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                             THE LILAC LADY

                THE SECOND OF THE PEACE GREENFIELD BOOKS

                          BY RUTH ALBERTA BROWN

     Author of "At The Little Brown House," "Tabitha At Ivy Hall,"
            "Tabitha's Glory," "Tabitha's Vacation," Etc.

THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
CHICAGO    AKRON, OHIO    NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, MCMXIV
By The Saalfield Publishing Co.

TO
EDITH HASERICK MCFARLANE,
THE SAINT ELSPETH OF MY GIRLHOOD,
THIS STORY IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

[Illustration: "Oh," cried Gail in quick sympathy, "what a feeble old
creature! It is a shame she has to beg her living. Where is my purse?"]

CONTENTS

       I. EXPLORING THE NEW HOME

      II. THE FLAG ROOM

     III. CHRISTMAS DAY WITH THE CAMPBELLS

      IV. A ZEALOUS LITTLE MISSIONARY

       V. AN UNEXPECTED INVITATION

      VI. PEACE'S SPRING VACATION

     VII. A VOICE FROM THE LILAC BUSHES

    VIII. A PICNIC IN THE ENCHANTED GARDEN

      IX. GIUSEPPE NICOLI AND THE MONKEY

       X. THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL

      XI. PEACE FINDS NEW PLAYMATES

     XII. A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM

    XIII. CHILDREN'S DAY AT HILL STREET CHURCH

     XIV. HOW THE FOURTH OF JULY MONEY WAS SPENT

      XV. PEACE GIVES THE LILAC LADY AN IDEA

     XVI. THE LILAC LADY FALLS ASLEEP

THE LILAC LADY

CHAPTER I

EXPLORING THE NEW HOME

Two days after the night of the memorable surprise party in the little
brown house, the place stood dismantled and deserted under the naked,
shivering trees, good-byes had been spoken, and the six smiling sisters
had driven away from their Parker home amid much fluttering of
handkerchiefs and waving of hands. Everyone was sorry to see them go,
yet all rejoiced in the great good fortune which had befallen the little
orphan brood. Even after the Judge's carriage, which was to take them to
the station, disappeared around the bend of the creek road, the
enthusiastic crowd of friends and neighbors clustered about the sagging
gate continued to shout their joking warnings and happy wishes upon the
crisp, frosty, morning air.

"There," breathed Peace, grinning from ear to ear, as she slowly unwound
from the corkscrew twist she had assumed in her attempt to catch the
last glimpse of the old home. "They're all out of sight now. I can't
even see Hec Abbott any longer up in the tree with his dirty
handkerchief. Oh, Mr. Judge, I forgot you were our coachman this
morning, but his handkerchief _is_ awful dirty! It always is. I guess
his mother doesn't chase him up like Gail does us with clean ones. Faith
Greenfield, what do you mean by kicking me like that? Ain't there room
enough on that back seat for your big feet?"

"Little girls should be heard and not seen," quoted Cherry with her most
sanctimonious air, noting the gathering frown on the older sister's
face, and not quite understanding what had gone amiss.

"Yes, that's just what Peace believes, too," cried Hope with her happy,
contagious laugh in which Gail and the Judge and even Faith joined,
making the sharp air ring with their hilarity.

"Guess this ride must make you feel ticklish, too," suggested Peace,
looking over her shoulder with a comical, self-complacent air at the
crowded rear seat of the carryall. "I 'xpected to see some of you
bawling about now--"

"Bawling!" echoed the girls in genuine surprise, while the old Judge
chuckled to himself. "What for?"

"'Cause we've left Parker for good and all. We're never going to live
there any more."

"But we shall visit there often. Grandpa said so," cried Hope, warmly.
"It isn't as if we were bound for the poor-farm or some dreadful orphan
home. We might have reason to cry then; but as it is, we're going to
Martindale to live in a splendid great house with splendid, lovely
people; and I can't help wanting to jump up and shout for gladness, even
though we do love Parker and all the people there who have been so good
to us--"

"Good for you, Miss Hope! Hip, hip, hurrah!" broke in the Judge,
flapping the reins wildly as he doffed his hat and cheered heartily.
"That's the proper spirit! We Parkerites don't expect you to break your
hearts because you are going to a new home; we'd think it very queer
indeed if you did. But we are glad to know this old town holds a tender
spot in your memories. We shall miss you more than you will us, which is
only natural; but as Hope says, you will be often among us as visitors,
even though the little brown house will never be home to you again.
Doctor and Mrs. Campbell have not only opened the door of their big
house to you, but also the door of their hearts. Go in and take
possession. You can make them the happiest people on earth if you want
to--and I know you do. They intended to drive over after you this
morning, but we villagers said no. They ought to be in Martindale to
greet you, and we certainly deserved the privilege of escorting you
to--"

"Ain't it nice to be pop'lar?" sighed Peace in ecstasy. "We're all bones
of _condescension_ today--now what are you laughing at?"

"Oh, we've reached the station already," chirped Allee with a suddenness
which made everyone jump.

"And if there isn't Mr. Strong!" cried the older girls in astonishment.
"How did you ever get here ahead of us? We left you sitting on Peace's
gate-post."

"He sneaked," Peace declared without giving him a chance for reply. "He
can sneak in anywhere. Oh, I didn't mean that as a _complimemp_, Mr.
Preacher. You know I didn't! But you truly go so like a cat that people
never know when you will jump out at them. Where is Elspeth--I mean
Pet--I mean--Oh, there she is in the station house, and Miss Truesdale
and Miss Dunbar and Dr. Bainbridge! We're much obliged that so many of
you have come down to make sure we left town. Let me get out of here,
Judge! I want to kiss Glen again." Scrambling excitedly out of her seat
beside the dignified driver, she was over the wheels before he could
stop her, and into the arms of the waiting friends.

None of the orphan sisters had expected such a glorious send-off--nor,
indeed, had the Parker friends planned it beforehand. It was just one of
those acts of kindness born of the impulse of the moment and made
possible because of a shortcut to the station and the grocer's wagon
which stood hitched in front of Mr. Hartman's door. But the sight of the
little group of neighbors on the station platform was very gratifying to
every one of the youthful Greenfields, and each proceeded to show her
pleasure in her own characteristic way. This second farewell-taking was
very brief, however, for down the tracks came the puffing train,
stopping at the narrow platform only long enough for the laughing,
chattering girls to climb aboard, before it glided away again, with
Peace's shrill protests trailing off into silence: "I don't see why we
have to take the train when it is such a teeny short ride. I'd rather go
by street-car. I didn't kiss Elspeth but once, and the Judge looked as
if he was dying for another--"

Silently, soberly, the gay little company at the railroad station
dispersed to their various homes; but fortunately for the band of
inexperienced travellers aboard the flying train, there was no time for
serious thought, so brief was their journey. Scarcely were they settled
with their hand-bags and grips when the brakeman threw open the door and
strode down the aisle, bawling loudly, "Martindale, Martindale! Our next
stop is Martindale Union Depot!" And before they could realize what was
happening, the porter had bundled them off in the great, dark, noisy
station-yard, filled with throngs of excited, hurrying people passing in
and out of the heavy iron gates.

Caught in the jam, there was a moment of breathless bewilderment; a
frantic disentangling of themselves from the pushing, shoving crowd; a
hurried, frightened survey of the sea of unfamiliar faces around them,
and then straight into the arms of the smiling college President the
anxious sextette walked.

"Well, well, well!" he cried with boyish eagerness, trying to gather
them all in one embrace. "Here you are at last! I've waited one solid
hour for this train. Those Parker people tried to tell me it was my
place to stand in the doorway over at the house and welcome you there,
but blessed if I could wait! Neither could Grandma. I thought I had
stolen away without anyone seeing me, but before I had reached the
car-tracks, there she was right at my heels. Here, mother, are
your--own!"

No welcome from the doorsteps of the great house could have warmed and
thrilled those six hearts as did the husky, tremulous words of greeting
in the dim, smoky station amid the clanging engines and shouted orders
of trainmen. Home! Ah, what a glorious feeling of possession! The tears
which had not come at thought of leaving the old home now welled up in
the blue eyes and in the brown, but they were tears of joy and
thanksgiving.

"I knew someone would do some bawling before we got through with this,"
sniffed Peace, searching in vain for the handkerchief which was never to
be found in her pocket, and finally wiping her eyes on the august
President's coat-sleeve. "Let's go home now. I want to see what it's
like. You didn't bring the carriage, did you? It's just as well, I
guess, for I s'pose we'll have lots of rides anyway. Only I wanted to
see if the horses looked anything like Black Prince. Is this our car?
Oak Street--I'll remember that; I may want to do some travelling all by
myself some day. If you've got ten rooms in your house, how many are you
going to turn over to us? For our very own, I mean. Three in a room
makes things awfully crowded if the rooms are as teeny as they were in
our house in Parker. 'Tisn't so bad in winter, but in summer we nearly
roast to death nights. Do you have much comp'ny, and will we have to
give up our rooms to them all the time? I forgot to ask you about these
things before we said we'd come."

"Peace!" reproved Gail in an undertone, trying to check the flow of
questions and information pouring so rapidly from the lively tongue.
"Don't talk all the time. Give grandpa a chance to say a few words."

"Yes, I will," responded the child with angelic sweetness, in such loud
tones that she could be heard all over the car. "I'm waiting for him to
say a few words now. How about it, grandpa? Shall we each have a room or
must we double up or thribble--"

"Peace!" called Allee in wild excitement, "there is Frances Sherrar's
house!"

"Where? Is it, grandpa?" asked Cherry, a little twinge of envy seizing
her as she remembered her younger sisters' visit there a few weeks
before.

"Yes," he replied, glancing hastily out of the window, "I think very
likely it was, as they live on the corner we have just passed, and the
next street is where we get off. Press the button, Curlypate, or the
conductor will carry us by. I didn't know you were acquainted with the
Sherrars, Abigail. Frances is a student at the University; you will
probably be in some of her classes. Give me your hand, Hope. There,
mother, all our family are off. Right about face! One block west,
and--here we are. Welcome home, my children! Peace, how do you like the
looks of it?"

They had paused in front of a great, rambling, old house, set in the
midst of a wide lawn, brown and sere now with approaching winter, and
surrounded by huge, knotted, gnarled, old oaks, whose dry leaves still
clung to the twisted branches and rustled in the crisp air. A fat,
sleek, black Tabby lay asleep on the warm porch-rail; a gaunt, ungainly
greyhound lay sunning himself on the door mat, and from inside somewhere
came the sound of a canary's riotous song. The whole place breathed of
home, and with a deep sigh of content, Peace lifted her great, brown
eyes to the President's face and whispered, "It seems 'sif I b'longed
already."

"You do," he murmured huskily. "This is home, dear."

Hand in hand they walked up the path and through the door into the big
hall, flooded with warm sunshine and sweet with the smell of roses. Up
the stairway they marched, followed by the other sisters, all silent,
wondering, but happy, and paused in the doorway of a large, airy room,
furnished with easy-chairs and couches, a tempting array of late books,
and a dainty sewing-table, heaped with pretty materials such as young
girls love. "This is mother's domain," the President announced, stepping
aside to let them enter. "Hang your wraps in that closet for the time
being, make yourselves presentable--there is a mirror on purpose for
prinking--and then get acquainted with your new home. There is still an
hour and a half before luncheon will be served, and that ought to give
you quite an opportunity to make discoveries. Now away with you!"

"But--," "How," "What do you mean?" blurted out the astonished girls,
wondering whether he was in earnest or just joking, for this seemed a
queer way to introduce them to their new life.

"Just what I say," he laughed. "Mother thought we ought to conduct you
about the place and explain all the different phases of your new home,
but I am inclined to believe you will like it better if you can make the
tour all by yourselves. Young folks usually glory in unexplored fields.
Now to it, for time is fleeting! I shall call for a report of your
discoveries at luncheon. A prize for the one who has seen the most."

"Do we have to go by ourselves?" Peace lingered to ask.

"As you wish," was the brief response; and with his hat in his hand, the
busy President descended the stairs, leaving a very bewildered group in
the sewing-room behind him.

"Well!" Gail ejaculated. "How shall we begin?"

"I saw a piano as we came through the hall below," Faith half whispered.

"And books! Everywhere!" cried Cherry, her eyes fastened longingly upon
the little book-case in the corner. "Do they really belong to us now?"

"Yes, of course," answered Peace in business-like tones. "Come on,
Allee; let's get to work and see what we can find before lunch time.
This is a pretty big house, and we've got to hustle if we get all around
it in an hour and a half. Wonder where grandpa and grandma went. Shall
we commence at the bottom and work up, or start in at the attic? I guess
the attic first will be best, seeing we've come up one flight of stairs
already, and it would be just a waste of time to go down and have to
climb them all again." Answering her own question, she clutched Alice's
hand and disappeared in one direction, as the sisters, following her
example, scattered about the great house on their tours of inspection.

The next ninety minutes were busy ones in the Campbell house, and it was
necessary to ring the dinner bell twice before all members of the happy
family were summoned to the table.

"Well, how goes it?" smiled the President. "Judging from the time it
took to gather the clans, some of you must have been pretty busy."

"We were," dreamily murmured Cherry, who had been dragged bodily from
the stacks of books in the library.

"Made any great discoveries?"

"Yes, indeed!" they cried in unison.

"Good! I'm all impatience! Relate your adventures. We are anxious to
hear how you like your new home--mother and I. Abigail, you are the
oldest; suppose you begin."

"I didn't get very far, I am afraid," said Gail modestly. "Just a peep
into the rooms upstairs and a beginning down here when I found Gussie
almost on the verge of tears because her dessert had burned black and
she had no time to make any more; so I--"

"Bet our talking burned up her pies," Peace was heard to murmur
remorsefully.

"--helped her out a little," continued Gail, "and by that time the bell
rang, so there was no opportunity for any further investigations."

"Saint Elizabeth," said the President reverently, while the white-haired
mistress of the house beamed her approval.

"Now, Faith,--but there is really no need of asking her about her
discoveries. She got no further than the parlor with its piano. Now, did
you?"

"No, grandpa," Faith confessed unblushingly. "I saw it when we came in,
and I simply couldn't resist it a minute longer than was absolutely
necessary. There will be lots of days for getting acquainted here, and
besides, I knew Peace would carry off the prize--"

"Me carry off the prize!" Peace interrupted. "I've never got a prize for
anything in my life--"

"Only because there never was one offered before for the person who
could see the most or talk the longest," laughed Faith, and Peace
subsided suddenly.

"Saint Cecilia,--she could not get past the piano," teased Dr. Campbell,
when the shout of laughter at Faith's sally had died away. "Hope, what
have you to say for yourself?"

"Not much. I visited all the rooms upstairs and down; fed the canary;
got acquainted with Blinks, the cat, and Kyte, the hound; found Towzer
and tried to make him be friends with Kyte, but he wouldn't be coaxed.
Gussie said there were some kittens in the basement, so I went down
there to find them, but the boy from the hardware store was there
working on the furnace, and some way we fell to talking about studies,
and he was so discouraged over his algebra lesson for night-school that
I stopped to see if I could help him out a little, and the bell rang
Just as we got the third problem worked."

"My gentle Saint Lucia," he said in praise, as he turned from her to the
next sister in age. "Cherry, give an account of your wanderings."

"I wandered downstairs as far as the library--I guess that is what you
call it."

"And then what?" for she stopped as if her tale were told.

"That's all. I stayed there."

"Oh!" The President wilted, Mrs. Campbell stared, and for a moment even
the sisters were silent in surprise at the matter-of-fact tone of the
narrator; then the whole assembly burst into another merry shout, much
to the disgust of poor Cherry, who could see no cause for amusement, and
voiced her sentiments by saying petulantly, "I don't see anything the
matter with that! What difference is there between playing the piano all
the morning and reading books?"

"It wasn't what you did that amused us," said Mrs. Campbell soothingly.
"It was the way you told it. We won't laugh any more."

"Oh!" breathed the ruffled damsel in relief, "if that's all, I don't
care how much you laugh. But you'll have a better chance with Peace--she
never can tell anything straight."

"What kind of a saint is Cherry?" inquired the younger girl, ignoring
the compliment she had just received. "If Gail is Saint 'Lizabeth and
Faith is Saint Cecilia and Hope is Saint Lucy, what's Cherry?"

"Saint Bookworm, I guess, Miss Curiosity-Box. What have you been doing
this morning?"

"Oh, lots of things," she sighed heavily. "Allee and me went together.
We began with the attic, which is full of trunks of old clothes and
battered-up furniture and cobwebs, and has two rooms for the hired girls
to sleep in. Gussie's room is just _suburb_! It's dec'rated with the
queerest looking old bird of a bedstead--"

"Peace! What slang!" cried Faith in genuine horror.

"It's no such thing! It is a bird! She calls it a swan, for it's got a
tall, crooked neck for the foot-board, and if I had it in my room, I'd
hang curtains on its tail. It could be done just splendid! I'll show you
after lunch if you don't b'lieve me."

"Oh, we believe you! Go on. I'm interested in that room," begged Hope,
wondering why she too had not begun with the attic.

"Then on the wall she has a great fish-net full of the prettiest
postcards of Norway and Sweden and De'mark. She's a Swede, you
know,--Gussie is; and her married brother and two sisters and
grandmother still live over there. That's where the fish-net came from.
I didn't have time to stop long to look at the cards 'cause there was so
much else to do 'fore lunch time, but she's invited us to come up some
evening when she's through work and then she'll tell all about them.
There's the loveliest green and yellow quilt on her bed that she made
all herself. She said grandma had a red one for her to use, but it
seemed more like home with her own things, so she uses them instead of
those that b'long to the house. But the prettiest of everything is a
queer little piece of glass hanging in the window which makes her room
look like a real rainbow on sunny days, 'cause the _prison respects_ the
light and sorts out all the colors. Oh, you needn't laugh and think you
know better! Gussie told us all about it, didn't she, Allee?"

"Gussie did not call it a _prison_," Hope could not refrain from saying.
"It is a prism, and it re--it isn't _respects_ the light, grandpa--"

"No. Refracts is the word she wants to use. Peace tries to drink in so
much information that she can't digest it all."

"Maybe that is what's the matter," Peace agreed thoughtfully. "Anyway,
her room is a beauty--lots prettier that Marie's, though Marie has the
same chance of making hers look nice that Gussie has. There's the same
difference in the girls themselves that there is in their rooms, too."

"Why, what do you mean?" cried the astonished mistress of the house,
while the President nodded his head in approval at the child's
observations.

"Well, Gussie is good-natured and 'bliging, while Marie is cross and
grouchy. We hadn't got the knob of her door turned before she ordered us
out of her room and told us to mind our own business."

"Poor childie, I ought to have cautioned you not to go into either of
those attic rooms without the girls' permission. You see, while they
work here, that is the one place in the house which is really theirs,
and they don't want the rest of the family intruding."

"Yes, I know now. Gussie told me how it was when I spoke of Marie's
being cross, but we never touched a thing; we just looked, didn't we,
Allee? Marie had the tooth-ache, and that's enough to make anyone ugly.
I got her some funny stuff that a shoemaker in Parker gave me once when
I had the tooth-ache. After that she was a little pleasanter to us--that
is, for a time. It did stop the aching right away, but it took all the
skin off her cheek where she put the medicine--it is to be rubbed on
outside. I forgot to tell her it would do that, so she didn't like it
very well when her face began to peel off, 'cause she is going to the
theatre tonight with her beau. But when she jawed about it, I told her
I'd rather have a skinned face and a chance to go to the theatre, than
an aching tooth any day of the week, and fin'ly she decided she would,
too. I guess I'll like her in time, but I like Gussie better. Then we
went on downstairs and 'xamined the rooms on that floor. The big front
room is awfully pretty, and so is grandma's room where she sews, but the
other three bedrooms are very bare and ugly-looking. Is that where
you're going to put us, grandpa?"

"Peace!" shrieked the sisters in horrified chorus.

"Yes!" roared the delighted President, and even Mrs. Campbell joined in
his merriment.

"Well, I s'pose it is healthy," Peace reluctantly admitted; then as if
divining a joke somewhere, she smiled serenely and continued her
recital. "We looked through the parlor and library and dining-room and
where you put company when they come, and then we came to the kitchen.
We got there ahead of Gail all right, for Gussie was just making some
pies and reading a book at the same time."

"A book!" echoed Mrs. Campbell, a slight frown gathering on the usually
placid forehead.

"Yes, it was a _pome_ of some kind that she was trying to learn. She
wants to be a _neducated_ Swede. She got through High School, but she
wants to know more'n that, so's she can be a teacher some day. That's
how she comes to be cooking for other people. She is a good cook and can
make pretty good money that way. She isn't a big spender, so every month
she can put away 'most all of her wages towards going to Normal School.
I always thought Normal School was where they sent bad boys and girls
who couldn't be good at home, but she says I mean Reform School. I guess
she'll get to Normal School all right. I told her Gail would help her
with her lessons when they got too hard for her alone, 'cause Gail's to
go to the University right away; but I didn't think Faith would be much
good at that, as long's she isn't quite through High School herself. I
told her Faith could make lovely fancy things to eat and would like
awfully well to teach her when she had any spare time, and Gussie says
she'll be tickled to learn, 'cause she is only a plain cook and not up
on frills yet."

Faith and the President exchanged comical glances across the table, but
Peace was too much interested in her cake and fruit to notice what was
going on around her, and blissfully continued, "We went down in the
basement, too, and saw that boy from Benton's. His name is Caspar Dodds.
His father is dead--what a lot of dead folks there are in this
world!--and he has to earn money to take care of his mother and two
sisters. She does plain sewing, and I promised you'd hire her sometimes,
grandma. They live on Sixteenth Street, just at the corner where the
Pendennis car turns off from the bridge. He told me how to get there.
He's going to night-school so's he can learn the education he's missing
daytimes, and says he gets along well in everything but algebra. I guess
that's how he came to speak to Hope about it. I told him she'd be glad
to help him with 'xamples he couldn't do, 'cause she was Professor
Watson's star scholar in that. Gussie told _us_ about the kittens, too,
so I knew Hope would be down to find them, and that way she'd see
Caspar. She must have come along right after us or she wouldn't have
found him, 'cause he was 'most ready to go when we went out to the barn.

"Jud had just brought in the horses from exercising them, and I told him
I guessed likely we'd help him at that job after this, for all of us
like to ride. At first he wasn't going to let us see the horses and we
had to do a lot of talking 'fore he'd give in. He used awful poor
grammar, and when he told us the stable wasn't the place for little
girls and that we better go in the house and learn to cook like Gussie,
I asked him why he didn't get some books and learn to speak right like
Gussie, instead of sitting on an old box and reading yellow
newspapers--well, it _was_ yellow, just as yellow and musty and old as
it could be! And he's too nice looking to be nothing but a horseman all
his life. When I told him that, he got interested and fin'ly showed us
some books he was trying to study, but he can't see sense in the
grammar. Gussie promised to help him, but she never has much time for
such things, and he thinks she thinks he's a plumb dunce. I promised to
ask her if that's the way she felt, but he said I mustn't; so I did the
next best I could think of--I told him Cherry would study grammar with
him. She uses the same book he has in the barn, and--"

"Peace Greenfield, did you really tell him that?" gasped poor frightened
Cherry, looking as if she had just heard her death sentence pronounced.

"Why, yes! I thought you'd be glad to help him out that much. I haven't
got as far as grammar in school yet, or I'd teach him all myself; but I
promised to _talk_ proper grammar to him, so's to help all I could. What
do you look so scared about, Cherry? He really wants to learn; he ain't
fooling. And he's an awful nice man. He showed us the squirrels' hole in
the vacant oak by the barn--I mean the hollow oak--and took us down to
the boat-house on the river. You never told us anything about the river
being so near here, grandpa. And he pointed out the University buildings
through the trees, and promised to show us around the grounds right
after lunch if you didn't have time to bother. He let us go up in the
barn loft and says if you're willing, we can have a playhouse up there
in the part with the window that looks out over the river. Then he
pulled out his watch to let us know it was lunch time, but we told him
right square out that there was one more thing we wanted to see, lunch
time or no lunch time, and that was the horses. So after he grumbled
some more about children being such nuisances, he took us downstairs
again, and showed us your Marmalade and Champagne. Oh, but--"

"What?" shouted the whole family in shocked amazement.

"Marmalade and Champagne," Peace repeated more slowly. "That is what Jud
called them. They aren't as pretty as our Black Prince, 'cause they are
only red, and a red horse is never as nice as a black--"

"Horses! What funny names!" laughed Hope.

"She has made a mistake," smiled Mrs. Campbell. "They are Marmaduke and
Charlemagne. My nephew's children named them, which accounts for their
high-sounding titles. I am glad you like Marmaduke and Charlemagne,
Peace. We think they are very intelligent animals. Jud has succeeded in
teaching them several rather clever tricks."

"Yes, I like the horses and I like the people. It's going to be nice to
live with such a _neducated_ bunch. Marie's the only one that doesn't
want to learn more, but p'raps she'll get over it. Who wins the prize,
grandpa? That's all Allee and me saw. And what is the prize?"

"After dinner in the den tonight I'll tell you the secret," the
President promised. "I had no idea it would take so long to recount your
adventures, but my time is up now. I must go back to the University at
once. And by the way, Peace, I am afraid Jud will have to show you
around the campus if you must see it this afternoon. I have an important
meeting at two o'clock."

CHAPTER II

THE FLAG ROOM

Scarcely had the dinner hour ended that evening when the hilarious trio
of younger girls, followed by the more sedate, but no less eager older
sisters, scurried down the long corridor toward the den where the
President had already intrenched himself, waiting for the promised
visit.

"Here we are, grandpa!" announced Allee, tumbling breathlessly through
the doorway and into the nearest chair. "We raced and I beat."

"'Cause Cherry tripped me up," exploded Peace wrathfully. "It's no
fair--"

"Tut, tut, my children!" Dr. Campbell interposed. "No scrapping allowed
here. This is a home, not a kennel."

"Oh, we weren't scrapping," Peace hastily assured him, "but I'd have won
if Cherry hadn't got her feet mixed up with mine, so's Allee got in
ahead. I don't care, though. I can run the fastest of the bunch
outdoors. Jud says I'm a racer, all right. _Did_ I get the prize for
talking the most this noon? Gail and Faith and all of them think I ought
to have it--that is, Allee and me. We went together and saw the same
things, though I did do all the telling."

The President laughed. "Yes, I believe you and Allee won the prize all
right. Grandma thinks so, too, but that is just where the hitch comes;
because, you see, the prize was just to be your choice of rooms
upstairs, and with Peace in one room and Allee in another, how are we
going to settle the question as to who has first choice?"

"Do you mean that the winner can choose which of those three bare rooms
she wants for her very own?"

"That's it." His eyes twinkled merrily. Peace's untrammeled frankness
furnished him much amusement.

"Well, then, why is Allee going to be in one room and me in another?"

"Why--why--why--" stammered the learned Doctor, at loss to know how to
explain certain plans he and Mrs. Campbell had in mind. "We thought it
would be best to pair you off so one of you younger girls roomed with
one of the older sisters. Don't you?"

"No," was the emphatic reply. "It wouldn't do at all."

"Why not?" gently asked Mrs. Campbell, who had entered the room so
quietly that none of the girls was aware of her presence.

"Well, s'pose you paired us off 'cording to our looks," Peace explained,
without waiting for any of the sisters to register objections; "there'd
be Hope and Allee together, for they are the lightest; and Gail and
Cherry would have a room by themselves, 'cause they aren't either light
or dark; and that would leave Faith and me to each other, being the
darkest of them all. Now, Faith and me can't get along together two
minutes. Ask Gail, ask Hope. Any of them will tell you so. It ain't
because we like to fight, either. We just ain't made to suit each other,
that's all. Mother used to say there are lots of people in the world
like that, and the only way to get along is to make the best of it and
agree to disagree. But it would never do to put us in the same room.
That's too close. We don't like the same things, even. Faith'd be cross
'cause I'd want to put my b'longings certain places, and I'd get awful
ugly if she took all the nice spots for her things.

"Then, s'posing you paired us off by ages--the youngest with the oldest,
and the next youngest with the next oldest,--that would still leave
Faith and me together. It wouldn't do at all, you see."

"How would you suggest dividing the rooms among you, then?" meekly
inquired the President, casting a comical look of resignation at his
puzzled wife.

"Put the ones of us together that get along the best. Allee and me are
chums, and Cherry and Hope, and Faith and Gail. Then we'd all be suited
and there wouldn't be any fussing--'nless it was among the big girls."

The President coughed gently behind his hand, Mrs. Campbell bent over to
straighten an imaginary wrinkle in the rug at her feet, while Gail and
Hope were industriously studying a picture on the wall. But Faith
readily seconded Peace's proposition, saying heartily, "What she says is
true, grandpa. She and I can't seem to get along together at all, though
we do love each other dearly. We never have been interested in the same
things, and I don't believe we ever will be. We have always paired off
the way she says, and get along famously that way."

"But how will you furnish the rooms that way?" wailed Mrs. Campbell
suddenly. "I had planned it all out--the blondes together, the
brunettes, and--"

"The blondes and brunettes?" repeated Cherry in bewilderment.

"Yes; fair-haired, blue-eyed people are blondes, while those with dark
hair and eyes are brunettes," Hope explained.

"It would be so much easier to carry out a color scheme in each room if
you girls were paired off according to looks," sighed the woman in
disappointment.

"Colors wouldn't amount to much if we fought all the time," murmured
Peace, trying hard to look cheerful even at the prospect of having to
room with the one sister she could not understand or agree with.

"That's so," agreed the President, chasing away the disfiguring frown on
his forehead with a bright smile. "Besides, mother, the girls may have
altogether different plans for decorating their rooms than--Well, Peace
and Allee have first choice of room then. Which shall it be?"

"The one with the teenty porch!" quickly responded the duet, as though
the matter had already been privately discussed.

"Aha, conspirators! Had your minds all made up, did you?"

"Yes, grandpa," Peace answered. "We have both slid down the pillar into
the garden--what was the garden--and clum up the trellis as _easy_! Just
think how much time we can save going in and out that way instead of
having to run clear down the hall to the stairs every time--"

"Peace!" screamed Mrs. Campbell in horror.

"Peace!" echoed the scandalized sisters.

But for a long moment the President only stared. Then he spoke. "Now,
see here, children, if you have that balcony room for your own, you must
promise one thing. Don't _ever_ use the porch pillars for a stairway
again, either to get inside the house or out. Do you understand?"

"Yes, grandpa," came the reluctant promise.

"You will not forget?"

"No, grandpa," with still more reluctance.

"If you do, you will forfeit that room, remember. Porch pillars were
never made for such purposes. They are not only hard on your clothes,
but think what would happen if you should slip and fall."

The whole group shuddered at this direful picture, and the chief culprit
snuggled closer to this newly found guardian, and whispered contritely,
"We didn't think of that before. We'll be good."

"That's my girlie! Now for the other matters we must consider. When it
was settled that you were to come here to live, mother and I talked over
plans for refurnishing the rooms you are to occupy, but somehow we could
not come to any satisfactory conclusions, and finally decided it would
be best and wisest to let you select your own furniture and arrange it
to suit yourselves."

"Whee!" interrupted Peace with a delighted little hop. "Won't that be--"

"Don't say 'bully'," implored Cherry.

"No, I won't. I'll say jolly. Won't that be jolly? Hooray!" Her shout of
joy ended in such a queer, shrill squeak that the little company burst
into a gale of laughter, and it was some minutes before order was
restored, but when at last the merriment had subsided, each duet found
themselves holding a small slip of paper which quite took their breath
away.

"What is it?" asked Allee, standing on tiptoe to get a better view of
the yellow scrap in Peace's hand, though she could not read a word on
it.

"Grandpa! Is it to furnish our rooms with?" cried Hope, impulsively
dropping a kiss on the tip of Mrs. Campbell's nose.

"Oh, you precious people!" whispered Gail tremulously. "It is altogether
too much. We ought not to spend all that just on our rooms."

"Now, look here, my dearies," interposed Mrs. Campbell, beaming benignly
at the flushed, surprised faces of the six girls, "father and I figured
it all out carefully, and that is the amount we decided upon as
necessary for all the fixings you would want to make you cosy. And you
will find it won't go so far after all; but I know you can trim up some
very dainty, pretty rooms with that amount. The beds we already had, so
we left them there, but all the other furniture has been removed to the
attic or disposed of in other ways, so you can follow your own
inclinations in refurnishing your boudoirs. That is why I was so anxious
to have the blondes together, but--I don't believe it will matter much.
You will find some way of getting around that."

"Of course they will, and the room that is fixed up the prettiest a week
from today will be presented with an appropriate picture," declared the
President, hugely enjoying the pleasure and surprise of his adopted
family.

Silence for a breathless moment fell upon the eager group, then with
characteristic energy, Peace grabbed Allee's hand and started for the
door, saying, "Come on, sister, let's get to work right away. We've got
to win that picture to go with our porch." Just at the threshold another
thought occurred to her, and she faced about with the remark, "Say,
grandpa, do we have to spend _all_ this money for dec'rations?"

"No," he laughed. "If you can find anything in the attic which you can
use, take possession of it."

"And the money we don't spend is ours?"

For a fraction of a second he hesitated, wondering what scheme was
taking shape under the thatch of brown curls; then with a twinkle in his
eyes he answered, "Yes, I reckon it is."

"But, Donald," whispered Mrs. Campbell in his ear, "they are too young
to be intrusted with such a sum."

"Grandpa," Gail interrupted, looking thoughtfully at the check which
Faith was still studying curiously; "must we do this without help from
anyone else? Suppose we should all happen to choose the same plan?"

"Oh, there is no danger of that at all because your tastes are not all
the same, so far as I can discover; but I think it might be a good plan
to consult with some older or more experienced person--some one outside
the family. Grandma and I are to be the judges, you know; so it would
not be fair for us to know beforehand what you were intending to do."

"Oh, how splendid to have it all a secret from you two!" cried Hope.
"But who will help us?"

"We shall ask Frances Sherrar," announced Gail after a whispered
consultation with her room-mate. "She knows all about such things."

"Then let's us ask Mrs. Sherrar," suggested Cherry, anxious to have as
good authority to back them in their plans.

"That's a good idea," Hope conceded readily. "Whom shall you choose,
Peace?"

They all expected to hear her name Mrs. Strong, her patron saint, but to
their utter amazement she promptly retorted, "Gussie!"

"But, Peace," they protested, "Gussie won't know--"

"Gussie thinks just like I do about colors and such things. That's why I
chose her."

Nor could the sisters change her decision in the matter, but as the time
was short and there were many other affairs demanding their attention,
the girls soon forgot their concern over Gussie's barbaric tastes, and
Peace and Allee were left to their own devices.

For the next three days they spent their leisure moments in wandering
hand in hand about the house, looking very sober, and listening
anxiously to the sound of hammers in the rooms adjoining theirs. Then a
marked change came over them; there were many conferences with Gussie in
the kitchen; much prowling about the attic in secret, and even two or
three trips to the barn to interview Jud, the man of all work. The sound
of hammer and saw could be heard at almost any hour of the day, hurried
visits were made to the sewing-room when no one else was in sight, and
the pungent smell of paint and paste filled the house.

But at last all three rooms were in spick-and-span order, and the two
judges were summoned to behold the result of the week's labor. At the
first door they halted, and the President turned to his wife with a
ludicrous grimace as he said, "Dora, I am afraid I've got us into
trouble. How in this wide world are we going to be able to decide which
is the prettiest room! And if it should be easy to decide that question,
how shall we ever make our peace with the occupants of the other two?
Oh, Dora!"

"Open the door!" clamored the laughing girls. "You should have thought
of these things before you made such a rash promise." And they pressed
about him so relentlessly that he was forced to turn the knob and enter
the first bower of loveliness.

It was indeed a bower, so refreshingly cool and beautiful with its color
scheme of pink and green and brown that it required very little
imagination to transport one into the heart of some enchanted woods; and
instinctively the four younger girls as well as the judges burst into a
long-drawn exclamation of wonder and delight.

"Oh, I can smell the flowers," cried Hope, sniffing the air hungrily as
if expecting to find the woodland blossoms there.

"And hear the creek," added Peace.

"I suppose they have won the prize," sighed Cherry disconsolately, while
behind their backs Gail and Faith ecstatically hugged each other.

"Don't decide the question until we have seen the other two," suggested
Mrs. Campbell sagely, and the excited company flocked eagerly into the
next room.

Here everything was in blue and gold, even to the dainty curtains at the
windows. The walls were covered with a delicate blue paper, dotted with
sprays of cheerful goldenrod; the dresser and table were decorated with
blue silk scarfs embroidered with the same flower; gilt-framed pictures
hung upon the walls; and from the head of each narrow, gilded bedstead
floated soft draperies of blue.

"Sky and sunshine," murmured Gail, quick to feel the perfect harmony of
the room. "Isn't it lovely?"

"Yes, and it is fully as pretty as ours," whispered Faith, "though I
like ours best."

"Now for the last," Cherry urged eagerly, well content with the
rapturous exclamations her room and Hope's had brought forth. "This will
have to be awfully good to beat the other two."

"It _is_ awfully good," Peace informed her. "_I_ think it is the best."

"So do I!" "And I!" came the chorus of surprised voices as the last door
swung open and the beauties of the third chamber burst upon their view.

"It makes me think of fire-crackers," Cherry pensively observed.

"Nobody but Peace would ever have thought of such a thing," Faith put
in.

"A regular Fourth of July room," stuttered the President when he had
recovered his voice enough to speak. "Girlies, how did you do it?"

"Well," confessed Peace, meditatively chewing her finger in her endeavor
to appear modest in the midst of such unstinted praise, "at first we
didn't know what to do. The other girls kept talking about 'propriate
colors for their complexions. Faith is all _blunette_ and she looks best
in pink. Hope is all blonde and blue is her best color, while Gail and
Cherry have _blunette_ hair and blonde eyes, and they chose yellow and
green. I didn't know it then, but that is what they did. Anyway, they
talked about the different colors till I thought we ought to have our
rooms fixed up in things that fitted us. That made it hard for Allee and
me, you see, 'cause she is all blonde and I'm all _blunette_. To fit
her, the room would have to be all blue, and to fit me it would be all
red. Gussie said it wasn't stylish to use red and blue together any
more, so we didn't know what to do until one day when we were
_rummelging_ through the attic we found heaps and heaps of perfectly
whole bunting and two great, big flags. That decided us to make a flag
room of ours, and Gussie said it was a _splen-did_ idea. So that's how
it happened.

"Allee and me'd rather sleep together so's we can talk when we are
awake, instead of having to holler our thoughts clear across the room
from one bed to the other whenever we want to talk secrets; so we traded
beds with Gussie. She said she was willing, and I always did want that
bird of a bed after I saw it in her room. But the curtains wouldn't hang
from its tail like I thought they would, and we--"

"Stole my Paris doll to hold 'em up with!" cried Cherry, spying for the
first time the beautiful waxen image dressed to represent the Goddess of
Liberty, which stood on a tiny mantel over the quaint little bed, and
held the bunting curtains in one hand.

"We _borrowed_ it," Peace corrected. "We couldn't very well _ask_ you
'bout it without your teasing to know why, and Allee and me didn't have
a decent doll among us. Besides, you never play with it any more, and
like as not grandpa or some other person that's got money will give us
one of our own for Christmas. Then you can have yours back again. I
guess you can wait that long, can't you? We wanted the walls striped
with red and white, but Gussie thought that would look too much like a
barber shop, so we just had white paper. It doesn't much matter, for the
flags cover most of that wall, and Martha and George--we found them in
the attic--Washington take up all the space on that side under the
eagle--we got that out of the glass case that stands in the barn loft.
We were going to see if we couldn't find some rugs with flags in them,
but Gussie said it wasn't nice to _walk_ on our country's flag, so we
chose this red carpet that used to be on this floor."

"But where did you get such cute, quaint furniture?" asked Faith who was
trying the white enameled chairs one after another.

"Oh, that all came from the attic, too. Didn't cost us anything. It was
a dull, ugly brown--"

"Mother's mahogany set," whispered Mrs. Campbell to the amused doctor
standing at her side.

"--but a little white varnish made it just what we wanted."

"Did you do the painting?" asked Cherry, testing it with her finger to
see if it stuck.

"No; we tried, but it looked so streaked we thought we sure had spoiled
it. Gussie didn't have time to do a good job on it, either; so we asked
Jud to help us out, and he said he would if Gussie--" There was a
movement at the door, and the company glanced over their shoulders just
in time to see Gussie's dress whisk out of sight down the hall. "--would
give him a kiss. So you see we got that work done dirt cheap, too.
Altogether, we spent nine dollars and ninety-one cents of the money
grandpa gave us. Gussie kept the list. That's what the paper and white
paint and ribbons for tying back our curtains--oh, yes, and the curtains
themselves came to. They are just dotted _Swish_ and we got it at a
sale, so it didn't cost us much. Mrs. Grinnell says always watch for
sales, 'cause lots of bargains can be picked up that way, and we
remembered it this time. We spent the extra nine cents--to make just an
even ten dollars--for candy to treat Gussie and Jud, seeing they
wouldn't take any money for their work, but they didn't eat it all; so
Allee and me had the rest."

"Did you make the curtains yourselves?" asked Cherry, the inquisitive.

"Well, mostly. Gussie cut them for us, and I held them straight in the
machine while Allee made the pedal go. The seams ain't _very_ crooked,
but sometimes the needle would hit a lump in the pattern and teeter out
around it, in spite of all I could do. But the made-up curtains at the
store cost lots more than the raw cloth and weren't half so pretty, so
Gussie said she'd help us make our own. Didn't we do well?"

"You certainly did," was the unanimous verdict. "The prize is yours."

"And children," said the President impressively, as they still lingered
in the quaintly furnished room; "I hope every time you enter this door,
the spirit of patriotism, the love of country, will grow stronger and
greater in your hearts."

"Yes, grandpa, I guess it will," answered Peace in all seriousness,
"'cause we'll always be thinking of the rest of that check money which
we've saved from dec'rating our room so's we could buy fire-crackers and
rockets for next Fourth of July."

CHRISTMAS DAY WITH THE CAMPBELLS

The days which followed the advent of the orphan sisters in the great
house were happy ones. Oh, so happy! How can they be described? The two
lonely old hearts which had hungered all these long years for the little
children who had so early left them thrilled with gladness at every
sound of the eager, girlish voices. Boundless content reigned in their
hearts as they watched each expressive face and studied each different
character; and they wondered openly how they had ever managed to live
without this precious band of granddaughters, as they insisted upon
calling their charges.

And the girls were equally happy. Gail felt as if a great weight had
been lifted from her shoulders, as if her soul had been suddenly freed
from a dark prison. The care-worn look vanished from the thin face; the
big, gray-blue eyes sparkled with animation; her heart bubbled over with
gratitude and love; and in every possible way she tried to show these
new guardians how deeply and tenderly she loved them. And her attitude
was that of the other sisters also, except that each took her own
method of showing it. The Campbells were well satisfied with their
experiment and were never tired of saying to each, other, "They are ours
now."

"Yes," Peace had answered them once when she had overheard these words;
"we are yours now, but it seems to me 'sif we had always belonged to
you. Some way, we fit in just as slick! 'Sif we had only been away on a
vacation and just got home again, and you're tickled to see us and we're
tickled to see you. Only--s'posing we really had been your
granddaughters, s'posing you had been our Grandpa Greenfield, I bet
_you'd_ never have named me Peace."

"No," Dr. Campbell replied gravely, but with a quick thrill of
tenderness in his heart for this little scapegrace who seemed to win
from everyone an extra share of love; "no, I don't think I should have
named you Peace--that is, if I could have foreseen what the blossom was
to be when the bud unfolded. I should have called you Joy."

"Joy?" repeated Peace. "Humph! That sounds like a heathen name. We've
got a story book about Hop Loy, a Chinaman who was born on Christmas Day
and never saw a Christmas tree until he was older'n Cherry. Why-ee!
Ain't that terrible! I used to think I'd like to have my birthday come
on Christmas, but now I'm glad it doesn't, for then everybody'd make one
present do for the two days, and I'd get only half as many pretty
things as other children have. It's bad enough as 'tis, being born on
New Year's Day, for by that time most folks have spent all their money
on Christmas doings."

"Oho," he mocked, "is that what is bothering you? Well, now, don't you
worry! You shall have your share of birthday gifts as well as heaps of
Christmas presents as long as you live with us. This year Christmas will
be doubly merry, for it is the first holiday season we have had any
young folks to help us celebrate since the days when Dora's nephew used
to spend his vacations with us."

"Why doesn't he come any more?" asked Cherry curiously.

"Oh, he is a gray-haired man now with children of his own," laughed
grandma, then sighed, for the rollicking Ned who had been the life of so
many vacations with them had married a society dame whose one aim was to
see how many social victories she could score, and the poor children of
the family fared as best they could in the great, loveless palace which
they called home.

"Do they live in Martindale?" asked Hope, eager to add to her list of
acquaintances any whom the Campbells loved.

"No, their home is in Chicago now. That is a photograph of the
children." She pointed to a group picture on the fireplace mantel, and
the girls clustered about it with inquisitive eyes.

"What a sad-faced child the smaller one is," observed Faith. "How old is
she?"

"Six or seven weeks younger than Peace, I believe. She was born on
Valentine Day."

"How lovely!" Peace cried joyfully. "But I'd like it better if it was
the boy who was almost my age. He looks the nicest of the bunch. The big
girl is homely--"

"Peace!"

"Well, it ain't her fault, I know, and I wouldn't mind how homely she
was if she looked _sweet_, but she doesn't. She looks 'sif she thought
she owned the earth and I never did like a _darnimeering_ person. Now
Tom--his name is Tom, isn't it?"

"No, dear, it is Henderson. Henderson Meadows."

"Oh! Why, I was sure it was Tom; he has such a Tom-ish look--"

A shout of derision interrupted her, but she stoutly declared, "Well, he
has! Boys named Tom are always nice--all I ever knew. I'm sorry his name
is Henderson. It doesn't sound a bit like him."

"You are a queer chick," said the President indulgently, "but I quite
agree with you in regard to Henderson. He is a splendid fellow, however,
in spite of his long name. They ought to have called him Ned Junior. He
is big Ned all over again, just as Belle the second is the counterpart
of her mother. Lorene is the odd piece. Every family has one odd one, I
believe. Lorene is like neither her father nor mother."

"What funny names! They are as bad as ours. But I should like to know
the children--the folks, I mean. I s'pose Belle is too old to be called
a child any longer, ain't she?"

"Yes, Belle is sixteen and stylish," he answered grimly, as if that told
the story, and it really did, for little more could be said of the
frivolous, society-loving girl, brought up to follow in the footsteps of
her worldly mother.

"Do they come here often?" ventured Gail, still studying the group, none
of whom looked really happy.

"No, oh no," Mrs. Campbell answered hastily. "Martindale is too quiet
for Mrs. Meadows. Ned sent Henderson and Lorene up here for a month last
summer, but Belle has never been our guest. Grandpa and I have visited
them twice in Chicago, but that is all we have ever seen them."

"I wish they lived nearer," sighed Peace. "We never had any cousins of
our own, but maybe they'd adopt us too, like you did; then we'd know
what it feels like to have real relations."

"Suppose you write Lorene. I think she would enjoy getting letters from
a little girl so near her own age."

"That _would_ be nice, s'posing I liked to write letters," Peace
assented, "but I don't. I'll send her a Christmas present, though; and
a valentine when it comes time, and a birthday gift, too. She will like
that, won't she? What street does she live on in Chicago? It'll have to
go pretty soon if it gets there in time for Christmas. That's only a
week off. Mercy! What a lot of work we'll have to do before then,
getting ready for the parties. I do love parties! But I don't see what
you wanted to make two for. One would have been a plenty, and not near
so much work."

Mrs. Campbell laughed comfortably. "The house isn't large enough to
accommodate all we want to invite, so we had to make two parties.
Besides, the evening party is a sort of 'coming out' affair for my older
girls--"

"Coming out of what?"

"Oh, introducing them into college society--"

"And we littler girls ain't worth coming out for? Is that it?"

"Oh dear no! But _little_ girls don't come out into society. They have
to wait until they are grown up. Even Gail and Faith are too young for
the social whirl as the world understands that phrase. They must wait
until they are through with school and college life before they take up
social duties. But they have met so very few of our young people since
coming here to Martindale to live that we are giving this party to
introduce them to their own classmates really. Do you understand now?"

Peace did not, but she vaguely felt that she ought to, so she bobbed her
head slowly and fell to puzzling over the queer ways of the world.
Fortunately for the whole household, the last week of preparation for
the holiday season was a very busy one, so Peace had little time to
think of all these perplexing questions; and when Christmas Day dawned
at length, everyone thought she had forgotten her grievance over not
being invited to attend the evening party for the older sisters. But
Peace remembered, and in the gray of the early dawn before anyone else
was awake in the great house, the door of the flag room burst open with
a jerk and a joyous voice shrieked through the gloom:

"What have you got in your stockings, girls? Mine is stuffed so full it
fell off the nail, and one chair and half the dresser is loaded with the
left-over packages. And Allee's got as many as I have. There's a doll
for each of us--they beat yours all hollow, Cherry. Now we've got a
Goddess of Liberty all our own and you can have yours as soon as ever
you want it. And I've got seven books. Guess Santa must have mixed me up
with you again, Cherry. There are three puzzles and five games and a lot
of handkerchiefs and ribbons, two sashes, and oh, the loveliest white
dress for winter wear, all trimmed with the softest velvet--just the
thing for your party tonight, Faith, s'posing I was invited. And
there's a plaid dress and a plain red one and a brown one and a dark
blue--six in all--and two coats. _Two!_ Think of that! Mercy, ain't we
rich now? Are you awake, all of you? Are you listening? Ain't this
different from last year?"

Ah, how well they all remembered that last Christmas, and what a hymn of
praise and thanksgiving went up from each of those six hearts for the
joy and good tidings this Christmas had brought them!

Before Peace had finished shouting her catalog of gifts, the other
sisters were awake--and indeed, the whole household was astir--examining
the generous remembrances loving hands had heaped around their beds as
they slept. And what a merry time they made of it! Gussie could scarcely
prevail upon anyone to touch her tempting breakfast, for excitement had
dulled the usually hearty appetites; the young folks found their
treasures more alluring than any breakfast table could possibly be, and
the President and his wife hovered over them to enjoy the sight of their
joy.

"A body'd think they had never seen a Christmas Day before," muttered
Marie, waiting impatiently in her snowy cap and apron to serve the
rapidly cooling breakfast.

"It's many a long day since they have seen one like this," said Gussie
loyally, smiling gratefully as she thought of the liberal number of
packages old Santa had left hanging to her door during the night. But at
length the meal was ended, Marie had carried the dishes away, Jud
appeared with a step-ladder and hammer, and the younger trio were
banished upstairs to amuse themselves until the last of the party
decorations were put in place. This was not a hard thing to do,
fortunately, and for once not one of them raised any objection to being
exiled in this fashion.

"Why, I've enough things of my own to look at and think about to last me
a week," Cherry breathed ecstatically.

"Yes, and s'posing you did get tired of that," spoke up Peace, "there's
all the rest of the girls' bundles to 'xamine. They've each got a
hundred 'most near, I sh'd think."

So for a long time they fluttered from room to room, admiring the pretty
things that were now their own, nibbling chocolate drops, or discussing
the party scheduled for two o'clock that afternoon. Then gradually
conversation flagged; each girl sought a favorite retreat, and
surrounded by her pile of belongings, sat down to gloat over them.
Silence fell upon the rooms, broken only by the sound of rustling
ribbons caressed by admiring hands, the opening and shutting of boxes,
the fluttering of story-book leaves, the protesting squeak of Queen
Helen's bisque arms and legs, and the rattle of mysterious puzzles.

Cherry had retired to her own domain to regale herself with certain
tempting volumes, and Peace and Allee were alone in the flag room when
the older girl suddenly dropped the book in which she had been lost for
a full half hour, and said eagerly, "Allee, this is the most interesting
story I ever read. It tells how the little Swede children give the birds
a Christmas. Think of that! The birds! We tried to make it happy for
everyone we knew--Jud and Gussie and Marie and the flirty chimney-sweep
who goes by here every morning, and the washwoman who lives in the
alley, and the milk-boy who comes so far through the cold to bring us
our milk, and Caspar Dodds' family--and--and--all of them; and we even
remembered the canary and the dogs, but we never thought of the birds
outdoors."

"No, we didn't," Allee agreed, pausing in her occupation of undressing
the gorgeous Queen Helen to stare fixedly at her sister as if trying to
fathom her thoughts. "We might ask Gussie for some crumbs. It ain't too
late yet."

"Crumbs wouldn't do at all. The book says they tie a sheaf of wheat to a
tall pole in the yard so the birds will see it and come down and eat.
See, there is the picture."

"Um-hm. But we haven't any tall pole in our yard, 'cept the flag-pole
and that's on the roof."

"No, we haven't any pole like the book shows, but we could hitch the
wheat on our balcony-rail knobs and when the birds came down to get it,
we could watch them from this window. See?"

"Where'll you get the wheat?"

"From the barn. Jud's got a lot of different kinds of grain out there."

"But we can't go downstairs until party time. Even lunch is to be
brought up here, grandma said."

"That's so. But I don't think they'd care if we just slipped down the
stairs and straight out of the front door. It wouldn't take us but a
minute to get the wheat and come right back again."

"Grandma said if we went downstairs before she gave us leave, we
couldn't go to the party at all."

"Then how can we feed those birds?"

"I guess we can't feed them this year--'nless we do it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow won't be Christmas. We've got to do it today. Just think how
nice it will be to play we are little Swedes and how pleased Gussie'll
be to think we did something her people do."

"Why do just Swedes feed the birds?" inquired Allee, still a trifle
dubious about entering into Peace's plan, in view of the risk involved.

"Oh, I s'pose they thought of it first. Every kind of people do
something queer at Christmas which they call a custom. The Holland
children put out their shoes on Christmas Eve for Santa Claus to fill,
instead of hanging up their stockings."

"Their shoes?" Allee's eyes were as round as saucers with astonishment.

"Yes. They wear big, wooden boats for shoes. I guess their feet must be
extra big--anyway, their shoes are simply _e-mense_ and will hold a lot.
Then there's the French people,--_they_ always save up all the fusses
and scraps they have had with other folks during the year, and on
Christmas Day they go around and get forgiven. Wonder what Gail would
think of that! And the Irish folks stay up all night to hear the horses
talk."

"Peace, you're fooling!"

"Allee Greenfield, do I ever fool you?"

"N--o, you never have."

"And I ain't beginning now. That is just what this book says."

"But horses don't talk!"

"Only at Christmas time."

"I don't b'lieve they do then. Did you ever hear them!"

"N--o, but I'm going to stay up tonight and listen."

"Oh, we can't. This is party night and what would grandma say?"

"We'll never know if they talk unless we do stay up and listen--and I'd
like to find out what they say. It's just at midnight. That ain't long.
We go to bed at eight, and midnight is only twelve o'clock. We could
stay awake easily till then, 'cause the people who are invited will be
leaving just about that time. I heard grandma say so. We'll just skip
away to the barn and see if Duke and Charley are talking, and then we'll
come back before anyone knows we're gone."

The plan was truly very fascinating, but Allee still looked very
doubtful, and after a silent moment Peace broke out in an aggrieved
tone, "I don't see what is the matter with you, Allee. You are getting
to be just like Cherry. She always sets down on my plans. You won't help
me hang up the wheat for the Swedes or listen to the Irish horses. You
never used to be like that."

"I will too help you!" cried Allee, hurt at her boon companion's words
and tone. "I'll do anything you want me to, only I don't see how we can
carry out either one of those. We'll surely get scolded if we go
downstairs now, and it would be dreadful if we couldn't go to either
party."

Peace walked to the balcony window and threw up the sash, murmuring, "If
only grandpa hadn't made us promise not to slide down the pillars! Oh,
I've got it, Allee! Look here!"

Allee scrambled up from the floor and hurried to her side, shivering in
the cold blast that blew in through the open window, bearing with it a
few feathery flakes, for it was trying hard to snow. "See that piece of
the wall that sticks out there, and--"

"But how can you walk on that little mite of a piece?" gasped Allee,
growing pale at the very thought. "And how would you get down to the
ground?"

"Oh, that's easy! The rain-pipe is fastened just high enough for me to
hang onto, and 'sides, the trellis goes part of the way to the porch
roof, and Jud hasn't taken down the ladder he put up there yesterday."

"Yes, but s'posing you should fall," wailed Allee in sudden terror, for
the water-pipe looked like a very frail support even for a child as
small and light of foot as was Peace, and the corner with the projecting
porch roof seemed so far away.

"There's snow on the ground. I wouldn't get hurt. But you needn't think
I'm going to fall. I've clum lots harder places than that before. You
stay here and when I get back you can tack up the wheat on the rail
post."

Carefully she stepped out on the balcony, slipped over the low railing
and set out on her perilous journey along the narrow coping, clinging
tightly to the rain-trough with one hand, and hanging onto the trellis
supports with the other till at last she was safe on the porch roof at
the corner. With an exultant shout she turned and waved her hand at
rigid, white-lipped Allee in the window, then slid lightly down the
ladder and out of sight. She was gone a long time, and the small watcher
above was becoming alarmed at her stay, fearing that the daring acrobat
had been caught at her pranks, and wondering what punishment would
befall her in such an event, when the bare, brown head appeared over the
low porch roof once more, and Peace inquired in a worried tone, "Do you
know whether birds eat hay? 'Cause I can't find any whole wheat out
there. It's all shocked."

"Why, I never watched them long enough to see," began Allee, eyeing the
great twisted wisp the older child had in her hand.

"Well, I brought some grain, too, but I don't know how we can tie that
to a pole, 'nless we leave it in the bag, and then how can the birds get
at it!"

"We might throw it along the rail--it's wide enough to hold quite a
little--"

"Course! What a _nijut_ I am not to think of that myself!"

Slinging the bag of grain over one arm, and still clutching the hay
firmly in the other hand, she began her slow creeping along the coping
back to the balcony window. The rain-pipe shook threateningly under her
weight, and even the trellis supports swayed uncomfortably when once she
slipped and almost lost her frail footing. Allee gave a low moan of
horror and shut her eyes, but the daring climber did not fall, and when
next the watcher looked, she beheld the curly, brown head bobbing over
the balcony rail, as Peace swung up to safety beside her, and dropped
the burden--the birds' Christmas dinner--into her trembling hands.

Nor was Allee the only one who trembled. On the snowy walk below,
approaching the house with rapid strides, came the dignified President,
hand in hand with two children, a bright-eyed, black-haired boy of
perhaps a dozen years, and an under-sized, gipsy-like little girl, both
chattering like magpies as they raced along beside the tall, erect old
man, when suddenly the girl screamed faintly, "Oh, Uncle Donald, look!"

But he had caught sight of the apparition even before she spoke, and
halted abruptly, breathlessly, terror clutching at his heart. The boy
followed the gaze of his two petrified companions, and ejaculated in
amazed admiration, "Golly, but she's got grit! Why, Uncle Donald, that's
your house! That must be one of the girls you were telling us about. Is
it Peace?"

The President nodded his head mechanically, not knowing that he had
heard the question, but the next moment the frozen horror of his face
melted. The climber had reached the balcony and was unconcernedly
scattering a handful of grain over the narrow railing, while Allee
securely bound the wisp of hay to the balcony post. A great sigh of
relief escaped the watchers below, their hearts began to beat once more
and the red blood pounded through their veins.

"Oh," gasped the girl, "I thought sure she'd fall!"

"I didn't," declared the boy with a wise shake of his head. "She's a
reg'lar cat. I believe she could climb a wall. She's like that 'human
fly' the papers are always telling about. I'd like jolly well to see
_him_ do some of his stunts, you better believe!"

The President said nothing, but his mouth set in grim lines and a look
of determination replaced the fearful pallor of his face. Forgetful of
the guests he had in tow, he marched into the house and straight up the
stairway with the children still at his heels. At the door of the flag
room he knocked, then without waiting for a summons from within, he
entered.

The two scatterers of Christmas cheer had finished their work by this
time and were now gleefully watching the feathered folk of the air
settling about the unexpected repast, so they scarcely heard the steps
in the hall or the creak of the opening door. But at the peculiar sound
of the voice speaking to them, both girls wheeled quickly, and Peace
asked in guilty haste, "Did you want us, grandpa?"

"Yes, come here, both of you."

They went and stood at his knee, a secret fear tugging at each little
heart as they saw the unusually stern look he bent upon them.

"Is--is--what--why--," stammered Peace, wishing he would smile a little
to relieve the keenness of his glance.

"What were you doing just now?"

"Feeding the birds like the Swedes do on Christmas Day, only we didn't
have a pole to hitch our wheat to, and all our wheat was in kernels
anyway, and we were told not to go downstairs until Jud and the girls
were through dec'rating, so we clum out of the window and I got some hay
and grain just as slick! Don't the birds look as if they were enjoying
their Christmas dinner?" Peace rattled on, speaking so rapidly that the
words fairly tumbled out of her mouth.

"Didn't I tell you when you chose this room for your own that you would
forfeit it the first time you used the window for the stairway?"

"No, grandpa," came the astounding reply from both eager little girls.
"You said _porch_, _pillars_, and we have _never_ used them for
stairways since the time we told you about. We 'membered that
_carefully_, and this time we used that wide piece that sticks out of
the wall, and then clum down Jud's ladder from the back porch roof. That
ain't the balcony pillars, grandpa. You never said we couldn't go down
that way."

In absolute amazement the learned Doctor of Laws gazed long and
silently into the anxious, upturned faces. Allee's lips began to
tremble, and even Peace, remembering the Doctor's words in regard to
lickings the night of the surprise party in the little brown house,
shook in her shoes; but she steadfastly returned his gaze, and quietly
repeated, "You know you didn't, grandpa!"

"No," he said at last. "I did not forbid your going down that way, but
it was only because I never dreamed you or anyone else would ever try
such a feat." Suddenly his sternness vanished, he stooped quickly and
gathered the scared little souls in his arms, choking huskily, "My
little girlies, if you knew what a fright you have given your old
grandpa--"

"Oh, grandpa," quavered Allee from her retreat on his shoulder, "we'll
never do it again, truly!"

"And you won't take this darling room away from us this time, will you?"
wheedled Peace, her equilibrium restored at sight of this unusual
display of emotion.

"No," he promised, "not this time. We'll try you again, but remember--no
more window climbing of _any_ kind."

"Not even out onto the balcony?" wailed Peace in dismay.

There was a sound of suppressed laughter from the hall, and as the girls
in the flag room whirled about to discover the cause, the President
suddenly remembered his new guests and rose hurriedly to his feet. But
Peace had reached the door in a bound and with a cry of delight dragged
forth the embarrassed strangers, exclaiming, "It's Henderson and Lorene,
grandpa! They look 'xactly like their picture, don't they, only not
quite so grumpy? Grandma said I better write Lorene and I did and I
invited her to come up for my party. That's how they happen to be here.
Now we'll get acquainted with our relations, won't we? I invited Belle,
too. Why didn't she come?"

"Belle and mamma went to Evanston last week," Lorene explained
bashfully.

"And they let you come all alone?"

"They don't know yet that we aren't in Chicago," chuckled Henderson.
"Dad let us come. It's only a twelve-hour ride and we don't change cars
at all. Pooh! We've gone longer ways than that alone."

"But not when mamma knew it," supplemented Lorene. "She'd have
_insisted_ upon sending Nurse with us--if she had let us come at all.
Where shall we put our wraps? It's hot in here."

"Oh, I forgot!" cried Peace, abruptly recalled to her duties as hostess,
for dazed Dr. Campbell had gone in search of his wife the minute he saw
that the children were sufficiently introduced.

"Hang your coat on the hall-tree, Henderson; and Lorene, bring your
things in here. It's pretty near lunch time already, and then we must
dress for the party."

So in spite of their very unexpected arrival, the two strangers received
a royal welcome, and were soon very much at home with the six merry
girls whom they promptly adopted as cousins, just as Peace had hoped
they would. And how quickly the hours flew by! Before anyone realized
it, the great clock in the hall struck two, and promptly the small
guests began to arrive. Happy voices filled the house, happy faces
beamed from every corner, happy hearts beat high with Christmas cheer;
the very air seemed charged with happiness. The four younger sisters
made charming hostesses, Grandma Campbell proved to be a rare
entertainer, and the dignified President won everlasting fame as a
story-teller and leader in games.

"_Everything_ was a success," as Hope thankfully declared when the last
guest had departed, and the happy group had congregated in grandma's
room to talk things over while Jud and his corps of helpers were setting
things to rights for the evening party.

"Yes," Peace reluctantly conceded, "but think how much nicer it would
have been if we could have had it in the evening like grown-up folks."

"Still harping about that?" laughed Faith, pausing in the doorway with
her arms full of holly wreaths ready to be hung. "Daytime is made for
children. Gail and I didn't intrude at your party."

"That ain't 'cause you wasn't invited," Peace replied pointedly.

"But we couldn't very well come," Faith answered hastily. "There were so
many things we had to get ready for our tree tonight."

"Getting things ready for a tree ain't like having to lie in bed and
hear all the noise and music and know you can't have any share at _all_
in them," Peace persisted; but Faith had already vanished down the
stairway, and only a tantalizing laugh floated back in reply.

A hush fell over the little company in the cosy room, each busy with
happy thoughts or rosy day-dreams, as she stared at the glowing embers
in the great fireplace or watched the white flakes drifting down through
the early twilight outside. Then there was a firm step on the stair, a
cheery voice from the hallway broke the spell, and six pair of eyes were
lifted to greet the busy President as he briskly entered the room and
paused to survey the pretty scene.

"Well, well," he said bluffly, "what's the difficulty? Quarrelling?"

"No, sir!" they shouted emphatically.

"We were just thinking--" Henderson began.

"How nice it would be if little folks were invited to grown-up parties,"
finished Peace, who seemed possessed of only that one idea.

"That's just what I have been thinking, too," was the surprising
confession from the tall man on the hearth rug.

"Wh-at!"

"Well, when mother and I came to think over the subject seriously, we
both agreed that it did not seem exactly fair to put three, no, four
such charming little maids to bed--for of course Lorene would share your
fate, too--when there were to be such festive doings downstairs,
although neither one of us believes in late hours for children. I
presume we are very old-fashioned in some things--"

"No, you aren't," chorused the loyal girls.

"No? True patriots! And yet didn't you think grandma and I were just the
least teenty bit hard on you to make you go to bed at the regulation
hours tonight when it is Christmas?"

"W-e-ll, we would like awfully much to stay up and see if Gail and Faith
do as good entertaining their comp'ny as we did," confessed Peace with
unusual hesitation.

"Supposing I should tell you that we have decided to let you stay up an
hour or two longer?"

"Oh, grandpa, what a darling you are!"

"No, you must thank Faith. She begged so hard that we have had to give
in to satisfy her."

"Faith?" Peace was so completely dumbfounded that they had to laugh at
her.

"Yes, dear, Faith. She says you are so dreadfully anxious to see what a
grown-up Christmas party is like that she is afraid you will die of
curiosity if you can't have that wish fulfilled."

"Grandpa, you are just joking," Cherry reproved.

"I am thoroughly in earnest, I assure you. To be sure, Faith used
somewhat different words, but she sympathized so heartily with you that
we decided to let you enjoy part of the evening's program. In fact, the
only reason we planned _two_ parties in the first place was because the
old house wouldn't hold at one time all we wanted to invite; and we
thought it would be a great deal easier to entertain our guests if we
had the big folks at one party and the little people at another. Do you
understand now?"

"Yes, and I'll bet you've been figuring on letting us go all the while
we were stewing about it," cried Peace, the irrepressible.

"Maybe you are right," he chuckled.

She bounced off the floor with a squeal of delight, clutched Allee with
one hand and Lorene with the other, and rushed out of the room, calling
back over her shoulder, "Now, I'm _surblimely_ happy! You better go
dress, Cherry! Dinner will soon be ready and there won't be much time
after that before the party begins."

They had been happy before, but the granting of this one dear wish
transported them to such heights of bliss that they seemed to be walking
on clouds, and went about in such a state of rapture that it was
ludicrous as well as delightful to behold their antics.

Evening came, the guests arrived, music sounded, carols were sung, and
Peace, entranced, moved about through the gay, light-hearted throng like
one in a dream. To be sure, it was just as the President had
prophesied--little attention was paid to the children of the party, but
it was glorious fun just to watch the changing scenes and be a part of
them, instead of lying tucked away in bed upstairs listening with
ever-increasing curiosity and longing to the sounds of merrymaking
below.

With a happy sigh of content at the realization of her great ambition,
Peace dropped down upon a pile of cushions by one of the long French
windows, leaned her forehead against the cool pane and looked out into
the night, where by the flickering light of the street-lamps she could
see the white snowflakes drifting slowly, lazily downward.

"My, but hasn't this been a happy Christmas!" she said aloud, though no
one was near enough to hear her words. "Who'd ever have thought last
Christmas that we'd be here tonight? Do you s'pose the angels know we
don't live in Parker any more? We might set a lamp in the window so's
they'd see it and be sure. Gail says mother always did that when papa
was out after night, so he could find his way home all right. I'll tell
Allee and when we go to bed we'll just remind the angels that we don't
need so much looking after now that we're living here. I'll never forget
how s'prised Hec Abbott was when he found out that we'd all been 'dopted
together. I wonder what Hec is doing about now? He can't brag any more
about the good times they have at his house. We are just--what in the
world is that coming up the steps?"

Mechanically she rose to her feet, her nose still pressed flat against
the window-pane as she studied the huge, misshapen figure already on the
wide veranda. The footman who had ushered in the guests of the evening
was at that moment occupied in fastening up a strand of evergreen which
had fallen close above a gas-jet; the President was at the furthest
corner of the great parlor engaged in an animated discussion with a
pale-faced professor of Greek; and Mrs. Campbell was nowhere in sight.
With a wildly beating heart, Peace seized the door-knob, and not waiting
for the queer stranger outside to ring the bell, she flung wide the door
and confronted him.

"Why, it's Santa Claus!" they heard her say, for the sudden sharp blast
of winter air had drawn a crowd to the door to see what had happened.
"Don't you know, sir, that you can't come in this way? Go up to the roof
and climb down the _chimbley_, like you do at other houses," she
commanded, and in the face of the amazed Saint Nick she slammed the
door.

"Peace, what have you done?" cried Gail aghast, as she caught a glimpse
of the fat, knobby pack disappearing down the steps.

"It was just that Santa Claus forgot to go down the _chimbley_," she
explained. "He ought to have remembered that!"

A shout from the adjoining room cut short her defense, and as the crowd
surged forward in that direction, she beheld the jolly old Saint
shuffling across the floor dragging his heavy pack which certainly
looked as sooty and dirty as if he had really plunged down the tall
chimney and through the fireplace. Straight to her corner he came, and
fumbling in his sack, drew forth a tiny statue of the Goddess of
Liberty, which he presented with an elaborate bow, saying in a deep,
rumbling voice, "To the defender of all childhood traditions--Liberty
enlightening the world!" His words were greeted with mad applause, for
by this time everyone had heard the story of the flag room and peeped at
its quaint furnishings; but the laugh was quickly turned from one to
another, for St. Nick had remembered well the pet foibles of each guest
present, and had brought with him appropriate gifts for all.

Much too soon the hands of the clock crept around to the hour of half
past ten, and with sighs of resignation and disappointment, the four
smaller girls, Cherry, Peace, Lorene and Allee, slipped quietly away to
bed.

"I did so want to hear the rest of the carols," murmured Cherry, yawning
so widely that she nearly swallowed the rest of the exiled group.

"We can hear them after we're in bed," said Peace, rubbing her eyes
which were growing very heavy in spite of her efforts to stay awake.
"Gussie promised to leave our doors open until time for the folks to go
home. It's the charades I wanted to see."

"Charades?" questioned Lorene. "Were they going to have charades, too?"

"She means tableaux," explained Cherry. "She's crazy about them. They
make me cough too much--the lights they use, I mean. Come on, Lorene,
sleep with me tonight until Hope comes up to bed. Do, please! It isn't
fair for you three to stick in here and leave me all by myself in the
other room."

Lorene glanced hesitatingly from one sister to the other, and seeing no
opposition, answered, "All right, Cherry, I'll stay with you till the
folks go. You don't care, do you, girls?"

"Not for that long," Peace magnanimously replied, for a daring plan had
just popped her eyes wide open, and Lorene might hinder its fulfillment.
So they separated, and in a few short moments four white-robed figures
were tucked snugly under the coverlets, the lights turned out, and the
two doors left ajar that the sleepy exiles might hear the strains of
music floating up the wide staircase. There was the soft sound of
whispered words from bed to bed like the sleepy twitterings of birdlings
in their nests, and then silence. Cherry and Lorene were fast asleep.
Downstairs the carols ceased, the wail of violin and guitar died away,
and the murmur of voices was again borne to the straining ears of the
conspirators in the flag room.

"Do you s'pose they have begun tableauing?" asked Allee, after what
seemed an eternity of listening.

"Not yet; they have lights. There, that must be one. See how queer the
hall looks through the crack of the door? I guess it's time now. Come
on, but be awful still."

"It's cold after being in that warm bed," protested Allee as her bare
feet touched the polished floor in the hall.

"We'll get some wraps in here," Peace answered, inspired by a happy
thought to seize upon two beautiful white opera robes belonging to some
of the guests below, and with these heavy garments trailing behind them,
they stole softly down the wide stairway almost to the landing, where,
out of sight from the company massed in the parlor and adjoining rooms,
they could still see the tableaux taking place in the reception hall
below.

Fortunately for their health's sake, this part of the program was brief,
and had it not been for the very last scene pictured, no one would have
dreamed of their presence behind the palings. But it happened that the
girls had chosen as a climax for the evening the tableau of the first
Christmas Eve; and Hope, arrayed as the angel of good tidings, appeared
on the stairs just as Jud touched off the weird red light on the
landing,--for neither actor nor servant had discovered the hidden
culprits until too late to utter any words of warning or reproof.
Startled beyond measure at the sudden glow almost at their elbow, the
two conspirators scrambled to their feet and vanished hastily up the
stairway as the chorus below took up the song,

    "Angels ascending and descending,
      Chanted the wond'rous refrain,
    'Glory to God in the Highest,
      Peace and good will toward men.'"

The long, fur-lined opera cloaks streamed out behind them like misty
clouds in the unearthly glow of the sulphur light, and it seemed as if
they were really a part of the beautiful tableau, which brought forth
such thunderous applause from the delighted audience that it had to be
repeated. This Peace and Allee did not know, however, for with
chattering teeth and trembling limbs, they had fled to the refuge of
their room, pausing only long enough to drop their borrowed finery where
they had found it; and they were crawling underneath the covers once
more when Peace hissed sharply in her sister's ear, "What about the
horses?"

"What's the matter with them?" murmured Allee, too confused and sleepy
to know what her companion was saying.

"We were going out to hear them talk at midnight."

"So we were! Well, I guess they'll have to talk all to themselves again
tonight."

"What? Ain't you going out with me to listen?"

"We'd freeze in our nightgowns and we dahsent take those pussy-cat coats
to the barn," protested the younger sister, aroused by Peace's surprised
exclamation.

"We'll dress."

"Oh, Peace, and then have the fun of taking our clothes off again?"

"We'll put on our stockings and overshoes and bundle up in grandma's
shawls. How'll that do? But first, we better light that candle I told
you about to let the angels know where we are tonight. There--I guess
they'll see it, even if it isn't as big as a lamp. Come on, I heard the
clock strike a long time ago."

If Allee had not been so sleepy she might have remembered one other time
just a year before when Peace had heard the clock strike; but being too
near the land of Nod to realize anything but that Peace was calling her,
she stumbled out of bed once more and allowed herself to be bundled up
in wraps of all sorts until she was as shapeless as a mummy. In this
fashion they slipped down the back stairs and out to the barn without
betraying their presence, though the steps creaked under their weight,
and every door they opened squeaked so alarmingly that Peace held her
breath more than once for fear someone had heard.

Once inside the dark barn, they had to feel their way about, for not a
ray of light penetrated the blackness of the stormy night, and the grim
silence of the place filled them with nameless terror. It was not so bad
when they had finally found their way into Marmaduke's stall and cuddled
close to the friendly beast, who nosed them inquiringly, but even there
they did not dare speak above a whisper; and so they waited breathlessly
for the mystic midnight hour when the animals should break their silence
and talk, each secretly wishing she were safely back in bed again.

Up at the house the merry evening had at length drawn to a close, and
the guests had reluctantly departed. The President, returning from the
gate where he had escorted the last guest to her sleigh, made a
harrowing discovery. There was a light in the balcony window! Could it
be that burglars had entered the house during the merrymaking and were
even now ransacking the rooms? He looked again. It was such a tiny,
steady light. Was it possible that one of the children was sick and
Gussie had not told him? The last thought sent him flying up the stairs
three steps at a time, and he reached the flag room door so breathless
that he could scarcely turn the knob. The bed was empty. Only a wee
taper from the Christmas tree burned faintly on the window sill.

In frantic haste he called the family and they searched the house from
garret to cellar, but the missing children were not to be found.

"Do you suppose the tableau scared them to death?" asked Hope.

"Maybe they tried to see if Santa Claus really came down the chimney and
got stuck there themselves," suggested Henderson, who regarded the
disappearance of the duet as something of a lark.

"Wake Jud," commanded Mrs. Campbell, and the worried Doctor hastily
lighted a lantern and went down to the barn to rouse the man of all
work, wondering as he did so what good that would do. The horses
whinnied as he entered the stable, and in the dim light that flooded
the place, the President saw that the door of Marmaduke's stall stood
open.

"What can Jud be thinking of?" he muttered somewhat testily, stepping
along to slip the bolt in its place, but the next instant his eyes fell
upon two dark bundles huddled at the horse's feet, and with a startled
exclamation he bent over to examine his find, just as Faith burst in
through the door behind him, crying, "They must have left the house,
grandpa, because the back hall door is unlocked and the storm-door is
swinging."

"Yes, Faith, and here they are," he answered, tenderly lifting the
smaller warm bundle and depositing it in the girl's arms. "What in
creation do you suppose they were doing here?"

As if in answer to his question, the brown eyes of the child he was just
lifting fluttered slowly open, and Peace drowsily drawled, "We fed the
Swede birds for Gussie, and got French forgiveness from grandpa for
doing so, and had a German Christmas tree, and lots of Hung'ry company,
and 'Merican stockings and a 'Merican Santa Claus, but we didn't hear
the Irish horses talk, and I b'lieve it's all a joke."

In spite of their anxiety, Faith and the President gave a boisterous
shout, and Peace heard as in a dream her sister's voice saying, "It is
Christmas Eve that the animals are supposed to talk. Poor Peace!"

CHAPTER IV

A ZEALOUS LITTLE MISSIONARY

Strange as it may seem, neither child felt any ill effects from that
midnight escapade, but the next morning they awoke as chipper and gay as
if there were no such thing as after-Christmas feelings. They even
forgot the lonely vigil in the stable in their dismay at the discovery
that Lorene had slept all night with Cherry instead of returning to
their room as she had promised to do. An after-breakfast summons to the
President's study brought their pranks vividly to mind again, however,
and with considerable trepidation they saw the heavy door close behind
them, shutting them in alone with the grave-eyed man, for they stood
much in awe of the learned Doctor when that stern look replaced the
usual bluff kindliness of his face.

The conference was exceedingly brief and to the point, judging from the
sober, wilted little culprits who pattered up the stairway a few minutes
later and silently sought the flag room. Henderson and the girls were
consumed with curiosity to know the result of the interview, and their
amazement knew no bounds when the disgraced duet vanished within their
quiet retreat and turned the key in the lock. After waiting in vain
fifteen minutes for them to reappear Lorene crossed the hall and knocked
timidly at the closed door. There was no answer. She tried again, this
time with more vim, but with no better success. Then she called, but not
a sound from within greeted her straining ear. Cherry and Hope each took
a turn, and Henderson pounded his fists sore without receiving a single
word of reply from the prisoners.

"I believe they have climbed out of the window," he cried at last in
exasperation.

"No, they promised grandpa not to. I guess maybe they've been sent to
bed," said Cherry, inwardly thankful that she had not been in the latest
scrapes.

Neither was right. But after a time, tiring of their efforts to get some
sign from the culprits, the quartette in the hall dispersed to amuse
themselves in some more entertaining manner. No sooner had their
footsteps died away on the stairs, and Peace was convinced in her own
mind that they had really gone for good, than a change came over her.
She was sitting erect in a stiff-backed chair in one corner of the room,
while her companion in misery sat huddled in the opposite corner,
staring at the fresco of flags above her head. Both looked dreadfully
woe-begone, and as if the tears were very near the surface, for
punishment sat heavily upon these two light-hearted spirits,
particularly as such severe measures did not seem necessary or just to
them in view of the smallness of their sin. However, when the racket
outside their door finally fell away into silence, Peace suddenly gave a
little jump of inspiration, twisted her feet about the legs of her
chair, and began a slow, laborious hitching process across the red rug
toward the tiny dresser. Reaching this goal, she jerked open a drawer,
rummaged out paper and pencil and began a furious scratching.

Allee watched with fascinated eyes, but true to her promise to the
President in the den below, she never said a word, though she was nearly
bursting with curiosity and it was so hard to keep still. After a few
moments of rapid scribbling on a page of vivid pink stationery, the
brown-eyed plotter again commenced her queer march across the room until
she had reached the door, unlocked it, and after a hard struggle managed
to pin the slip to the outside panel. Then with a sigh of mingled relief
at having accomplished her object and resignation at her unjust fate,
she closed the door once more, and wriggled back to her place opposite
Allee, never so much as looking at the eager face questioning hers so
mutely.

Again silence reigned in the pretty room, and both girls fell to
wondering what the other members of the household were doing. Suppose
Cherry had taken Lorene down to the pond to skate. That was what Peace
herself had been planning on ever since she had looked into the small
dark face of the child who was only six weeks and two days younger than
she was. Suppose Hope had gone with Henderson to coast on the hill. He
had promised Allee the first ride just the night before. Suppose Jud
should choose this morning to take the girls sleighing as he had said he
would do when the first heavy snow fell.

It had stormed all night and the deep mantle of white lay tempting and
inviting in the bright winter sunshine. Oh, dear, what a queer world it
seemed! Some people were in trouble all the time and some were never
bothered with scrapes and punishments. There was Hope. Why was it Hope
never did such outlandish things to cause anxiety and dismay to those
around her? Hope never even _thought_ of the freakish pranks that were
constantly getting Peace into trouble.

What was it grandma was always quoting? "Thoughtfulness seeks never to
add to another's burdens, never to make extra work or care, but always
to lighten loads." She said it was because Hope was always thinking of
beautiful things that made folks love to have her near; that it was the
mischievous thoughts which cause the misery of the world. She said--what
did she say? The brown eyes winked slower and slower, the brown head
bent lower and lower. Peace was asleep.

An hour passed,--two. The luncheon bell tinkled, the family gathered
about the table for the mid-day meal, but the chairs on either side of
the President's place were vacant. Glances of inquiry flashed from face
to face. Were the children to be kept in their room all day?

"Where are Peace and Allee?" asked the Doctor, very much surprised at
their absence.

"I haven't seen them since you sent them upstairs this morning,"
answered Mrs. Campbell, who had been occupied all the forenoon writing a
paper for the Home Missionary Society which was to meet at the parsonage
that afternoon.

A guilty flush overspread the President's fine face, and forgetting to
excuse himself from the table, he abruptly pushed back his chair and
strode from the room, muttering remorsefully, "I deserve to be licked!
That was three hours ago and I promised to call them in an hour." He
returned shortly alone, looking very foolish, and holding in his hand a
square of brilliant pink.

"What is it?" asked his wife, surprised at the look on his face. "Where
are the little folks?"

"Asleep. They looked so worn out that I put them on the bed and left
them to have their nap out. This is what I found on the door."

He dropped the slip of paper into her hands as he resumed his seat, and
she read in tipsy, scrawling letters Peace's poster: "It won't do enny
good to raket or holler to us. We can't talk for an hour. If you want to
ask queshuns go to grandpa he is boss of this roost."

She smiled a little tremulously as she passed the pathetic scribble to
Henderson, sitting at her right, but he, being a boy, saw only the funny
side of the situation, and let out a lusty howl of joy as he read aloud
the words with much gusto to his delighted audience.

When the laughter had subsided somewhat, the President asked ruefully,
"How can I make my peace with them? I sent them to their room for an
hour and promptly forgot all about the affair."

"I'll take them to the Missionary Meeting with me this afternoon,"
suggested Mrs. Campbell, "and you can come for us with the sleigh. Peace
has begged to go over ever since she has been here. It seems that Mrs.
Strong is an enthusiastic missionary worker, and Peace's greatest
ambition is to be like her Saint Elspeth."

"So she can find another St. John and marry him," giggled Faith.

"Yes. I guess it is hard to decide which one of her saints she thinks
the most of," Mrs. Campbell agreed; "but I am so glad she has chosen
such a beautiful couple to pattern her own ideals after. Their
friendship will do much for our little--" she intended to say
"mischief-maker," but this white-haired woman with her mother instincts
seemed to understand that Peace's mischief was never done for mischief's
sake, so she changed the word to "sunshine-maker."

Thus it happened that when the brown eyes and the blue unclosed after
their long nap, they looked up into the dear face of their
grandmother-by-adoption, and saw by her tender smile that their
punishment was ended. They were surprised to find how long they had
slept, but the delight at being allowed to attend a grown-up missionary
meeting, as Allee called it, overshadowed whatever resentment they might
have felt at having been forgotten for so long a time, and they danced
away through the snow beside Mrs. Campbell as happy and carefree as the
little birds which they had fed yesterday.

The meeting was not as exciting as Peace had been led to expect from
Mrs. Strong's enthusiastic recitals regarding missionary work, but some
of the words spoken by the different ladies sank very deeply into the
children's fertile brains, and both were so silent on the homeward
journey behind the flying horses that finally Mrs. Campbell ventured to
ask, "Are you tired, girlies? Was the meeting a disappointment to you?"

"Oh, no," Peace hastened to assure her. "_I_ liked it lots, and Allee
likes the same things I do, don't you, Allee? The women were pretty slow
about doing things--they talked so long each time before they could make
up their minds about anything. But it's int'resting to know that at
last they decided to send some barrels to the poor ministers in the
little places who don't get enough to live on. 'Twould have been better
if they had done it before Christmas, though, so's the children wouldn't
have thought Santa Claus had forgotten them. Do--do you think like Mrs.
McGowan--that if we have two coats and someone else hasn't any, we ought
to give away one of ours? That's what she said, isn't it?"

"Yes, that is what she said," Mrs. Campbell agreed; "and in a large
measure I believe her doctrine, too. If we have more than we need and
there are others less fortunate, I think we ought to share our
blessings. But it takes a lot of good sense and tact to do this
judicially."

"I think so, too," answered Peace with such a peculiar thrill in her
voice that the President, at whose side she was sitting, turned and
looked quizzically at the rapt face. "I don't b'lieve in talking a lot
about giving and then when it comes to really _doing_ it, to give just
the left-over things that ain't any good to us any longer, and wouldn't
be to anyone else, either."

"Why, what do you mean, child?" the woman asked, taken by surprise at
such quaint observations from the fly-away little maid, whose serious
thoughts were regarded as jokes even by her own family.

"Well, there was Mrs. Waddler in Parker. She always talked so big that
folks who didn't know her thought she must have millions of money; but
when she came to giving, it was usu'ly skim milk or some of her
husband's worn-out pants."

Here the President exploded, but at the same instant the horses turned
in at the driveway; and in scrambling down from the sleigh Peace forgot
to press her argument any further. Nor did the older folks remember it
again for some days. Then Mrs. Campbell entered the doctor's study one
afternoon with a deep frown on her forehead, and a little note in her
hand.

At the sound of her voice, the busy man paused in his writing and
glanced up hastily, asking, "What seems to be the difficulty?"

"This letter. I don't understand it. Mrs. Scofield writes a note of
regrets because I found it impossible to be with them at the last
missionary meeting, and closes by thanking me for my generous donation.
Now, it happens that just before Christmas, I carefully went through all
the closets of the house, sorted out and hunted up all the good,
half-worn clothing that we could spare, and sent it to the Danbury
Hospital for distribution among their poor families; so I simply had
nothing of value to add to the barrels intended for the frontier
ministers--"

"Why didn't you buy something?"

"I did; or, rather, I thought the poor preacher might find the money
more acceptable than anything I could purchase, so I selected the family
of Brother Bennet of Idaho, and sent him a check. I mailed it to him
direct, not wanting to run the risk of the barrel being delayed or
destroyed. I also neglected to inform the ladies of what I had done; so
I am sure they know nothing about it, for it is yet too early to hear
from Mr. Bennet himself."

"Maybe it is a case of a little bird's having told the story," laughed
the doctor, taking up his pen to resume his writing, and his wife, still
musing over the strange occurrence, went away to receive a caller who
had just been announced.

An hour later she returned to the study looking more perplexed than when
she had left him before, and the President banteringly asked, "Haven't
you found out yet about that generous donation?"

"Yes, Donald. Mrs. Haynes has just told me the whole story. It was not
my donation at all."

"Ah, the worthy ladies just got mixed in their thanks--"

"Not at all! It was Peace's work, and naturally they thought I had
authorized it. That little rascal picked up about half her wardrobe, her
Christmas doll, several games and story books, and goodness knows what
all, and took them over to Mrs. Scofield's house to be packed in the
missionary barrels. Not only that, she persuaded Allee to do the same
with her treasures."

"The little sinner!" ejaculated the startled President. "Without saying
a word to anyone about her intentions?"

"She never consulted _me_."

"Nor me. Well, we must just send her back after them, and make her
understand she must ask us when she wants to dispose of her belongings."

"That is just the trouble. The barrels have already gone."

"You don't say so! The monkey! Send Peace to me when she comes in, Dora.
We must curb these philanthropic tendencies in their infancy and direct
them in the right channels. There is the making of a wonderful woman in
that small body."

"With the right training."

"Yes. God grant that we may be able to give her the right training."

Peace came radiantly in response to the message, dancing lightly down
the hall as a hummingbird might flutter along, and the mere sight of her
merry face as it popped through the study doorway was like a sudden
shaft of sunlight in the great room. The President had determined to
meet her gravely, even sternly, and show her that her uncalled-for
generosity had displeased them, but in spite of himself, his eyes
softened as they rested upon the sweet, round face upturned for a kiss,
and he gently drew her into his lap before telling her why he had sent
for her.

"Why, yes, grandpa," she readily confessed. "I did give away some of my
clothes and other things, and so did Allee, 'cause the children of the
ministers on the frontier need them so much more than we do. Why, we're
rich now and can have anything we want! You said so yourself, you know.
We couldn't give the things we didn't want ourselves, grandpa, 'cause
that wouldn't be a _sacrilege_; and the pretty lady who talked at the
missionary meeting that day said it was the _sacrileges_ we made in this
world that put stars in our crowns in the next world."

"Sacrifice, dear, not sacrilege."

"Is it? Well, I knew it was some kind of a sack. I want lots of stars in
my crown when I get to heaven. Just think how terrible you'd feel
s'posing when St. Peter let you inside the Gates, he handed you just a
plain, blank crown. Mercy! I know I'd bawl my eyes out even if it does
say there aren't any tears in heaven. So I picked out the things I liked
the very best of all I got on Christmas--that is, most of them were. I
don't care much for dolls, so that wasn't any sacri-_fice_ for me; but
Allee likes them awfully much yet, and it was a big sacri-_fice_ for her
to let hers go. But I sent my dear, beautiful plaid dress that I thought
was the prettiest of the bunch, though I let Allee keep the one she
liked best, seeing she cried so hard about Queen Helen. She didn't seem
to enjoy thinking about the big star she'll get in its place, so I told
her I thought likely you or grandma would give her even a prettier doll
for her birthday, which isn't very far off now. I sent the book which
tells all about the way little children in other lands spend Christmas
day, but it was pretty hard work to give that one up. I pulled it out of
the heap three times, and fin'ly had to run like wild up to Mrs.
Scofield's house with it, so's I wouldn't take it out and put it on the
shelf to stay."

"But why did you take so many things?" asked the Doctor lamely.

"There are five children in the family we sent our stuff to, and three
of them are girls. There are six girls in our family, and when we lived
all alone in the little brown house with just ragged, faded dresses to
wear and only plain things to eat, holidays and all, we'd have been
tickled to death if someone had given us such pretty things all for our
very own. Oh, wouldn't it have made _you_ happy if you had been a little
girl?"

The great, brown eyes shone with such a glorified light and the small,
round face looked so blissfully happy that the Doctor's lecture was
wholly forgotten, and for a long time he held the little form close in
his arms while his mind went backward over the long years to the time
when he was a homeless orphan and Hi Allen--Hi Greenfield--had shared
his treasures with him. They made a beautiful picture sitting there in
the gathering dusk, the white head bending low over the riotous brown
curls, the strong hands intertwined with the supple, childish fingers;
and so completely had she captured the great heart of the man that when
at length he set her on the floor and sent her away with a kiss, he
spoke no chiding word. And Peace skipped off well content with the
results of her first missionary efforts.

A few days later she danced into the house one afternoon from school,
wet from head to foot with a damp, clinging snow which was falling, and
at sight of her, Mrs. Campbell threw up her hands and exclaimed, "Peace,
my child, what have you been doing?"

"Ted and Evelyn Smiley and Allee and me and some others had a snow-ball
battle."

"That is expressly forbidden by the school board--" began the gentle
little grandmother reprovingly.

"Oh, we didn't battle with the school board, grandma! We waited until we
reached Evelyn's house and had it in their back yard. The snow is just
right for dandy balls."

"I should think as much. Come here!"

Peace obeyed, glancing hastily at her feet as she guiltily remembered a
certain pair of new shoes which she was wearing and saw the sharp, black
eyes fixed searchingly upon them.

"Peace Greenfield, what have you on your feet?"

"Shoes."

"Your new strapped shoes--slippers--for summer wear?"

Peace nodded.

"After I told you not to wear them until warmer weather!"

"You didn't say that, grandma," Peace expostulated. "You said as long as
I had any others, you guessed I had better put these away for party wear
until it got warmer."

As a rule, Peace's excuses rather amused the mistress of the house, but
this time she looked sternly at the little culprit, and briefly
commanded, "Go to your room and put on your other shoes immediately."

"I haven't got any others."

"No others? What do you mean?"

"I--I--gave mine all away."

"To whom did you give them?" asked the President, who had entered the
room unnoticed.

"To a little girl I met on the hill yesterday. Her toes were sticking
through hers and she looked dreadfully cold, and kept stamping her feet
to keep them from freezing."

The President swallowed a lump in his throat.

"She did not need _two_ pair to keep her feet warm, did she?"

"She was twins."

"Wh-at?"

Peace jumped. "Well, she said she had a sister just her same age at
home, who hadn't any shoes at all."

He took her by the hand, led her to her room, and after seeing that the
wet shoes and stockings were replaced with dry ones, he lectured her
kindly about giving away her belongings in such a promiscuous manner
without first consulting her elders. And having won her promise for
future good behavior, he went down town to purchase new shoes for the
shoeless culprit, satisfied that Peace would remember his words of
caution, and that they should not again be disturbed by the too generous
acts of this zealous little home missionary.

And Peace did remember for a long time, but one day when the two younger
children had been left alone with the servants, temptation again invaded
this little Garden of Eden, and the brown-haired Eve yielded.

It was late in the afternoon and Peace and Allee were standing by the
window watching the sinking sun, when a ragged, stooped, old man trailed
down the quiet street with a battered, wheezy, old hand-organ strapped
to his back and a wizened, wistful-eyed, peaked-faced child at his
heels. Seeing the two bright faces in the window and concluding that
money was plentiful in that home, the vagabond slipped the organ from
its supports, and began grinding out a discordant tune from the
protesting instrument, sending the ragged, weary, little girl to the
door with her tin cup for contributions.

Peace saw her approaching, and opened the door before she had a chance
to ring the bell, surprising the tiny ragamuffin so completely that she
could only stand and mutely hold out her appealing dipper, having
forgotten entirely the words she had been taught to speak on such
occasions.

"You're cold," said Peace, a great pity surging through her breast as
she saw the swollen, purple hands trying to hide under ragged sleeves of
a pitifully thin coat.

"Ver' col'," repeated the beggar, finding her tongue.

"And hungry?"

"Not'ing to eat today."

Peace made a sudden dive at the dirty, unkempt creature, jerked her into
the warm hall, and calling over her shoulder to the organ-grinder on the
walk, "Go on playing, old man, she'll be back pretty soon!" she slammed
the door shut, pushed the child into a chair by the glowing grate, and
turned to Allee with the command, "Go ask Gussie for something to eat.
Tell her a lunch in a bag will do. She's always good to beggars."

"No beggar," remonstrated the little foreigner. "Earn money. Some days
much. Little this day. It so col'."

"Is that all the coat you have?" Peace demanded, eyeing the scant attire
with horrified eyes.

"All," answered the child simply, and she sighed heavily.

"I've got two. You can have one of mine," cried Peace, forgetting
wisdom, discretion, everything, in her great pity for this hapless bit
of humanity.

"You mean it? No, you fool," was the disconcerting reply.

"I'm not a fool!"

"No, no, not a fool. You jus' fool,--joke. You no mean it."

"I do, too! Wait a minute till I get it, and see if it fits. You're
thinner'n me, but you're about as tall."

She rushed eagerly up the stairway, and soon returned with the pretty,
brown coat which she had found on her bed Christmas morning. Into this
she bundled the surprised beggar child, pleased to think it fitted so
well, and explained rapidly, "I got two new coats for Christmas. Grandma
said the red one was for best, so I kept that one, but you can have
this. Keep it on outside your old rag. It will be just that much warmer,
and tonight is awfully cold. Here's a pair of mittens, too. Wear 'em;
they're nice and warm."

Thrusting Allee's bag of lunch into the blue-mittened hands, Peace
opened the door and let the newly-cloaked figure run down the walk to
the impatient man stamping back and forth in the street. They watched
him minutely examining the child's new treasures, but they could not see
the avaricious gleam in his ugly eyes, nor did they dream that the
precious brown coat would be stripped off the shivering little form just
as soon as they were out of sight around the corner, and bartered for
whiskey at the nearest saloon.

So happy was Peace in thinking of this other child's happiness that she
never once thought of her promise made to her grandfather until she saw
Jud drive up the avenue and help the rest of the family out of the big
sleigh. At sight of the erect figure striding up the walk with the
gentle little grandmother on one arm and sister Gail on the other, she
suddenly remembered that he had told her when she gave away her shoes
that she must ask permission before disposing of her belongings, or he
should be compelled to use drastic measures. "Brass-stick" measures, she
called it, and visions of a certain brass rule on the desk in the
library rose before her in a most disquieting fashion as she recalled
that impressive interview.

"Don't tell him what you have done," whispered a little evil voice in
her ear.

"Tell him at once," commanded her conscience; and acting upon the
impulse of the moment, she flew into the old gentleman's arms almost
before he had crossed the threshold and panted out, "I 'xpect you'll be
_compendled_ to use your _brass-stick_ measures on me this time sure. I
guv away my coat!"

"You did what?" he cried, pushing her from him that he might look into
her face.

"Gave, I mean. I gave away my brown coat."

"Peace!"

The sorrowful tone of his voice cut her to the heart, but she flew to
her own defense with oddly distorted words, "I couldn't help it,
grandpa! She was so ragged and cold. S'posing _you_ had to go around
begging hand-organs for a squeaky old penny, without anything to eat on
your back or vittles to wear. Wouldn't _you_ like to have someone with
two coats give you one?"

"Very likely I should, my child. I am not blaming you for the unselfish
feeling which prompted you to give away your coat to one more
unfortunate than yourself, but you are not yet old enough to know how to
give wisely. You will do more harm than good by such giving. No doubt
your little brown coat is in the pawn-shop by this time."

"But grandpa, she was in _rags_!"

"Yes, and that is the way that brute of a man will keep her. Do you
suppose he would get any money for his playing if he sent around a
well-dressed child to collect the pennies? No, indeed! That is why he
makes her wear rags. He will sell or pawn your coat for liquor, and
neither you nor the beggar child will have it to wear."

"But I have my red one."

"You can't wear that to school."

"Why not?"

"It is not suitable."

"Then you'll get me another."

"No, Peace."

"You won't?" Her grieved surprise almost unmanned him.

"No."

"But you've got plenty of money!"

"I will not have it long if you are going to give it all away."

"You bought me some more shoes."

"Yes."

"That took money."

"Yes."

"I--I thought you'd give us anything we wanted."

"I have tried to, dear."

"But I shall want another coat."

He shook his head. "You deliberately gave away the one you had without
asking permission. I can't supply you with new clothes continually if
that is what you intend to do with them."

"Then how will I go to school any more?"

"You must wear the coat you had when you came here to live."

"So you hung onto that old gray Parker coat, did you?" she said
bitterly.

"Yes, and now you will have to wear it until spring comes."

She was silent a moment, then shrugged her shoulders and airily
retorted, "I s'pose you know! But, anyway, it was worth giving the new
coat away just to see how glad the Dago was to get it."

It was the President's turn to look surprised, and for an instant he was
at a loss to know what to say; then he took her hand and led her away to
the study, with the grave command, "Come, Peace, I think we will have to
see this out by ourselves."

She caught her breath sharply, but never having questioned his authority
since the days of the little brown house were over, she obediently
followed him into the dim library and heard the door click behind them.
As the gas flared up when he touched a match to the jet, she looked
apprehensively about the room, and shuddered as she saw the brass ruler
lying on top of a pile of papers on the desk. He even picked it up and
toyed with it for a moment, and she thought her hour of reckoning had
surely come. And it had, but not in the way she expected.

Dropping the ruler at length, he abruptly ordered, "Sit down in my lap,
Peace."

Usually he lifted her to that throne of honor himself, but this time he
made no effort to help her, and when she was seated with her face lifted
expectantly toward his, he disengaged the warm arms from about his neck
and turned her around on his knee until she was looking at the desk
straight in front of them. Then he picked up a book and began reading
silently.

Peace was plainly puzzled, for each time she turned her head to look at
him, he gently but firmly wheeled her about and went on reading. At last
she could be patient no longer, and with an angry little hop, she
demanded, "What's the fuss about, grandpa? What are you going to do?"

Without looking up from his book he laid one finger on his lips and
remained silent.

"Can't I talk?"

It was a terrible punishment for Peace to keep still, and knowing this,
just the faintest glimmer of a smile twitched at his lips, but he merely
nodded gravely.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

Gravely he shook his head.

Peace stared at the chandelier, then surreptitiously stole a peep at the
face behind her. A big hand turned the curly head gently from him.

She studied the green walls with their delicate frescoing, then
cautiously leaned back against the President's broadcloth vest. Firmly
he righted her. Dismay took possession of her. This was the worst
punishment that ever had befallen her,--that ever could.

She gulped down the big lump which was growing in her throat, and
counted the books on the highest shelf around the wall.
Fifty--sixty--seventy--her heart burst, and with a wail of anguish she
kicked the book out of the President's hand and clutched him about the
neck with a grip that nearly choked him, as she sobbed, "Oh, grandpa,
I'll never, never, _never_ forget again! I'll be the most un-missionary
person you ever knew,--yes, I'll be a reg'lar heathen if you'll just
speak to me! I didn't think I was being bad in trying to help others--"

"My precious darling! I don't want you to be a heathen," he cried,
straining her to his heart. "I want you to be the best and most
enthusiastic little missionary it is possible for you to be, but in
order to be a good missionary, one must first learn obedience, and
cultivate good judgment. I wouldn't for all the world have my little
girl grow up a stingy, miserly woman. I am proud of the sweet, generous,
unselfish spirit which prompts you to try to make the burdens of others
lighter, but you are too little a girl yet to know how and where to give
money and clothes and such things so they will do good and not harm."

"I see now what you mean, grandpa. I thought when I gave my coat to the
little hand-organ beggar that she would keep it and use it. I never
s'posed her father wouldn't let her have it, and now when he takes it
away from her she will be sorrier'n she would have been if she had never
had it."

"Yes, dear; and the money the old fellow gets from selling it will
undoubtedly be spent for drink, or something equally as bad for him.
Just out of curiosity, I traced the shoes you gave to the child on the
hill not long ago, and I found that she had not told you the truth at
all. She had no twin sister, nor did she even need the shoes herself."

"Is--is--there no one that really is hungry and cold and needs things?"
gulped the unhappy child after a long pause of serious thought.

"Oh, yes, my dear! Thousands and thousands of them," he sighed
sorrowfully; "and I am deeply thankful that my little girlie wants to
make the old world happier. But after all, dear, the greatest need of
this world of ours is love. It is not the _money_ we give away which
counts; it is the _love_ we have for other people. I remember well a
little couplet your great-grandmother was fond of quoting--and she
practiced it every day of her life, too,--

    'Give, if thou canst, an alms; if not, afford
    Instead of that, a sweet and gentle word.'

"She had little of this world's goods to give away, but she was one of
the greatest sunshine missionaries I ever knew. My, how every one loved
her. And her son, Hi, was just like her--one of the biggest-hearted,
most lovable people God ever created. He was certainly a power for good
during his life, but his only riches were a great love for his fellowmen
and his warm, sunny smile."

Again a deep silence fell over the room, for Peace, cuddled in the
strong man's arms, with the tears still glistening on the long, curved
lashes, was thinking as she had never thought before. Suddenly the
dinner bell pealed out its summons, and as the President stirred in his
chair, the child lifted her head from his shoulder, and looking squarely
into the strong, kindly face, she said simply, "I'm going to be like
them and you, so's folks will love me, too. And I'm not going to give
away any more coats or shoes without you say I can, until I am big
enough to grow some sense. I'm just going to smile and talk."

He did not laugh at her quaint phrasing of her intentions, but
tightening his clasp upon the small body nestling within the circle of
his arms, he quoted,

    "'Work a little, sing a little,
      Whistle and be gay;
    Read a little, play a little,
      Busy every day.
    Talk a little, laugh a little,
      Don't forget to pray;
    Be a bit of merry sunshine
      All the blessed way.'"

CHAPTER V

AN UNEXPECTED INVITATION

Having a naturally light-hearted, merry disposition, Peace did not find
it hard work to "smile and talk," but it was hard, very hard, to
restrain her generous impulses to give away everything she possessed to
those less fortunate than herself, and it soon became a familiar sight
to see her fly excitedly into the house straight to the study where the
busy President spent many hours each day, exclaiming breathlessly as she
ran, "Oh, grandpa, there is a little beggar at the door in perfect rags
and tatters! Just come and look if she doesn't need some clothes. And
she is so cold and pinched up with being empty. Gussie has fed her, but
can't I give her some things to wear? I've more than I need, truly!"

Then the good man with a patient sigh would leave his work to
investigate the case, spending many minutes of his precious time in
satisfying himself as to whether or not Peace's newly found beggar was
genuine and really in need of relief,--for this small maid's thirst for
discovering vagabonds seemed insatiable, and the string of tramps which
haunted the President's doorstep led poor Gussie a strenuous life for a
time. But relief came from an unexpected source at length.

Late one dull spring afternoon, as Gail sat with her chum, Frances
Sherrar, in the cosy window-seat of the reception-hall, studying the
next day's Latin lesson, a shadow fell across the page. Looking up in