseball too a bit. The fellows want me on the nine. You needn't go away, though; there's no secret," he added politely, as Jane climbed down off the gate.

The dust cloud had by this time revolved upon them and disclosed a small, freckled boy on a big bicycle. Jane gave her brother one hurt, angry look, turned her back and without a word ran into the house.

"What's the matter?" called grandmother, catching sight of the red, scowling face as Jane pa.s.sed the sitting-room door.

"Oh, nothing," answered Jane carelessly, turning and entering the room.

"Kit's got a boy out there, so I thought I'd come in and see if Huldah wanted me to help her."

Grandmother peered out the window at the backs of two boys disappearing around the corner of the house in the direction of the stable.

"I don't believe Huldah is in the kitchen, dear," she said, "but perhaps you would like to sit with me for a little while? I have some pretty bits of silk put away that I have been saving up for you to make a doll's quilt. I thought they might come in useful when you and I were sitting together over a bit of sewing."

This suggestion made Jane feel very grown up-almost like a lady come in to spend the afternoon. The sulky frown smoothed itself out at once.

Grandmother directed her where to find the box of silks, threaded her needle and advised in a most interested way about the choice of colors.

Jane seated herself in a low rocking-chair beside an open window and felt very important indeed as she snipped squares of silk and sewed them together. She forgave her brother his preference for boys, she forgot to be curious as to which puppy Billy Carpenter might choose. She even forgot, in the general grown-upness of the occasion, that she did not like sewing. And crowning joy, when Huldah brought a tea tray in at five o'clock, grandmother poured her out a cup of tea-with plenty of hot water, to be sure-from her own teapot. Jane pretended that there were other guests present, taking tea, too. This game added to her dignity and it also accounted, most conveniently, for the rapid disappearance of the cakes and cookies.

"Grandmother," said Jane, feeling quite grown up enough to discuss any subject, "I was so sorry for Letty."

"Yes, poor little child. It is hard to be motherless."

"She asked me if I thought there was any chance of her getting a place around here. I thought perhaps you might like to take her to help Huldah."

Mrs. Baker did not answer for a few moments, but bent silently over her knitting. Then she said:

"Janey, dear, Mrs. Hartwell-Jones did not wish anything said about it until the question was settled, one way or the other, but I am going to see if you can keep a secret."

"Oh, grandmother, dear, of course I can! Oh, what is it?" cried Jane eagerly, jumping up and spilling the whole box of silk sc.r.a.ps out upon the floor.

"She thinks of taking Letty-that is, if Mrs. Drake can answer satisfactorily all the questions that must be asked-to wait on her this summer; and then in the fall to put her at some good school where she will be taught how to earn her own living when she grows up."

"Oh, grandmother, how perfectly perfect! And can't Mrs. Hartwell-Jones stay here with us all summer, instead of going back to Mr. Parsons'

house in the village?"

"I shall keep her, certainly, as long as she will stay, Janey dear. But do you see how wonderful all this is going to be for Letty? Now, she is a homeless little girl, with nowhere to go in the wide, wide world; but if Mrs. Hartwell-Jones takes her she will be housed and cared for and protected. It is a fearful thing to be a little girl alone in the world, Janey."

"Yes, grandmother," replied Jane solemnly. "And wouldn't it be a surprise if Letty should turn out to be a relation of Mrs.

Hartwell-Jones's? It would be like one of her own stories, wouldn't it?"