"Here, Joyce," he cried, pitching a letter toward her. "It came in the last mail, and I forgot to give it to you when I came back from the post-office. Just thought of it," and off he went again.
"It is from the Little Colonel," said Joyce, in a pleased tone. "Don't you want to hear it?"
Grace, who had heard so much about the happenings at the house party that she almost felt as if she had been one of the guests, promptly settled herself to listen, and at Joyce's call, Mrs. Ware, who was still stitching beside the dining-room window, laid down her sewing, and came out to be part of the interested audience.
"Oh, goody! Betty has written, too," said Joyce, as she unfolded the closely written pages. "I've wondered so often what Lloyd would think of life at the Cuckoo's Nest, and if it would seem the same to Betty after her visit at Locust."
But there was nothing of the Little Colonel's experience, in either letter. Not a word about Aunt Jane's illness, or the game of barley-bright, or the trap-door accident. They had just come from listening to Molly's pitiful story, and both letters were full of it. The story-telling gift, that was to make Betty famous in after years, showed in the pathetic little tale she wrote Joyce, and so real did she make the scene that Joyce could scarcely keep a tremble out of her voice as she read it aloud.
"Wouldn't you love to see the picture that looks so much like Molly's little lost sister?" asked Mary, drawing a deep breath when the letter was done.
"Maybe we've got it at home," said Grace, eagerly. "We've taken the Harper's Weekly for years, and there is a pile of them in the attic. Some of them have been lost or torn up, but if I can find the picture I'll bring it over. What did Betty say is the date of that number?"
"THE PICTURE PASSED AROUND THE CIRCLE."
"December twenty-fifth, ninety-seven," said Joyce, referring to the letter.