"I'll not tell, unless you get your little new playmate here to promise me a dance to-night."

"Are you really going to have a dance to-night?" asked the girl eagerly.

"Sure thing we are. Right here in this mess hall, and--" looking at her fixedly, he added slowly, "you can dance, too,--with me."

"Oh!" she cried, her eyes shining. "It will seem so beautiful--to dance again. What do they dance up here--fox trot?"

"We dance any old thing the music tells us to."

"Same as they do in--Chicago?" she asked demurely.

"Now tell us where the kittens are," demanded Betty.

"Follow me, little Black and Tan."

In her excitement Betty forgot to resent Jo's pet appellation for her.

He led the way to a corner of the tool-house.

Reposing in a nest made of pieces of carpet lined with soft flannel, were four puffb.a.l.l.s of maltese which were quickly gathered and garnered by Pen and the children, while the mother-cat looked on with proud but apprehensive eyes.

"Who fixed them such a nice bed?" asked Francis.

"Your Uncle Kurt. But they tell me he rode away at first crack of daybreak, so he didn't see them."

"And they'll have their eyes open before he gets back, maybe!" lamented Francis.

"Perhaps," put in Jo, "he'll get his eyes opened wide while he's gone.

Then he and the kits can meet on equal terms."

"He'll miss the dance, too," said Betty sorrowfully.

"Whom do you men dance with?" asked Pen.

"Well, there's Betty here stays up for three dances anyway, and there's Mrs. Kingdon, and Ag, and the cook, and the other girl--and everything else failing, we make Gene Dossey play gal."

"What music do you have?"

"We've got two of the finest fiddlers that ever drew a bow. Sleepy Sandy and Jakey Fourr. Say, Billy Kingdon, if you squeeze that kitten so hard, its eyes'll bust open before the nine-day limit. Put them all down now, or their ma'll have a kitnip fit."

"I choose to name them," said Francis. "Uncle Sam is this biggest one; the one with white on is General Joffre, and the little one is King George and--"

"Hold on there!" cried Jo. "Uncle Sam and General J. goes all right, all right; but there ain't room for another gent's name. You'll have to change King George to Georgette."

"I won't have her named Georgette!" said Betty. "Her name is Fairy Queen, and that other one is--"

"It's my turn!" said Billy. "Mine's going to be named Mewtral."

"You mean Neutral," corrected Francis scathingly.

"No; he's said it," declared Jo. "She's mewtralled all the morning. She don't seem to like her boarding house. Now, all you kidlets run to the kitchen and ask cook for a cup of milk and a clean rag. I'll force-feed Mewtral, 'cause she's a little suffragette. Don't hurry back too fast."

The children went with alacrity and returned in the same way; but Pen and Jo improved the opportunity for conversation without the three interested listeners.

"Here, Jo," said Billy, handing over the milk when they had returned.

"Let's see you feed Mewtral. She must be hungry."

"If she were me," said Jo, whose eyes were shining, "she'd be too happy to eat."

He fed the kitten and then tried in vain to obtain further converse with Pen alone, but the children out-maneuvered all his efforts and finally Pen took them back to the house.

"When?" half whispered Jo, as they were leaving.

"When Mrs. Kingdon says," she murmured in reply.

She turned back for another glance. He was standing, cap in hand, with the air of a conqueror.

"What's the verdict on Jo?" asked Kingdon.

"Jo's inimitable," she replied lightly.

"Wait until you dance with him," he said. "Jo dances his way into every girl's heart."

"I can believe that."

"He's one of those sunny-hearted fellows that people take to be shallow, but under the surface brightness there's a tolerably deep current. And he never nurses a grudge. If anyone should stick a knife in Jo, he'd only make a question mark of his eyebrow and give a wondering smile."

"What I can't understand," said Pen, "is why the children don't like him."

"He plagues us all the time," complained Betty.

"It's very odd, though," commented Kingdon, meditatively, and with a twinkle in his eye, "how you do like to be plagued. You are always tagging at his heels. I think you must be coquetting with Jo."

"He's so different with them from Kurt," said Mrs. Kingdon. "Kurt is so patient and so sweet with children. He understands them."

"Kurt," said Pen, "seems to be like some things that are too good for everyday use. He should be laid away on a shelf for Sundays." Then, meeting Mrs. Kingdon's wondering eyes, she added with a little flush: "That isn't true--and it's unkind! I don't really mean it."

"We are all ready for our sewing bee," observed Mrs. Kingdon, smiling.

"What shall we begin on?"

"I'm wondering," said Pen meditatively, "if I hadn't better rig up something evening-like for the dance to-night. If you could let me borrow a white muslin curtain, I could easily rig it up into an impromptu dance frock."

"Jo said he knew a man who turned an automobile into a lamp post," said Betty.

"Oh, Betty!" laughed Pen, "maybe there is hope for a sinner to be turned into a saint."

"We won't have to resort to curtains," said Mrs. Kingdon. "I have a white satin skirt that is too short for me, and you can fashion a waist from a piece of white muslin."

"And Doris left her white slippers that were too short for her," reminded Betty.