CHAPTER XIX

THE WONDER-WINTER MELTS IN SPRING

How changed the house looked to Beth, now that it was settled that she was to leave it! Only a short half year ago it looked unfamiliar, its grandeurs frightened her. Now it seemed to her like home and the more than simple house of her former life came before her memory like something utterly strange and barren.

She went up the broad stairway between Natalie and Alys silently, slowly; all three girls were trying not to cry.

“I suppose her mortal life seemed queer to a changeling, too, when she first went back from fairy-land,” Beth said aloud, speaking out of her thoughts.

“We’ll see you after a while,” said Alys, as the three paused at Beth’s door. Her voice drooped downward through the short sentence and ended in melancholy.

“You wouldn’t have thought that Alys would have minded much,” said Beth to herself, as she closed the door of her room behind her.

The fire burned low on the hearth, just a stick or two, charred in the middle, but still in form on the ends, left of Frieda’s early fire which had brightened the room in the early morning. Even when her first glimpse of this perfect chamber had struck her mute with admiration on her arrival, it had never looked to Beth so utterly delightful as it did that moment when she saw it with farewell to it in her heart.

She crossed over and dropped down in her favorite low white willow rocker beside the hearth. She twisted around, laid her arms over its back, her face down on them and cried as hard, yet as relievingly as she could. A good thorough cry had to be gone through with, so it was well to get it over and done on the spot.

Frieda came in and found Beth thus. She stood terror-stricken, waiting an explanation when Beth could give it.

“Miss Beth, Miss Beth dear? Miss Beth, darling little Miss Beth?” she said questioningly.

“I’m going home, Frieda,” sobbed Beth, straightening herself and futilely rolling a perfectly wet ball of handkerchief around in first one, then the other eye. “I’ve had a letter from--from a neighbor at home, and she tells me my Aunt Rebecca is pining. She never would tell me herself, so I’m sure it’s true. Besides, Miss Tappan knows. Of course it would be dreadful to stay here--I mean at Cortmeer--having the loveliest time in the world, while poor Aunt Rebecca pined. Aunt Alida says so, too. So I’ve got to go--soon. I might have known a wonder-summer couldn’t come right after a wonder-winter.”

Frieda fetched a dry handkerchief from Beth’s drawer, practically expressing the sympathy no words could convey, nor was it an accident that she offered Beth now her favorite handkerchief.

“Miss Beth, dearest, it’s awful; that’s what it is. It’s awful for me, and Liebchen will be wild when she hears it. You’ve just crept right into everybody’s heart here, Miss Beth, and there won’t be a dry eye, from Tim in the stable to the smallest maid below stairs, when you start. But you’ll be back in the fall. They’ll never let you stay away. So try not to feel too bad. If you please, let me tell you that it’s fine and just like you to go because you think some one needs you.” Frieda smiled affectionately at Beth, with tears in her own eyes.

Beth arose slowly, feeling better. “That isn’t one bit finer than it is not to take some one’s silver spoons, Frieda,” she said. “It would be taking what didn’t belong to me if I took Cortmeer this summer and left Aunt Rebecca to pine--at her age, after bringing me up!”

Anna Mary, in the doorway, exchanged smiles with Frieda at this speech.

“So it would, Miss Beth; it’s right you are, but it’s something to be right!” she said. “I just stopped in one minyute, hearin’ the news and bein’ downright sorry to hear it. But I’m thinkin’ it may be better for you than you think, spendin’ this summer back where I fetched you from; a mixture won’t hurt you, little dear though you are! Your cousins are cryin’ in their room. Sure, you must all cheer up; summer does be swift passin’. Mrs. Cortlandt bade me say to you she would like you to be ready to go shoppin’ in half an hour. She is goin’ to get your summer wardrobe, Miss Beth, and there’s no better thing to dry female tears, be they from young or old eyes, than a pretty frock or two. It beats all the wisdom of the ancients and the consolation of friends.”

Beth laughed. Her sense of humor could not be dampened down long by crying.

“I don’t need a summer wardrobe at home, Anna Mary,” she said. “Some chambrays and a dimity for afternoons, and a real simple, fine white frock for best--that’s all you need there.”

“Well, Miss Beth,” said Anna Mary, “Mrs. Cortlandt is that sorry about losin’ you, and the disappointment and all, that I’m thinkin’ she’ll have to buy a good deal more than that for you to console herself.”

In the car, on the way to the shops, which were even more bewildering in their spring glories than when Beth had first seen them, Beth repeated to Aunt Alida her statement of the simplicity of her requirements in clothing for a summer in her old home.

Aunt Alida smiled at her. “I won’t be extravagant, Bethie; I’ll promise it! You must let me get you a third of what you would have had at Cortmeer and that third is longer than your list,” she said. “What about your little friend, Janie? Is she the sort of child--rather are her people the sort of people who would be displeased if you brought her a few pretty summer concoctions to wear, so that you and she would be dressed in the same way this summer?”

“Do you mean my little friend Janie, or my friend, Janie Little, Aunt Alida?” asked Beth with her merry twinkle returning. “The Littles are nice, Aunt Alida; they are not rich, but they are nice people, looked-up to, you know--about like us. Nobody is rich at home, but the Littles are among the nice people. They---- I don’t know. Nobody ever tried to give us dresses. Maybe Janie could have one--or two. I suppose jewelry is safer, but I’m sure I don’t know why.”

When this shopping expedition was over Aunt Alida had chosen two delicate white frocks of the finest material and designs for Beth to give Janie. For Beth herself there were half a dozen white frocks, ten chambrays, some delicate mulls and organdies in colors, a hat for best, a shade hat that Beth thought still prettier, low shoes in russets, browns and black; stockings, gloves, a parasol that awoke in Beth enthusiasm only just short of adoration, seeing which Aunt Alida added one like it, in another color, for Janie.

“Aunt Alida, you don’t know, you really don’t begin to know what Aunt Rebecca will say when she sees all these things for no one but just me! It won’t be what she says in words; it will be what she’ll say with her eyes and especially with her back; turning it, you know!” cried Beth. “And only think what there is in the house already that you’ve bought for me! Why, I’ll never dare take back all the trunks these things will need!”

“I do not intend you to, Bethie,” said Aunt Alida. “Your winter clothing will be put away in your wardrobes till you get back. That will be six months from now; in October, surely.”

Beth began to feel cheered. Anna Mary’s wisdom was profound; shopping, pretty clothes do work wonders in drying feminine tears!

It was impossible not to look forward to the long drive in the big touring car which Beth had never seen; it was resting for the winter. It was also impossible not to feel some interest in the yellow kitten which she had so long wanted and which Miss Tappan said was waiting for her. And, though she regretted Natalie, Alys and Dirk, still more the dear uncle who had given her her first actual knowledge of what a father would have been like, and the beautiful and adorable Aunt Alida, who was a combination of mother and goddess to the little girl, still Janie was dear, and of course she loved Aunt Rebecca, and it would be nice to see the dull little shops, the quiet streets of home once more. So, like a healthy, natural little girl, Beth began to see streaks of sunshine through her clouds; to enjoy amid her regret.

“I’m having the car made ready, Beth,” said Uncle Jim one night at dinner, ten days later. “I’ve been inquiring and I learn that the roads are pretty well settled on the route we shall travel, returning you. I have a directors’ meeting, which I can’t cut, on April twentieth. I must be back for that. What about the date for the trip, Alida? When shall we start for Massachusetts?”

“That’s for you to decide, Jim,” replied Aunt Alida. “I’ve not made any positive engagements, thinking you might go soon. The first of the week?”

“I had Tuesday in mind,” said Uncle Jim.

“Tuesday be it,” said Aunt Alida promptly. “We are all ready--at least we are all ready to get ready!”

“Now I know you’re really going!” cried Dirk, his reddened cheeks betraying how ill he liked the knowledge. “As long as there wasn’t a date, it didn’t seem true, but now--it does!”

“What shall we do to give you a good time before you go?” asked Natalie. “This is Friday--do you want the Tanagers and Bluebirds and a little spread on Monday, or a dance that night, or--what would you like to do, Beth?”

“I wouldn’t like to do one single thing with any one outside this house, except Miss Deland and Mr. Leonard,” said Beth. “I’d like to keep right close together, all of us, no one else, my last day.” Beth choked over these two final melancholy words.

“Let’s have a house party!” cried Alys inspired. “That means a party of the house, or it does this time. Let’s have ice-cream and cake in the music room, or the gym or somewhere and have a nice little send off of our own to-morrow afternoon. Shall we?”

“Have Beth’s Liebchen and Annunciata here, though; they’re so especially Beth’s, and let Tim come and have all the servants in, make it like the English story-books, when all the retainers drink the young heir’s health!” cried Natalie.

“Is that a go, mumsy?” asked Dirk.

“Isn’t it a sort of introduction to a go? To Beth’s going?” suggested Mrs. Cortlandt. “Surely I agree to the house party, if Beth likes it.”

“It will be very nice, if I don’t cry at it,” said Beth.

“Nobody cries when they’re going somewhere just for the summer, Beth, and that’s all the leave of absence from here we’ll give you,” said Uncle Jim.

It was a queer party which gathered in the music room to bid Beth a formal farewell. Tim, Liebchen, Annunciata were the only guests from outside the house, unless Miss Deland and Mr. Leonard were counted outsiders, but, as Dirk said, “they were inside so much it was about the same thing.”

For the rest, all Aunt Alida’s servants were asked to “drink Beth’s health in ice-cream juice, if it melts,” Alys said.

Tim arose and made a speech. “Miss Beth, you dear child,” he began, and the audience shouted: “Hear, hear!” endorsing this estimate of Beth before he could get farther. “It’s sorry we are to be seein’ the last of you, as the man said to the thrain he’d run himself purple to catch whin he saw it turnin’ the corner, beyant the station. Trump is startin’ this day week to go afther you an’ it’s envyin’ Trump we’ll all be whin he gets there, more by token that you’ll likely throw your two arrums around him an’ kiss him plenty, which is what no Shetland pony can appreciate fully. Take it all in all, Miss Beth, high an’ low in your uncle’s house, an’ more, maybe, in your uncle’s stable, have come to love the sweet face of you this winter, an’ it’s just walkin’ rolls of crêpe we’d be didn’t we know you’d be here again next season. So we wish you good luck, Miss Beth, darlin’, an’ I’m thinkin’ there’s no better way to end a farewell speech than to say Godspeed, which is all wan with God bless you!”

This speech, which Tim ended with a bow that would have done credit to a dancing master, was applauded to the echo.

“You have to reply, Bethie,” whispered Uncle Jim, pulling Beth to her feet with a whirl. She laughed, but looked frightened, although all the faces before her were familiar ones, which smiled at her with affectionate looks.

They saw a round-faced little girl, crimson with embarrassment, dark blue eyes dilated and excited, smiling, tremulous lips, fair hair flowing around her shoulders, snowy white floating frock making her look especially innocent and childish. It came to one or two present, notably to Aunt Alida and Anna Mary, that this child had come into her uncle’s household for more than her own sake and to spend a “wonder-winter” in the enjoyment of all that great wealth can give.

She was a simple little girl, wholly unconscious and modest, but there was in her a quality, a nobility of mind and heart, which made those who loved Beth feel that it held the promise, the assurance of a future of important achievement.

“I can’t make a speech; Tim’s speech was lovely,” said Beth in a little voice and they all applauded, choosing to consider this the opening of a speech. So Beth found herself launched, which was Uncle Jim’s intention when he led the applause.

“I’ve had the nicest winter ever was,” Beth went on. “It’s been just like a fairy story. It’s gone right on from glory to glory. I’ve had a wonder-winter, in Wonderland. I’m fearfully, fearfully sorry I’ve got to go, but Aunt Alida and Uncle Jim are going to ask me again, they say, so maybe I’ll come back--if my great-aunt Rebecca can get along. Everybody has been so good to me, everybody! I’m--I’m just as obliged as I can be. I hope everybody will keep well this summer and be here, if I do come back. And--and--I’m really ever so much obliged.”

Beth broke down a little at the end of this first attempt at public speaking. The applause, as newspapers say, reporting political meetings, “was tremendous.”

Then every one in the room came up to Beth and made her a little gift; every one, even to the cook, a forbidding man whom Beth did not know and the woman who helped him, whom she had never seen before. Stories of Beth’s sweetness, her friendliness, her desire to make every one around her happy had stolen to the unknown parts of the house and to those who presided there, and all were sorry that the dear little girl was going away.

Riggs was the greatest surprise of all. His solemnity seemed like a case, through which nothing could penetrate. It was a pleasant shock to discover that Beth had broken through this armor of respectability and won affection from the butler. Riggs came with his farewell offering to Beth and presented it with a smile and real feeling.

“Hit’s a bit of ’awthorn from Stratford-on-Avon, miss,” Riggs said. “Hi thought you’d like something from Shakespeare’s ’ome. Hi’ve ’eard you talkin’ hinterested hand hinterestingly hon readin’. Hi made bold to send hover to a member hof my hown family, ’oo keeps an hinn near Stratford-on-Avon, for this bit of ’awthorn. Haccept hit, Miss Beth, hif you please, hin token hof my hadmiration hand respect.”

Mr. Leonard gave Beth a tiny packet. “We’re like minded, Riggs and I; thought you’d like something with venerable associations, Beth! That’s a piece of the British man-of-war, _Somerset_. The ship Paul Revere rowed under ‘with muffled oar’ when he was making for the Charlestown shore to arouse the Lexington men. The _Somerset_ went to pieces on the Cape Cod shore a few years later and was uncovered long afterward. This little piece of black English oak was part of her. I thought you’d like it.”

Beth lightly touched the dried hawthorn leaves, the square of oak, blackened by time. Her imagination was fired by the contact of her pink-tipped, twentieth century fingers with these objects which had been near such great deeds, such reverend associations. She could hardly bring herself back to thank Mr. Leonard and Riggs.

“We’ll meet again, little Beth,” said Mr. Leonard. “If I did not know that I should not know how to say good-bye.”

“You saved Dirk’s life,” said Beth. “But I was fond of you before.”

Which was a satisfactory good-bye, as Mr. Leonard’s eyes betrayed.

Annunciata’s offering to Beth, made with tempestuous sobs, for Annunciata never felt anything by halves, was a pretty and gay striped apron, such as Italian peasants wear.

“It’s for curiousa-tee,” explained Annunciata, between gasps. “And for to remember your poor Nunciata, who will died, die, dead without to see you, loveliest!”

“Now, Beth, this is the most serious case of all!” whispered Natalie. “It’s dreadful to kill the child in so many ways.”

Liebchen was quiet; she did not even cry, but she looked tragic as she bade Beth good-bye and presented her with wristlets of her own knitting.

“I’ll walk where you go, if you don’t come back,” she said. “You got me cured to walk, and I’ll walk there, but I’ll see you again.”

Beth found this touching. She promised Liebchen faithfully that she would return. She then made “her international relations peaceful,” as Uncle Jim said, by putting on the gay contadina’s apron and the wristlets, in spite of the delicacy of her white frock. Beth served her guests with cream and cake, Natalie played and so did Aunt Alida, and everybody sang.

When Mr. Cortlandt insisted upon it, Tim danced his Irish breakdown with the greatest humor and flexibility, ending with a toss in the air of an imaginary cap and a shout of “Erin go bragh” that sent Dirk into ecstasy.

That night Aunt Alida and Uncle Jim had no engagement, for the household was to rise at the unusual hour of half-past six, for the travelers to be off before nine.

Frieda dressed Beth for the last time, at least for a good while. It was a sober and dewy face that looked back at Beth from the glass, as she sat before it, having her hair braided tight for the drive, and behind her chair Frieda bent over her, braiding and dropping tears on the fair hair.

Beth did not speak, neither did Frieda. Both understood that the little lady and her maid were too saddened by parting to speak of it.

When her toilet was made, hair tucked away under the dearest little automobile bonnet that could be devised for such a face as Beth’s, a close little affair of white straw with a flat blue bow on its top and small pink rosebuds all around the inside of the edge, Frieda put on Beth a long coat of blue, gauntlet gloves, a white veil that was sure to flow out gracefully into everybody else’s face.

Then Beth stood in the middle of her beloved room and let her eyes travel from one object to another in it, taking detailed farewell of its perfections. Such a beautiful room, so homelike, yet so elegant! And she was giving it up! Beth choked, but remembered that Aunt Rebecca was pining. She turned to Frieda and threw her arms around her vehemently.

“Good-bye, good-bye, you dear, nice Frieda! I’m sorry if I ever bothered you. You’ve been so nice I’ve even liked having a maid, though I’d never have believed I could have borne it. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye, my darling little Miss Beth,” sobbed Frieda. “You’ve never been anything like a bother to me; just a pleasure to wait on you, it is. Come back, and don’t let any one else be your maid when you come.”

“Oh, mercy me, no!” cried Beth, hurrying away before she should feel that she could not go from her room and Frieda.

At the door stood the great touring car which Beth had never seen before. It was painted a dark mulberry color, to correspond with the Cortlandt livery. Léon Charette was in his place, ready to start. Beside him sat the footman who accompanied the coachmen when the horses were used, both in their mulberry coats, looking exceedingly correct. Anna Mary was still stowing away luggage and luncheon hampers in their places in the car. Alys made Beth get into it with her to be shown the thermos bottles, the mirror, the toilet case, all the appointments of this truly magnificent car.

“I thought all the stunning me was done,” said Beth. “But this car is just as wonderful as the house.”

She jumped out and ran back, for there was Miss Deland, smiling, with a book in her hand. “I ordered this for you, but it had not come yesterday, little Beth,” she said.

Beth looked at it; it was a beautiful copy of old Mallory’s “Morte d’Arthur.”

“Because you are such a little bundle of olden time romance,” smiled Miss Deland. “Good-bye, little pupil, and don’t forget to love the teacher that never had a chance to teach you much; you’ve been such a butterfly in New York this winter!”

Aunt Alida wore brown; her long coat, close bonnet and veil and gloves were almost one in color with her dark eyes and hair.

Natalie wore invisible green, Alys a lighter shade, Dirk looked almost professional in Norfolk tweeds and goggles, a small but close imitation of his handsome father. Anna Mary was to be taken; she looked just as she had when she had come for Beth, a long, severe shiny figure in black.

Mrs. Cortlandt and the three girls were to sit in the back; Mr. Cortlandt, Dirk and Anna Mary were occupants of the middle seats.

Léon started the car; it obeyed readily, and slowly rolled away. Beth looked back. There were dear Mrs. Hodgman, who had cried when she kissed Beth good-bye and said: “Good-bye, little sunshine!” And there were Frieda, Miss Deland--and the house. Beth waved to them all, equally, and was gone!

It was a long drive to the small town where Aunt Rebecca lived, but Mr. Cortlandt was to take it easily. Beth found it thrilling to say: “Now we are in New York State.” “Now we have crossed the Connecticut line.” It seemed a great thing to her to be an interstate traveler!

The party stopped for the night at a good hotel and Beth keenly enjoyed the novelty. Never before had she been a guest in a hotel; she had a sense of rapidly becoming a citizen of the great world.

In the morning they took their places in the car again and rolled on, through country so beautiful that Beth could not contain herself.

“New England is lovely, isn’t it, Uncle Jim?” she said proudly. “‘Land of the Pilgrims’ pride,’ you know. I’m proud of it, too. I can’t help being glad I was born here.”

“I’m truly thankful that you were born somewhere, Bethikins,” returned Uncle Jim. “It’s a fine old state, your Bay State. But ‘breathes there a man with soul so dead,’ you know, Bethie! You don’t?” he added, as Beth shook her head. “‘Who never to himself hath said: This is my own, my native land,’ is the rest of the quotation--Scott. And that applies to a little girl. There’s a flavor in the air we first breathed that we ‘may search through the wide world is ne’er met with elsewhere.’ I seem to be dropping into poetry like Silas Wegg! I’d better stop talking.”

Beth chattered all the way, until they drew near to their destination. Then she became quiet and, as the approach to her town began to take on familiar aspects, to grow pale and tremulous. Her hand sought Aunt Alida’s, who held it fast. It surprised herself to find how much she wished to hold it fast, permanently: never to let little Beth slip away from her.

It was a perfect April afternoon, warm, with openings in the warmth of spring coolness; curious little draughts of cool air, followed by warm ones as they skirted woodlands. The sun lay on the earth with a warmth that was a summons to all the flowers. Beth knew that in a day or two she and Janie would gather violets in the south field, back of Janie’s house.

The car rolled into the town, more properly a village, with its easy motion that had been so steady and restful all through the journey. It attracted attention; it was a more magnificent car than usually came that way and it was one of the first to come that season. Beth sat up straight, leaning forward; by this time her left hand had sought Natalie’s, as her right had sought her aunt’s, and she was holding fast to them both, with a nervous clutch that betrayed her excitement.

They passed people whom Beth knew, but they did not recognize her. Miss Tappan had kept the secret of her coming, so no one looked to see little Beth Bristead in the great tonneau, behind the impressive mulberry backs of the chauffeur and footman. Beth felt unreasonably disappointed. It seemed dreadful to have Mrs. Damon, who sold them butter, and Mr. Ranney, who might be called Aunt Rebecca’s lifelong grocer, go by without a smile for the child who had so often been sent to them on errands.

At last, guided by Beth, the car turned into a shady street, with houses on either side somewhat withdrawn from it. It stopped at a brown house with a low gateway. The footman jumped down and opened the door of the tonneau.

“I think you’d better go in alone, dear,” said Aunt Alida. “Your great-aunt will be so surprised it is better for her to see you before we meet her.”

But precaution was too late. Aunt Rebecca came out on the piazza, seeing the car at her gate. Beth sprang out of the tonneau at the sight of her, forgetting everything but that this was coming home again and that was Aunt Rebecca, Aunt Rebecca, looking pale and considerably older, just as Miss Tappan had said.

“Aunt Rebecca, I’m here!” cried Beth, running up the walk.

Aunt Rebecca’s hand went to her side. Then she descended a step and caught Beth to her in an embrace such as Beth had never before in all her life received from her.

“Beth, Beth, little Beth,” she said; nothing more. But instantly Beth’s regrets at returning vanished completely. Aunt Rebecca surely loved her and wanted her; she must have been “pining” to speak, to clutch Beth like this.

Miss Bristead was not the sort of person to allow emotion to master her. In an instant she had regained her self-control and went down to her gate to meet Mrs. Cortlandt and her husband and to urge them to come in.

“We are going on to-night, Miss Bristead, thank you,” said Aunt Alida. “Mr. Cortlandt has an important engagement that will force us to hasten back. We have returned Beth to you. It is with unspeakable reluctance. We want her dreadfully this summer, Miss Bristead! I think it right to tell you that we have begged Beth to stay with us, but all in vain. She has been resolutely determined to go to you. We are sorry enough, but--here she is!”

Miss Bristead smiled. “I think I need her more than you do, with these three fine children,” she said.

Beth recognized in Aunt Rebecca a changed manner, a softening. Once she would not have complimented the young Cortlandts.

“Aren’t you going to come in, Aunt Alida?” cried Beth aghast.

“No, dear. It is better that we go immediately,” said Aunt Alida. She was wise enough to know that parting would thus be easier to Beth.

“Get in again, chicken, and kiss me as hard as you can, to make up for all the days that must pass before you kiss me again,” her uncle ordered her.

Beth got in. For a few moments she was hugged breathless by first one then another of her Cortlandt relatives, and then they began all over again. Even Anna Mary kissed her over and over, and blessed her fervently.

Then Uncle Jim got out and lifted Beth bodily from the car. He looked at Miss Bristead and smiled, then put Beth’s hands in hers, in token of his renunciation of her for a while. Then the great car moved, turned, slowly started away, amid shouts of farewell and a sob or two from Natalie and Alys. It went down the quiet street, increasing its speed and, turning the corner, was lost to sight.

Beth turned to the house, knowing that she must do something to keep from crying. She did not wish to let Aunt Rebecca feel that she regretted being at home again.

“You made a sacrifice for me, child; they are much more charming, high-bred people than I expected to see. They are very nice indeed, for New Yorkers. They could have given you a great deal we lack here, Beth. I appreciate your coming, but--I needed you!”

“I’m truly glad I came, Aunt Rebecca,” said Beth with perfect truth.

Together they went into the house. It looked bare, queer. The china ornaments on the mantelpiece, the clock with Time and his scythe, once so familiar, had become not only strange to Beth, but grotesque. Nothing seemed real; neither the life she had been living, nor this old life she had lived before.

Ella Lowndes, who had been watching the arrival behind a drawn curtain, came to meet and hug Beth. Tabby came, too, her tail erect, her whole air revealing pride in the yellow kitten that gamboled behind her, trying to reach her proud tail.

In a little while Janie came running, breathless, wild with joy. News travels fast in places like Aunt Rebecca’s village. Janie had heard that Beth Bristead was back. The little girls hugged each other in a transport of joy in meeting. However dear and beautiful Natalie was, Janie was Beth’s lifelong chum; there really could be but one Janie! Beth was so glad to see her that it made her forget the red table-cloth which had been distressing her in a vague way. Later Beth and Janie sat on the upper step in the April sunset, their arms around each other, their heads leaned lovingly close.

“Tell me all about everything,” Janie ordered Beth.

“Not to-night; I can’t. It seems so queer to be here, yet it doesn’t seem as if New York was true, one bit. I feel as though I had been dreaming,” Beth said.

“Beth, I don’t see how you ever, ever came back!” whispered Janie. “Lydia Tappan told mama to-day that she had written you; that was after we heard you had come, though.”

“I had to come. You see this ring? That shows I’m not dreaming. A prince gave me that.” She nodded hard, in response to Janie’s amazed stare.

“Truly; a real prince! It’s for an Order. Natalie, Alys, Dirk and I belong. It’s the Order of the Strong Hearted. When we have to choose something, we’re vowed to choose what’s right, not what we want--unless we happen to want the right. I had to choose to come back. But, oh, Janie, I’m awfully, dreadfully glad to see you!”

“Well, I guess I am!” echoed Janie. They hugged each other all over again.

“Sitting here like Java sparrows?” said Aunt Rebecca coming out. “Put this shawl around you. I guess it’ll cover you both, sitting so close! I declare, it doesn’t seem as though it could be you, Beth! Your wonder-winter is over, as you called it. But I guess I could quote Shakespeare if I had a mind to: ‘Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by the son of York.’ Only it’s a little daughter! Are you really home again, Beth?”

“Yes, Aunt Rebecca, I’m home again! I’m so glad you’re glad I came! You _are_ glad, aren’t you, Aunt Rebecca?” asked Beth.

“Yes, Beth, I’m glad,” said Aunt Rebecca. “I like to have you around.”

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The Girls’ Dollar Book Shelf

_The object of this series is to give a high grade, attractive and interesting series of books for girls on up-to-date subjects and at a popular price_

_Each volume $1.00 net, postpaid $1.12_

_By Amy E. Blanchard_

_Elizabeth, Betsy and Bess_

Miss Blanchard needs no introduction to girls. Her stories have been read for years and Elizabeth, Betsy and Bess are just such characters as every girl enjoys reading about. 284 pages

_Elizabeth, Betsy and Bess--Schoolmates_

This is the story of the school days of the three girl chums and shows the individual development of each one. Every chapter is full of the interesting experiences dear to the hearts of girls of this age. 336 pages

_By Grace Blanchard_

_Phillida’s Glad Year_

As the librarian of one of our largest libraries, Miss Grace Blanchard knows what girls like and in this new volume readers will find some of the faces with which they were familiar in “Phil’s Happy Girlhood.” It is full of interest from beginning to end and will appeal to every girl. 340 pages

* * * * *

_By Jean M. Thompson_, Author of “Water Wonders”

_Three Bears of Porcupine Ridge. Wild Dwellers of Forest, Marsh and Lake_

A splendid animal book, beautifully illustrated and interesting from cover to cover. The reputation of the author as a writer of animal stories alone is proof of the value of this volume. 320 pages

_Trapped on Eagle Ledge. Wild Kindred of Fur, Feather and Fin_

This is the continuation of the author’s interesting animal and nature stories collected in THREE BEARS OF PORCUPINE RIDGE. 330 pages

_Price, Cloth, $1.25 net each_

Transcriber’s Note:

Punctuation has been standardised. Dialect in direct speech has been retained. Changes to the original publication have been made as follows:

Page 132 lot of valuble strength _changed to_ lot of valuable strength

Page 268 patés also lace-trimmed _changed to_ pâtés also lace-trimmed

Page 319 Ponce de Leon named it that _changed to_ Ponce de Léon named it that

Page 323 Your true friend, _changed to_ “‘Your true friend,