The third floor suddenly became to Jan quite as familiar as the second, which Gwen had informed her on her arrival was disrespectfully dubbed by Sydney “the hennery.” Her first visit daily on her return from school and numerous ones from that time until she went to bed were made to poor little yellow Drom, her and Sydney’s interesting patient. “Patient” the little dog certainly was in both senses. It is doubtful if either of the other denizens of that floor of the house would have borne affliction so sweetly, and as a reward for the meekness which submitted to bandages and splints with only grateful kisses for the hands which reluctantly hurt, and for lying motionless through the long hours, the broken leg set fast and the obtruding ribs disappeared under flesh.
More than Drom’s broken bones were knitted during those days. Sydney never fell back into his disregard of “Miss Lochinvar,” and, united in their nursing and pride in their patient’s progress, the cousins became real friends.
At times there were glimpses of something in Sydney which Jan did not understand, but which vaguely troubled her, but it was never coolness toward her. On the contrary, she could not help fancying that the taciturn boy was glad of the affection she gave him, and found girlish sympathy very acceptable. In her loyal little heart Jan resolved never to rest until she had brought Gwen into this pleasant comradeship, feeling quite sure that Sydney would enjoy his clever, big-hearted sister as much as she would enjoy him, if only they might make each other’s acquaintance.
In the meantime a wonderful thing happened. Sydney asked Jan to play with him in the tennis tournament, and “Miss Lochinvar” was not less frightened than elated over the honor.
Syd had taken her out to the courts to practise, and was delighted with her swift underhand serve as much as with her sure returns and expert volleying, in which she seemed to be all over the court at the same time. It proved to be a “court” in another sense to the pretty girl, for she instantly became a prime favorite with the players, not only with the boys, who pronounced her “great,” but with the girls. These were not pupils of “the Hydra,” but another set and kind. Jan found them pleasanter, as a whole. They were frank, jolly, natural young creatures, such as the boys would be likely to choose to play with them when the choice was left them. They all declared that they had not a ghost of a chance playing against Jan, and the boys announced that “Graham had a cinch, with that cousin of his to back him.” But though the boyish slang made her feel more at home than she had since leaving her brothers, it could not set Jan’s mind at rest. She found herself starting up out of her sleep at imaginary calls of “Play!” and once served a dream ball with such a thump of her hand against the nursery wall that Jerry awoke screaming, and Hummie hastened in, feeling sure nothing less than fire was the matter.
There was not much time for practise. Sydney laughed at Jan for wishing they had longer to get used to each other’s methods, but could not help realizing that victory would have been more assured if they had played together more. It would never do, however, to let Jan lose confidence. At the best, Sydney had little faith in “girls’ nerve.”
On the day before the games, which were to be held on the first Tuesday after Thanksgiving, Jan played so badly that Sydney was seriously alarmed. She seemed nothing but a bundle of nervousness, serving weakly or else beyond the bounds, receiving uncertainly, and acquitting herself generally as badly as possible. Jan came home profoundly cast down.
“Don’t be discouraged, Syd,” she said, though she needed cheering more than her partner. “You know I can play a decent game, and I often go to pieces beforehand, but pull together again when the time comes. Maybe I’ll be all right to-morrow.”
“Of course. I know how that is,” said Sydney lightly. “You’re all right, and I wish I was as sure of everything I wanted as I am of winning to-morrow. You had your funk out to-day. To-morrow you’ll be right on deck when the umpire calls time.”
Jan went slowly up-stairs, hoping this was to prove true. Her spirits rose considerably at the sight that met her eyes when she opened her chamber door. There on the bed lay a tennis dress of which any one might be proud. It was beautiful broadcloth, rich, warm red in color, with tiny bands of black fur around the short skirt and perfectly defining the fine lines of the short jacket which surmounted the delicate tucked white-silk shirt-waist. But most bewitching of all was the cap of the crimson cloth, with its outlining of black fur and its single black quill bidding defiance to the world in its saucy setting on the left side. Jan promptly donned the cap, admiring the effect in her glass, which told her that she had never worn anything so becoming, and resolving to do or die, to live up to her costume. She would not be one of those girls whom the Crescendo boys despised, whose skill in tennis consisted solely in selecting a gorgeous sash and knotting it gracefully. They had had an axiom at home that the better the sash the worse the playing.