FOUR GIRLS OF FORTY
YEARS AGO

BOOKS BY NINA RHOADES

MARION’S VACATION. Illustrated. Cloth. $1.75
DOROTHY BROWN. Illustrated. Cloth. $1.75
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THE GIRL FROM ARIZONA. Illustrated. $1.75
THE INDEPENDENCE OF NAN. Illustrated. $1.75

FOR YOUNGER READERS

“The Brick House Books”

The sight of the brick house on the cover makes girl
readers happy at once.—Indianapolis News.

Illustrated. Large 12mo. Cloth. $1.50 each.

ONLY DOLLIE
THE LITTLE GIRL NEXT DOOR
WINIFRED’S NEIGHBORS
THE CHILDREN ON THE TOP FLOOR
HOW BARBARA KEPT HER PROMISE
LITTLE MISS ROSAMOND
PRISCILLA OF THE DOLL SHOP
BRAVE LITTLE PEGGY
THE OTHER SYLVIA
MAISIE’S MERRY CHRISTMAS
LITTLE QUEEN ESTHER
MAKING MARY LIZZIE HAPPY
A REAL CINDERELLA
NORA’S TWIN SISTER
FOUR GIRLS OF FORTY YEARS AGO

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
BOSTON

“I think you are the most wonderful person I ever heard of,” declared Dulcie.—Page [87].

Four Girls of Forty
Years Ago

BY
NINA RHOADES

ILLUSTRATED BY
ELEANOR R. WEEDEN

BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

Published, August, 1920
Copyright, 1920,
By Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.

All Rights Reserved

Four Girls of Forty Years Ago
Norwood Press
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
Norwood, Mass.
U. S. A.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

Four Girls of Forty Years Ago

CHAPTER I
THE FOUR LITTLE WINSLOWS

THEY all lived in the big front room on the top floor of Grandpa Winslow’s old-fashioned house near Washington Square. They had lived there for so long that Molly and Maud—who were only nine and seven—could not remember ever having lived anywhere else. But Dulcie—who was nearly twelve—and Daisy—who was ten and a half—had dim memories of a very different home—a home that was always bright and happy, and in which the grim figures of Grandma Winslow and her daughter, Aunt Kate, played no part.

It was more than five years since their father had brought his four little motherless girls from the Western town where they were born, to the stately, gloomy old house near Washington Square. It had seemed to Mr. Winslow the wisest thing to do, for he was young and inexperienced, and the death of his pretty young wife had almost broken his heart. With the exception of his father, who was very old and infirm, and his stepmother, whom he had never loved very much, he had no near relatives, and so when his father had written in his trembling old hand, offering a home to him and his four little girls, he had accepted the offer, and they had left the Western home, where they had been so happy, and taken the long journey to New York, accompanied by Lizzie, the faithful servant, who had formerly been maid-of-all-work, but now acted as the children’s nurse.

That was five years ago, and many things had happened since then. In the first place, their father had been in China for more than a year. Young Jim Winslow, as every one called him, had not found it easy to make a living in New York, and he had ended by accepting the offer of a friend in China, who promised him a good position in his business. And one sad day, he had kissed his little girls good-bye and gone away. How they had all cried, for though Papa tried to be very cheerful, they felt quite sure that this going away was different from any other.

“When Papa went to The Centennial in Philadelphia, he only stayed away a week,” Daisy had reminded them, with a great effort to be cheerful, “and he brought us all home something. I suppose China is a great deal farther away than Philadelphia.”

“Of course it is,” said Dulcie, with difficulty suppressing a sob; “it’s away the other side of the world. But he says we must all be good till he comes back, so we’ll have to try very hard.”

“We’ve got Lizzie, anyhow,” chimed in Molly. “She won’t ever go away; she promised Papa she wouldn’t leave us till he came back.”

That was a comforting thought, and as Lizzie had come into the nursery at that moment, they had all run to her, and she soon had Molly and Maud in her lap, while Dulcie and Daisy sat on the arms of her chair, for next to their father, they all loved Lizzie better than any one in the world.

But alas! When Lizzie had promised not to leave the children, she had not counted on her temper. She loved the little girls dearly, but she had never learned to control her quick temper, and in less than a month from the day of Mr. Winslow’s departure, she had been dismissed by Grandma for having used what that lady called “outrageously impertinent language.” That was a dreadful day for the children, even more dreadful than the one on which their father left for China. Their father had occasionally left them for a short time before, but never, never since their mother’s death, had Lizzie been absent for a single night.

“Who’ll put us to bed?” wailed Maud, “and give us our baths, and hear us say our prayers? Oh! oh! I want to go away with Lizzie. I don’t want to stay here any more—I don’t, I don’t!”

“Hush, Maudie, don’t cry so,” soothed Dulcie, who was crying herself. “I’ll hear your prayers. I’m ’most twelve, so I guess it will be all right, and Daisy and I can take our own baths, so I guess we can teach you and Molly to do it, too. But, oh, Lizzie, Lizzie, I do want you so much!” And poor Dulcie broke down utterly, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

The next important event was Grandpa’s death. This, though sad, was not the heart-break to the children that Lizzie’s departure had been. Grandpa was very feeble, and for several years had taken small notice of them, except to nod and smile kindly at them, when they came into his room, and ask them their names, which he never seemed able to remember from one day to another. Lizzie had once told them that Grandpa was losing his mind, and that they must always be very kind and polite to him, and they had looked upon the old gentleman with a kind of awe, which had been greatly increased when, one morning, Mary, the chambermaid, had come into the nursery to tell them in a whisper that “their dear grandpa” had died suddenly during the night.

But all these things had happened nearly a year before the rainy January afternoon on which this story begins. It had been a very stormy day, and as Miss Hammond, the prim daily governess, who came for three hours every morning, was laid up with a bad cold, there had not even been lessons to break the monotony, and time had hung rather heavily on the children’s hands. Even the usual diversion of luncheon with their elders had been denied them, for Aunt Kate had given a luncheon party, and, according to the Winslow code, little girls were expected to keep out of the way on all such occasions. So Mary had brought them each a bowl of bread and milk, that being less trouble than anything else, and although bread and milk is nourishing, it is not what Dulcie called “exciting,” and by four o’clock they were all feeling decidedly bored, and more than a little hungry.

Dulcie had read till her eyes ached; Daisy had completed a whole spring outfit for Maud’s doll, and Molly and Maud had played so many games of lotto that Molly declared crossly she was sure she could play lotto in her sleep.

“If only it didn’t pour so, I’d go round to the library for another book,” remarked Dulcie, with a yawn.

Dulcie cared more about reading than about almost anything else in the world. She read everything she could lay her hands on, and when her father went away to China, he had given her a ticket to the circulating library, which was only three blocks away.

“I wish things happened to real people the way they do to people in books,” said Molly. “If we were in a book, something interesting would be sure to happen to us this afternoon. We’ve been in the house all day, and only had bread and milk for lunch.”

“Something rather interesting is going to happen now,” said Daisy, who had been looking out of the window for the past five minutes. “The Van Arsdales across the street are going to have a party. There’s an awning, and the ice-cream wagon has just stopped there. We can watch the carriages come, and if they happen to leave one of the parlor shades up, the way they did that other time, we can see them dance.”

Mollie and Maud looked interested, but Dulcie sighed.

“I don’t see much fun in watching a party you can’t go to yourself,” she said, discontentedly. “If Grandma would only let us know some of the neighbors, we might be invited to places sometimes. I wonder how it would feel to have a party.”

“I don’t think I should like it much,” said Daisy. “Things might go wrong, and that would be so embarrassing. You remember the time those Leroy children came to see us, and Grandma called out we were making too much noise. I think I’d rather go to other people’s parties, especially while we have to live with Grandma and Aunt Kate.”

Dulcie sighed again.

“If only Papa would come home,” she said. “Things weren’t half so bad when he was here.”

“He is coming home next year,” put in Daisy, cheerfully. Daisy always looked on the bright side of things. “You know what he said in his last letter, about our all having a nice little home together. Perhaps Lizzie will come back then, too. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

“Mary told the butcher-man that Lizzie is going to be married,” announced Maud. “I heard her yesterday when I was in the kitchen, playing with the kitty.”

“I don’t believe it,” declared Molly, indignantly. “Lizzie never told Mary things; she said she was an old gossip.”

“Well, Mary said it, anyhow,” persisted Maud. “She told the butcher-man, and he said——”

“Oh, children, don’t argue,” interrupted peace-loving Daisy. “Come here and watch for the party. I guess the carriages will begin to come pretty soon.”

“They had ice-cream for lunch down-stairs,” exclaimed Molly, with a sudden recollection. “I wonder if there’s any left!”

“If there were we wouldn’t get any,” said Dulcie. “Mary and Bridget would be sure to eat it all up.”

“If Grandma were like a grandmother in a book, she’d see that we had ice-cream, and lots of other nice things,” remarked Molly, reflectively. “Book grandmothers are always so nice. I wonder why real ones aren’t?”

“I guess real ones are, too,” said Daisy. “That’s just the trouble with us. Grandma isn’t our real grandmother; she’s only a step, and steps are never any good. Even Aunt Kate isn’t our real aunt, because Grandpa was only her stepfather.”

“Steps are pretty bad,” remarked Dulcie, “but the worst of all is a stepmother, and, thank goodness, we haven’t got that. If I thought we were ever going to have a stepmother, I’d—I’d do something awful.”

“What would you do?” inquired Molly, eagerly.

“I don’t know, I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I’ve often thought about it. I’m sure it won’t happen, though; Papa is much too kind to do anything so dreadful, but if it did, well—don’t let’s talk about it.” Dulcie’s dark little face had grown suddenly very stern and determined, and her sisters regarded her with something like awe. Although only a little more than a year older than Daisy, Dulcie had always been looked up to by the younger children as a superior being. In the first place, she was the only one of them who could remember Mamma, and then she was so very clever. Dulcie always knew her lessons, and moreover, she really liked to study. Even Miss Hammond, strictest of teachers, never had any complaints to make against Dulcie; and Daisy had once overheard Aunt Kate telling a visitor that “the eldest child was really remarkably bright, and took after her dear grandfather.” Now, the children all knew that Grandpa Winslow had been a great man in his day, and to hear that one of them was supposed to resemble him was a most wonderful compliment, especially from Aunt Kate, who seldom said pleasant things about any one. So perhaps Dulcie may be pardoned for being a trifle conceited, and conscious of her own importance.

“Here comes the first carriage,” announced Daisy, from her post at the window.

All the others hurried to get a glimpse of the first arrivals at the party. The carriage door was opened by a man in livery, and several figures were hustled up the Van Arsdales’ front steps, under the awning. Another and another carriage followed, and the next ten minutes were—according to Daisy—“really quite exciting.” But watching the arrival of guests at a party to which one has not been invited, is not, after all, a very thrilling amusement, and by the time the sixth carriage had deposited its freight, and rolled away, even Daisy’s enthusiasm had begun to cool.

“How hard it rains,” said Molly, flattening her nose against the window-pane. “I wonder if the stolen child is out in all this storm.”

“Of course she is,” said Dulcie in a tone of conviction. “She’s been out all day with her basket, and she’s wet through and so cold and hungry. But her basket isn’t full yet, and she doesn’t dare go home, for fear that dreadful woman will beat her.”

Dulcie gave a little shiver, and glanced from the window back to the warm, comfortable room.

“It’s terribly sad,” said Daisy, with a sigh. “I do wish we could help her find her family. If we could only get acquainted with her, we might be able to find out how she was stolen. They always remember something, you know, even if it’s happened when they were very little.”

“Let’s make up some more about her,” said Molly. “Come and sit close to the register, it’s so nice and warm. It’s nicer to talk about things like that when you’re very comfortable.”

“All right,” agreed Dulcie, and they all four gathered round the register, where the hot air from the furnace puffed in their faces.

“You begin, Dulcie,” commanded Daisy. “You make up so much better than we do. Tell what’s going to happen when she gets home to-night.”

“Well,” began Dulcie, her eyes growing big and dreamy, as they always did when she “made up things.” “It will be quite dark before she dares to go home, and she will be so tired that she can hardly drag herself up the long flight of stairs, to that dirty garret. There won’t be any fire because the wicked old woman will be drunk again. She’ll be asleep on a pile of rags, snoring very loud, and the stolen child will be afraid to wake her. So she’ll put down her basket, and creep away into a corner, and sit there shivering, and trying to keep her teeth from chattering. But by and by she’ll remember the little prayer her mother taught her, and after that she won’t be quite so unhappy, and—— Why, Maud, what is the matter—whatever are you crying about?”

“I—I don’t like it,” sobbed Maud, the tender-hearted, flinging herself upon Dulcie’s lap. “I don’t want the poor little girl to be so cold and hungry.” And the sobs changed to a wail.

“Oh, hush, lovey, don’t cry like that,” pleaded Daisy, soothing and petting her little sister, while Dulcie added in hasty explanation:

“Don’t be such a baby, Maud. It’s only a story I’m making up. We don’t really know anything about the little girl at all.”

“But you said—you said she was so cold and so hungry,” wailed Maud, “and I don’t like to hear about people being cold and hungry.”

“Oh, Maud, do stop,” protested Molly. “If you cry so loud, Grandma will hear, and think how she’ll scold.”

But Maud’s feelings were not so easily soothed, and she continued to sob, and to declare over and over again that she didn’t like sad stories—she didn’t want to hear about the stolen child—until the other three were at their wits’ end.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Maud,” exclaimed Daisy, with a sudden inspiration. “If you’ll stop crying, I’ll go down to the kitchen and see if there isn’t some ice-cream left. If there is, I’ll coax Bridget to let me have some, and you shall eat every bit of it, because you’re the youngest.”

Maud stopped short in the middle of a wail.

“Will you really?” she inquired doubtfully.

“Yes, I will,” promised Daisy. “Now wipe your eyes, like a good girl. Where’s your handkerchief? Oh, you haven’t got one. Well, never mind, here’s mine. There, that’s all right. You won’t cry any more, will you?”

“Suppose there isn’t any ice-cream left?” suggested Maud, still doubtfully.

“Well, there’s sure to be some cake left, anyhow, and I’m sure Bridget will give me a piece for you. Now keep still, and I’ll be back just as quick as I can.”

Maud was mollified and Daisy ran quickly down the four flights of stairs to the basement without meeting any one by the way. She tiptoed past Grandma’s door, which was fortunately closed, or she would probably have been stopped and questioned. Arrived at the kitchen, she found Bridget and Mary both taking afternoon tea. They were sitting at the kitchen table, and between them was a dish containing several tempting little frosted cakes. At Daisy’s entrance they both looked up, and Mary inquired rather sharply:

“Now what in the world are you after down here at this time of day? Did your grandma send you?”

“No,” said Daisy, pausing in the doorway, “nobody sent me. I just came to ask if there was any ice-cream left. I don’t want much, only a little for Maud. Dulcie told a story that made her cry, and I promised to bring her something to eat if I could. She loves ice-cream, and I thought perhaps——” Daisy paused in some embarrassment.

Both the maids laughed, and Bridget—who was generally good-natured—pushed back her chair from the table.

“There isn’t very much left,” she said. “I was keeping it for our supper, but I suppose you may as well have it.”

“Oh, thank you,” cried Daisy, gratefully; “you’re very kind. I’m sorry to take it away from you and Mary, but Maud is so unhappy. I’m sure the ice-cream will make her feel cheerful again.”

Bridget retired to the ice-box, from whence she presently returned with a well-filled saucer of pink ice-cream.

“It’s too bad there isn’t enough for you all,” she said, kindly, “but the madame’s that stingy, she never will order more than just enough to go round. You can have a couple of these cakes, anyhow, and that’ll be better than nothing.”

Daisy’s heart beat very fast, as she stole softly up-stairs again with her precious burden. She reached the second floor in safety, and was just beginning to breathe more freely, when there came an interruption. Grandma’s door opened suddenly, and a sharp, querulous voice demanded:

“Who’s that?”

Daisy’s heart gave a big jump, but she tried to speak quite naturally.

“It’s only I, Grandma,” she faltered, and try as she might, she could not keep the tremor altogether out of her voice.

Mrs. Winslow stepped out into the hall.

“What is that you are carrying so carefully?” she inquired, suspiciously.

“It’s—it’s just a little ice-cream, and some cakes that were left from the lunch party. Bridget gave them to me for Maud. Maud was crying over a story Dulcie told, and——”

“Never mind about explanations,” interrupted Grandma, frowning. “You all know perfectly well that you are not allowed to eat between meals, or to bring food up-stairs. Take those things directly back to the kitchen. I shall speak to Bridget about this to-morrow morning.”

The tears started to Daisy’s blue eyes.

“Oh, Grandma,” she pleaded, “please do let us have it, just this once. Maud loves ice-cream so much, and she hardly ever has any. You see, it was this way: Maud made up a story about a little beggar girl we see sometimes. We think she must be a stolen child, because she has blue eyes and golden hair; stolen children always have in books, and we like to make up things about her. This was a very sad story, but we didn’t think Maud——”

“I am not interested in all that nonsense,” interrupted Grandma, impatiently. “Do as I tell you, and never let me hear of your bringing food up-stairs again without permission.”

Daisy’s lip quivered, but she dared not disobey, and with a sigh that was half a sob, she turned away, and went slowly down-stairs again. When she returned to the nursery, five minutes later, she was relieved to find that Maud had stopped crying, and was standing with Molly, eagerly looking out of the window.

“They’re beginning to dance,” announced Maud. “The gas is lit in the parlor, and they haven’t pulled down one shade.”

“I suppose there wasn’t any cream left,” said Dulcie in a low voice. In their interest in the Van Arsdales’ party, the two younger ones had apparently forgotten the subject of food.

“There was a little,” Daisy admitted, “and Bridget let me have it for Maud, and some cakes, too; but on the way up-stairs I met Grandma, and she made me take the things back to the kitchen. She said we were forbidden to bring food up here, or to eat between meals.”

Dulcie’s eyes flashed. For a moment she did not speak, and then she said, slowly:

“I hate Grandma, and some day I’m going to tell her so.”

“Oh, Dulcie,” gasped Daisy, in horrified reproach, “you mustn’t say such things. It’s terribly wicked to hate people.”

“I know it is,” said Dulcie, “and I suppose I must be a very wicked person. Perhaps I shall never go to heaven, but I do hate Grandma just the same, and there isn’t any use in pretending I don’t.”

CHAPTER II
A VISITOR

PEOPLE dined earlier in 1880 than they do nowadays. The Winslows’ dinner hour was six o’clock, and by seven the table had been cleared, and the family settled down in the dining-room, where they usually spent their evenings. The children’s bedtime was eight, and that hour after dinner always seemed to them the longest hour of the whole day. Mrs. Winslow had a theory that families should spend their evenings together, and so they were never allowed to wander off and find amusements for themselves. She also had another theory, that young people should never speak except when addressed by their elders, and as neither she nor her daughter were at all fond of the society of children, the little girls were seldom encouraged to join in the conversation. Dulcie had once remarked that Grandma only talked when she had something to scold about, and Aunt Kate spent a great deal of time knitting caps for sailors, and was so busy counting stitches that she was apt to forget the presence of any one else in the room. Aunt Kate was considered among her friends to be a very charitable woman. She was on the Board of any number of societies for improving the condition of the poor, and was constantly attending “Meetings,” but it was seldom that she troubled herself to think of the four little girls who lived in the big front room on the top floor, and who, if not objects of charity, would certainly have been better and happier for a little mothering now and then.

Grandma was very fond of playing solitaire, and as soon as the dinner-table was cleared, she generally got out the cards, and that meant that she was not to be disturbed by any one, even her daughter. Dulcie could often find amusement in a book, or even in the evening paper, but to the three younger ones that hour between dinner and bedtime was decidedly tiresome.

On this particular January evening things seemed, if possible, even duller than usual. The children had been in the house all day, and were, in consequence, feeling particularly wide awake, and anxious for some kind of active exercise. When Aunt Kate requested Molly to wind some wool for her, the little girl jumped up with such alacrity that she knocked over a chair, and received a severe reproof from Grandma.

“Careless child,” scolded the old lady, looking up from her cards with a frown; “can’t you move without breaking the furniture?”

Molly, who was rather sensitive, blushed scarlet, and murmured an apology. But even winding wool is more interesting than doing nothing at all, so she soon cheered up, and ventured a timid attempt at conversation.

“It’s going to be a pretty cap,” she remarked politely. “If I were a sailor I think I should like it.”

“Should you?” said Miss Kate, sarcastically. “It is rather a pity you are not a sailor, then, isn’t it?”

Aunt Kate had a way of saying things in that sarcastic tone, and Molly instantly relapsed into embarrassed silence. Dulcie was glancing over the front page of the Evening Post, being very careful not to rattle the paper, because the rattling of a newspaper made Grandma nervous. Maud stifled a yawn, and began surreptitiously rubbing her eyes. Maud, being the youngest, was sometimes permitted to go to bed before her sisters, but to-night Grandma was absorbed in her solitaire, and did not notice the yawn. Daisy kept her eyes fixed on the clock. Twenty minutes to eight. Only twenty more minutes, and then they would all be free. They would hurry and get undressed, and when they were in bed perhaps Dulcie would tell them stories about Mamma. She often did after they had said their prayers, and the light was out, and it was all very cozy and pleasant. Mamma had talked to Dulcie just before she died, and told her she must be a little mother to the others, and always be good to them and never let them forget their prayers. Molly had once said that perhaps Mamma was looking down on them from heaven, and that when they were in bed, and Dulcie was talking about her, she came to them, and loved them, although, of course, they could not see her. Daisy and Maud had thought this a beautiful idea, and had been much surprised to hear Dulcie sigh, and say rather sadly:

“I hope she doesn’t know about things.”

“Why not?” Molly had demanded in astonishment. “I should think you would love to think that perhaps Mamma came to see us.”

“I wouldn’t like to have her unhappy about us,” Dulcie answered, gravely, “and I’m afraid she would be unhappy if she knew about Grandma. You can’t remember Danby, and how happy we were there, but I can, and I know how different everything was when Mamma was here.”

Daisy wished that she could remember that happy time, too, but the memories were all very dim and indistinct.

For five minutes the only sounds to break the stillness of the room were the ticking of the clock and the click of Aunt Kate’s knitting needles. Then the newspaper rustled, and Grandma looked up from her cards for the second time.

“Leave that paper alone, Dulcie,” she said, impatiently. “You know the rustling of a newspaper is very unpleasant to me.”

“Excuse me, Grandma,” apologized Dulcie. “I’ll try not to do it again. I was so interested in something I was reading, I turned over the sheet to finish it.”

“What were you reading?” Grandma inquired suspiciously.

“About a man who was killed. They think he was murdered. They found his body——”

“Good gracious, child!” cried Grandma, quite forgetting to shuffle her cards in her dismay. “Don’t you know you are not to read such things? Put that paper down at once, and don’t let me see you touch a newspaper again until you are old enough to know what to read, and what to leave alone.”

Dulcie blushed.

“Miss Hammond says everybody ought to read the newspaper,” she began. “It’s very interesting about that man. Won’t you please let me finish it, Grandma?”

“Certainly not, and don’t argue. Such things are not proper reading for a child of your age. Your father would be very angry if he ever heard of your reading such disgusting stories.”

“Would he?” said Dulcie, and she instantly put down the paper. There was no one in the world whom Dulcie loved as she loved her father.

“Of course he would,” said Mrs. Winslow. “Remember, you are not to look at a newspaper again until I give you permission. What are you rubbing your eyes in that way for, Maud?”

“I’m sleepy,” said Maud. Maud was less afraid of Grandma than any of the others, and if Mrs. Winslow had a favorite among her stepson’s children, it was little curly-headed Maud, who was scarcely more than a baby when the family had arrived from the West five years ago.

Grandma glanced at the clock.

“Nearly five minutes to eight,” she said; “you may as well all go to bed.”

Four little girls sprang from their chairs with so much alacrity that, if Grandma had been a real grandmother, instead of “only a step,” as Dulcie called her, her feelings might have been hurt. But Mrs. Winslow had no objection to the children’s evident dislike of her society. She meant to do her duty to her husband’s grandchildren, but she never thought of them in any other light than as a troublesome incumbrance. They each gave her a sedate “duty kiss,” and murmured a polite “Good-night, Grandma,” and she heaved a sigh of relief that another day was over. As for Aunt Kate, she frankly confessed that she hated to be kissed, and the children never dreamed of troubling her in any such way.

“Oh, it is nice to get up here again, all by ourselves, isn’t it?” cried Daisy, with a happy little skip, as they entered their own big nursery, and Dulcie lighted the gas. “I feel sometimes as if I couldn’t breathe down there with Grandma and Aunt Kate. Let’s hurry to bed, and then you’ll talk to us about Mamma, won’t you, Dulcie?”

Dulcie nodded rather absently. She was still thinking about the newspaper story that Grandma had interrupted.

“Hark!” exclaimed Maud, eagerly. “There’s the singing lady.”

They all paused to listen, and, sure enough, from somewhere that sounded as if it came from within the wall, could be distinctly heard the notes of a piano, and of a sweet voice singing. The walls in the old house were rather thin, and by pressing their ears against the party wall, which divided the Winslows’ from the house next door, they could even distinguish the words of the song.

“It’s ‘Robin Adair,’” said Molly. “Isn’t it pretty? I think I like it best of all the songs she sings.”

“I like ‘Darby and Joan’ best,” affirmed Daisy; “it always makes me think of such nice, comfortable things. I do wish we knew her. I’m sure she must be nice; she’s got such a lovely voice.”

“Grandma would never let us go to see her,” said Dulcie, with conviction. “She says it isn’t proper to call on people she doesn’t know.”

“Perhaps it’s more interesting not to know her,” said cheerful Daisy. “It’s so exciting to make up stories about her. She must be rather poor to live away up on the top floor of that boarding-house. I wish we could see her in the street sometimes.”

“Maybe we do see her,” said Dulcie; “we haven’t any idea what she looks like. Now, hurry and get undressed, children. It’s pretty cold up here; I think the furnace must be very low.”

Daisy and Molly began unfastening their dresses, but Maud still remained with her ear glued to the wall.

“Come, Maud, don’t dawdle,” commanded Dulcie, a little impatiently. “I’ll help you undress.”

“I want to listen to the singing lady,” objected Maud. “I love music.”

“You can listen in bed just as well, and if you stay up in this cold room, you may get another sore throat, and you wouldn’t like that, you know. My goodness! there’s the door-bell. Who can it be at this time of night?”

Evening visitors were not frequent at the Winslows’, and Molly was dispatched to peep over the banister.

“Perhaps it’s that minister who comes to see Aunt Kate,” said Dulcie, and this opinion was rather strengthened when Molly reported having heard a gentleman’s voice speaking to Mary.

Aunt Kate’s visitors were not interesting to the children, and they had almost forgotten the incident of the door-bell, when there came an unexpected tap at the nursery door.

“Children,” called Mary’s voice, rather breathless from the three long flights of stairs, “your grandma says you’re to come down right away. Your uncle’s here.”

There was a simultaneous exclamation of astonishment from four very excited little girls.

“Our uncle! What uncle? Oh, Mary, do tell us quick.” And the door was flung open, revealing four children in various stages of undressing.

“His name is Maitland,” said Mary, “and he’s a youngish gentleman. I never saw him before.”

“It must be Uncle Stephen; Mamma’s brother from California,” said Dulcie. “I think he’s the only uncle we’ve got. Oh, isn’t it exciting? Hurry, children, do please hurry!”

“I can’t go down with my boots unbuttoned,” complained Daisy. “O dear! where’s the shoe buttoner? Fasten your dress, Molly, and take those curlers off Maud’s hair.”

“I’ll help you,” said Mary, good-naturedly. “I’m glad you’ve got an uncle to look after you. You’d better tell him a few things before he goes away again.”

“What sort of things?” inquired Daisy, innocently.

Mary laughed.

“Oh, I guess you know as well as I do,” she said, evasively. “If you don’t, so much the better.”

“Did our uncle ask for Grandma?” Dulcie wanted to know.

“Oh, yes, and she’s in the parlor with him now. So’s Miss Kate.”

Dulcie’s face fell.

“There isn’t much use in our going down, then,” she said, with a sigh. “Grandma won’t let us talk. She never does when there’s company.”

“Perhaps she will this time, because it’s our uncle,” said Daisy, who was always hoping pleasant things were going to happen. “Anyhow, it will be lovely to see somebody belonging to Mamma. I remember Papa told us about Uncle Stephen. He’s lived in California ever since he was twenty, and none of us has ever seen him. There! my boots are done. Now I can help Maud, if you’ll button Molly’s dress, Mary.”

Four little hearts were beating rather quickly, as the children hurried down-stairs to the parlor, from whence the sound of voices could be heard.

“Grandma’s talking in her ‘company voice,’” whispered Dulcie. “She must like Uncle Stephen or she wouldn’t sound so polite.”

Grandma and Aunt Kate were both smiling when the children entered the parlor, and their companion, a tall, broad-shouldered young man, rose from the sofa, and came forward to meet them.

“So these are Ethel’s little girls,” he said, and Grandma answered, still in her “company voice”:

“Yes, here they are, all four. Children, this is your Uncle Stephen from California.”

“I know,” said Dulcie, holding out her hand, with her most grown-up air; “Papa told us all about you. I think you were very kind to take the trouble to come to see us. I’m Dulcie, the eldest, and this is Daisy. Her real name is Margaret, after Grandma Maitland, but everybody calls her Daisy. These others are Molly and Maud. Molly’s named for Mamma’s sister, who died, and Maud is just a name Mamma liked in a book.”

Dulcie paused, rather breathless from her long speech. The three younger children gazed at her in undisguised admiration. Under no combination of circumstances could any one of them have dared to make such a wonderful speech, and in Grandma’s presence, too. The visitor smiled, and they all thought he had a very pleasant smile indeed.

“Of course I wanted to come to see you,” he said in a voice that was as pleasant as his smile. And, instead of taking Dulcie’s outstretched hand, he bent and kissed her.

That broke the ice, for of course, all the others had to be kissed, too, and in a very few minutes Maud was perched on Uncle Stephen’s knee, and the other three were sitting beside him on the sofa. If Grandma and Aunt Kate were displeased with this state of affairs, they did not show it. Grandma continued to talk in her “company voice,” and Aunt Kate smiled as her needles flew.

Mr. Maitland explained that he had come east on a business trip, and was only spending a few days in New York.

“Indeed, I am starting back to California to-morrow night,” he said, “but I couldn’t leave without having a glimpse of Ethel’s children. Jim stopped to see me in San Francisco, on his way to Hong Kong, and I asked for your address, thinking I might be in this part of the world sometime.”

“Papa’s coming home next year,” ventured Maud, who suddenly felt very safe in Grandma’s presence, for was not Uncle Stephen’s kind arm around her, and had he not said that she had eyes like Mamma’s? “When he comes home we’re going to have a little house of our own, and perhaps Lizzie——”

Maud paused, admonished by a warning nudge from Dulcie. Grandma had forbidden the mention of Lizzie’s name.

“We had a letter from Papa last week,” put in Dulcie, quickly, hoping that Grandma had not noticed Maud’s slip. “He tells us such funny things about China. Does he ever write to you, Uncle Stephen?”

“Yes, occasionally. I heard from him about a month ago.”

“Did he tell you about the Chinese people eating rats and mice?” inquired Molly. “We used to worry for fear Papa might have to eat them, but he says he doesn’t.”

Uncle Stephen laughed, and even Grandma and Aunt Kate looked amused, but just then Grandma gave the little warning cough, which always meant “children should be seen and not heard,” and Molly instantly relapsed into embarrassed silence.

Altogether, the call was a trifle disappointing. Aunt Kate talked about missions, but Uncle Stephen didn’t seem particularly interested in that subject, and in about twenty minutes he took out his watch, and remarked that he was afraid he must be going.

“I have an engagement with a business friend at nine,” he said, “but I want to see these little nieces of mine again before I leave New York. To-morrow is Saturday, and I expect to finish all my business by noon. My train doesn’t leave till half-past six. May I have these young people to spend the afternoon with me? I will promise to take good care of them.”

That was a tremendous moment. Would Grandma consent? That was the question that four little eager girls were asking themselves. Daisy ventured to give the old lady a pleading glance. Dulcie and Molly clasped their hands nervously. There was a moment of breathless suspense, and then, to everybody’s surprise, Grandma answered quite pleasantly:

“I am sure they would enjoy it very much, and I see no objection, if you really want to be troubled with them.”

“I want them very much,” said Uncle Stephen, with his kind, pleasant smile. “I will call for them at about noon, and we will lunch at the Fifth Avenue, where I am staying, and do something together in the afternoon. Now I must be off, as I see it is getting near the time for my appointment, so good-night, chicks. Be sure to be ready for me at twelve to-morrow.”

“I never believed she’d let us,” declared Daisy, when they were talking things over in the nursery, ten minutes later. “My heart just stood still; I was so sure she was going to say no.”

“Perhaps she didn’t dare,” suggested Molly. “He’s our uncle, you know. Oh, aren’t uncles lovely? I never had any idea they were so nice.”

“We didn’t know anything about them,” said Daisy. “We don’t know much about any relations except fathers. Now let’s hurry to bed, and get to sleep as quick as we can, so it won’t seem so long till to-morrow.”

CHAPTER III
A WONDERFUL DAY

“IT’S the most interesting thing that ever happened to us,” declared Molly. “It’s almost like a book thing.”

“It would be even more exciting if we had thought Uncle Stephen was dead,” said Dulcie, in a tone of some regret. “You remember how exciting it was in ‘Kathie’s Three Wishes,’ when her Uncle Robert came home rich, after everybody had thought he was dead for years and years. I wonder if Uncle Stephen is rich.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Daisy. “He must have a good deal of money to be able to take us all to the Fifth Avenue Hotel to lunch. I wonder where he’ll take us afterwards. It might be to the Aquarium. Do you remember the time Papa took us there, Dulcie, and we saw those wonderful fish, and snakes, and things?”

Maud’s face clouded.

“I don’t like snakes,” she protested; “I hope Uncle Stephen won’t take us there. I dream about snakes sometimes, and it’s horrid.”

“Don’t be a baby,” began Molly, rather sharply, but Daisy interposed.

“I wouldn’t worry, Maudie, till we know where we really are going. Perhaps Uncle Stephen doesn’t intend to take us anywhere except to the hotel. We may just stay there all the afternoon, and watch the people. That would be very interesting.”

Dulcie glanced at herself in the mirror. It was only half-past eleven, but they were already dressed, because, as Daisy wisely remarked, “Uncle Stephen might happen to come ahead of time, and it wouldn’t be polite to keep a gentleman waiting.”

“I wish I hadn’t let my best hat get rained on that day,” remarked Dulcie, with a sigh. “It’s so spotted, I don’t think it’s at all the right thing to wear to a hotel. If Papa were here, I know he would have bought me a new one, but Grandma doesn’t care how shabby our things are.”

“Oh, it isn’t so very spotty, and perhaps nobody will notice,” said Daisy, hopefully. “Don’t let’s think about anything that isn’t pleasant to-day. Isn’t it fortunate the sun has come out? If it had kept on raining, Grandma would have made us all wear our old clothes, and that would have been a great deal worse than just a few spots on one hat.”

“Yes, but it isn’t your hat,” objected Dulcie. “Yours looks almost as good as new, and Molly’s and Maud’s are all right, too.”

For a moment Daisy hesitated, and then, with sudden determination, she took off her own hat, and held it out to Dulcie.

“Let’s change,” she proposed cheerfully. “You’re the eldest, and ought to look the best, and I really don’t mind a bit.”

Dulcie drew back, blushing.

“As if I would do anything so mean,” she declared, indignantly. “I believe you’re one of the most unselfish people in the world, Daisy. It was all my own fault, anyhow. If I had taken an umbrella that day, as Grandma told me to, I wouldn’t have spoiled my hat. Now, suppose we go down and wait for Uncle Stephen on the sidewalk. It’s rather hot up here, with all our things on.”

This suggestion was greeted with favor, and a few minutes later the front door had closed behind four very happy little girls. Grandma and Aunt Kate were both out, so there was no one but Mary to see them start, but Mary happened to be in a good humor that morning, and greatly comforted Dulcie by the assurance that nobody would notice the spots on her hat, and that they all looked “just as nice as could be.”

“We’ll walk up and down,” said Dulcie; “it’s too cold to stand still, but we mustn’t go far, or we might miss Uncle Stephen. Oh, it is grand to be going somewhere, isn’t it?”

“Do you suppose there’ll be ice-cream for lunch?” inquired Maud, anxiously.

“Of course there will be,” said Molly. “You can have anything you want at a hotel. You just pay a dollar, and they’ll bring you whatever you ask for. I know, because Papa took me to the Clarendon once, the time you all had the measles, and mine hadn’t come out yet.”

“Can you even ask for two helpings?” questioned Maud, with sparkling eyes.

“Yes, I guess so, but perhaps it wouldn’t be polite to take more than one. Uncle Stephen might think it was piggish.”

“Of course he would,” said Dulcie, who had grown suddenly grave; “it wouldn’t do at all. And that makes me think of something I want to say to you all. Give me your hand, Maud, so we can all walk together. It’s about our loyalty to Grandma. You know what Papa used to tell us about always being loyal to our family, and never telling things that happen at home. We mustn’t let Uncle Stephen think we don’t have ice-cream, and nice things like that every day. We mustn’t mention Grandma’s being cross, or—or any disagreeable things at all. Will you all remember?”

“Yes,” promised Daisy, readily, but Molly looked a little doubtful.

“I don’t see why we should have to be so very particular with Uncle Stephen,” she objected; “he’s our real uncle, and Grandma’s only a step.”

“But we live with Grandma,” rebuked Dulcie. “Papa said it was very disloyal to talk about people we live with. Don’t look so solemn, Maudie. Of course, if Uncle Stephen or the waiter should ask us if we would like another helping of ice-cream, it would be all right to say yes.”

Maud’s face brightened.

“I sort of think Uncle Stephen will ask us,” she said. “He seemed so very kind, and I’m sure he likes me best, because he said I looked like Mamma. Let’s cross over. If the singing lady should happen to be at her window, she might like to see how nice we look.”

The others laughed, but complied with the request.

“There isn’t anybody at the windows,” said Molly, glancing up at the top floor of the boarding-house. “What makes you so much interested in that lady, Maud? She may not be a bit interesting.”

“I love to hear her sing,” said Maud, “and besides, I’ve got a secret,” she added, but in so low a tone that the others did not catch the words. At that moment there was an excited exclamation from Daisy, of “here he comes; he’s just turned the corner.” And everything else was forgotten in the joy of running to meet Uncle Stephen.

“Well, well,” laughed Mr. Maitland, kissing them all round, “so here you are, all four. No danger of being kept waiting, I see.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t do that,” protested Dulcie, quite shocked at the mere suggestion. “We got ready early, in case you should happen to come before twelve. Grandma and Aunt Kate have both gone out, so there isn’t any use of your going in to see them.”

“You are the people I want to see this time,” said Uncle Stephen, with a rather peculiar smile. “I came a little early on purpose, so as to have plenty of time for lunch. I have tickets for ‘The Pirates of Penzance’ this afternoon.”

“‘The Pirates of Penzance,’” repeated Dulcie, with a little gasp. “Why—why, that’s at a theatre, isn’t it?”

“To be sure it is, and a very charming little operetta it is, too. I hope you haven’t all seen it already.”

“Oh, no,” said Dulcie, “we never—that is, I mean we don’t often go to theatres. Daisy and I saw ‘Rip Van Winkle’ once with Papa. It’s very wonderful—I mean it’s very kind of you to take us.”

And despite all Dulcie’s attempts to maintain what she considered the proper demeanor of a grown-up young lady, she could not refrain from a little skip of delight.

As for the other three, they made no attempt whatever to conceal their delight, and began plying Uncle Stephen with a shower of questions about “The Pirates of Penzance,” which lasted till they reached the corner of Fifth Avenue, where he was obliged to interrupt them, to ask whether they would prefer walking to the hotel or taking a stage.

“Oh, a stage, please—that is, if you don’t mind,” pleaded Molly. “We just love riding in the stages. We hardly ever get a ride now, since Papa and Lizzie went away, because Grandma won’t let us go by ourselves.”

“Who is Lizzie?” Mr. Maitland asked, as they paused on the corner, to await an approaching stage.

“She was our nurse,” Dulcie explained, “but she went away last summer. We really don’t need a nurse any more, we’re getting so big.”

Mr. Maitland glanced down at the four little figures, as if he did not consider them “so very big,” after all, but just then the stage came within hailing distance, and he made no remarks on the subject.

It was only a short distance to the hotel, but the children thoroughly enjoyed the little ride, especially Maud, who, somewhat to Dulcie’s disapproval, requested to be permitted to pay the fares. Because, as she explained, “it made one feel so grand to spend money.” Uncle Stephen laughed so much, and was so kind and genial, that even Dulcie forgot to be dignified, and by the time they reached their destination, they were all the best of friends.

“I am going to leave you in the reception-room for a few moments,” Mr. Maitland said, leading the way across the marble hall of the big hotel, “while I look up two ladies who are to lunch with us. They are friends of mine from San Francisco, who have met your father, and are anxious to see you all.”

Nobody said anything, but all were conscious of a sensation of disappointment, which Molly was the first to put into words, the moment they found themselves alone in the reception-room.

“If there are going to be ladies,” she said, ruefully, “Uncle Stephen will talk to them all the time, and we won’t have half so much fun.”

“Perhaps they are very nice ladies,” suggested Daisy. “He said they knew Papa, and wanted to know us. Anyhow, we’re going to a real theatre, and nothing can spoil that.”

“I’m afraid ladies notice other people’s clothes more than gentlemen do,” said Dulcie, with a sigh, and a glance in the long mirror. “Do you think those spots show very much, Daisy?”

“No, not so very much,” answered Daisy, divided between her desire to speak the truth, and fear of making her sister still more uncomfortable. “Perhaps the ladies won’t notice the spots at all, if the light isn’t too bright.”

Dulcie sighed again, but was forced to make the best of the situation, and in another moment Uncle Stephen returned, accompanied by such a very pretty young lady that, in their surprise and admiration, the children quite forgot to worry about their own shortcomings.

“This is Miss Florence Leslie, children,” said Mr. Maitland. “Her mother, Mrs. Leslie, will be down in a few moments.”

“You see, I couldn’t wait for Mother,” the young lady explained, smiling, and showing such fascinating dimples, that Daisy and Molly both longed to kiss her. “I was so anxious to see you all. Now let me see if I can guess which is which, from your father’s description. This tall one must be Dulcie, I am sure, and the little curly-haired one is Maud. These others are Daisy and Molly.”

“Why, you know all our names,” exclaimed Molly, in astonishment. “Did you ever see us before?”

“No, but I have heard a great deal about you from your father. We saw a good deal of him in San Francisco, before he sailed for Hong Kong, and he and my brother are in business together now. I wonder if you would each be willing to give me a kiss.”

“Of course we would,” said Dulcie, heartily, and four little faces were eagerly raised. Miss Leslie kissed them all, “not just duty kisses,” Molly said afterwards, but as if she really liked doing it, and in less than five minutes they were chattering away to this new acquaintance as if they had known her all their lives.

Then Mrs. Leslie appeared, and they all went into the dining-room. Mrs. Leslie was not as pretty as her daughter, but she had a very sweet face, and was so kind and motherly that the little girls soon felt almost as much at home with her as with Miss Florence.

“And now who is going to order the luncheon?” Uncle Stephen asked, when they had taken their places at one of the round tables in the big, crowded dining-room. “Will you do it, Mrs. Leslie?”

“Suppose we let Dulcie order,” suggested Miss Florence. “When I was a little girl, and we went to a hotel, I remember half the fun was in ordering things to eat.”

Dulcie gasped, as the waiter handed her the long bill of fare.

“I—I don’t think I could,” she faltered; “there are so many things, I shouldn’t know where to begin. What’s the matter, Maud?”

“It’s about the ice-cream,” whispered Maud. “It doesn’t matter what else we have.” Maud’s whisper was sufficiently audible to be heard by the whole party, and all the grown-ups laughed, somewhat to the little girl’s embarrassment. Then Miss Leslie said, kindly:

“I will help you, if you would like to have me,” and on Dulcie’s grateful request, she gave the waiter an order, which seemed to the children almost appallingly large.

What a delicious meal it was, and how they all enjoyed it! Even Dulcie forgot her intention of taking a light lunch, for fear Uncle Stephen might think she was hungry, which would reflect unfavorably on Grandma’s providing. Miss Leslie certainly did not forget to order ice-cream, and, better still, she took two helpings of it herself, and advised them all to do likewise. Mr. Maitland and Mrs. Leslie seemed to have a good deal to say to each other, but Miss Florence devoted herself almost exclusively to the children, and before luncheon was over, had succeeded in winning all their hearts.

“I wish you were going to the theatre with us,” Molly remarked, regretfully, as they were leaving the dining-room, and she gave her new friend’s hand an affectionate squeeze.

“I am going,” said Miss Leslie, smiling; “your uncle invited me. He asked Mother, too, but she declined on account of a headache.”

Molly gave vent to her satisfaction by a little squeal of delight, and Maud—who was nothing if not truthful—remarked in a sudden burst of confidence:

“We didn’t think we were going to like it when Uncle Stephen said ladies were coming to lunch, but you’re not a bit like an ordinary lady.”

“Maud!” cried Dulcie, reprovingly, but Miss Leslie laughed merrily, and did not seem in the least offended.

That was a wonderful, never-to-be-forgotten afternoon. Long after their elders had ceased to think of it, the four little girls loved to recall its delights. The bright little opera, with its charming music, and amusing dialogue. The funny pirate chief, who frightened Maud at first, and then fascinated her for the rest of the afternoon. The pompous major-general, with his numerous family of daughters. And, last but not least, the gallant policemen, who were as much afraid of the pirate band as the pirates were afraid of them. It was all one continuous delight. But even better than the play was the pleasant companionship. Long before the afternoon was over, they had all come to the conclusion that, with the exception of Papa, and possibly the faithful Lizzie, Uncle Stephen and Miss Leslie were “the two nicest grown-ups” they had ever met.

But everything, even “The Pirates of Penzance,” must come to an end at last, and all too soon the curtain had fallen on the last rollicking chorus, and they were making their way out through the crowd, into the dusk of the winter afternoon.

“Wouldn’t it be lovely if nice things never came to an end?” remarked Dulcie, as they stood on the cold corner, while Uncle Stephen went in quest of a cab.

Miss Leslie smiled.

“There wouldn’t be any next time to look forward to, then,” she said.

“But we don’t have any next times,” began Molly, and checked herself, warned by a reproving glance from Dulcie.

Miss Leslie looked rather surprised, but before she could ask any questions, Uncle Stephen returned, and they were all packed into a cab, Mr. Maitland explaining that he and Miss Florence were in a hurry, and must get home as soon as possible.

“It’s been the loveliest afternoon we ever had in our lives,” declared Daisy, as the cab drew up before their own door. “Oh, Uncle Stephen, won’t we see you again—have you really got to go back to California to-night?”

“I am afraid so,” Uncle Stephen answered, with a kind glance at the row of sober little faces, “but perhaps I shall come back again before such a very long time.”

“Don’t forget there’s always a next time to look forward to,” said Miss Leslie, with her bright smile. “We’ve all had a delightful afternoon to look back upon. I hope you won’t forget me.”

“Indeed we won’t!” cried Dulcie and Daisy both together, and Molly added, plaintively:

“Oh, have you got to go back to California, too?”

“Yes, dear, Mother and I are leaving to-night, on the same train with Mr. Maitland. But I want you to remember me, for I have an idea that we shall meet again some day, and in the meantime I wonder if you would write to me occasionally. I love to get letters from little girls.”

“We’d love to,” said Daisy, blushing with pleasure. “We none of us write very well except Dulcie, but if you wouldn’t mind a few mistakes in spelling——”

Miss Leslie said she wouldn’t mind in the least, and by that time Mary had opened the front door, in answer to Uncle Stephen’s ring, and the good-byes had to be said.

“I feel just the way I’m sure Cinderella must have felt when she got back from the ball,” remarked Dulcie, throwing herself wearily on the nursery sofa. “That’s the only trouble about having good times; everything seems so dull when they’re over.”

“I don’t mind,” said cheerful Daisy. “Just think what fun we’re going to have talking it all over. I don’t think we shall ever feel quite so lonely again, now that we know Uncle Stephen and Miss Leslie.”

“I don’t see what good they can be to us away off in California,” objected Molly, who was sharing some of Dulcie’s depression.

“But we’ve promised to write to them both,” argued Daisy, “and that will be very interesting. I wonder how soon it will do to write our first letter.”

“I think we might write just a short one to Uncle Stephen to-morrow,” said Molly. “It would be polite to tell him again what a beautiful time we had, don’t you think so?”

Nobody answered, and there was a short silence, which Maud broke.

“I don’t think I want any dinner,” she remarked, with a long sigh. “There’s going to be corned beef, there always is on Saturday, and I hate corned beef. I’d like some more ice-cream, but I don’t want anything else to eat. My head aches, and I think I’m going to have another sore throat.”

CHAPTER IV
THE SINGING LADY

MAUD’S sore throats were one of the greatest trials to her sisters. Not only were they of frequent occurrence, but they were always regarded by Grandma in the light of an especial grievance to herself, for which somebody must be held responsible. If Maud had lived in the present day, some doctor would probably have decided that her tonsils needed to be removed, but in 1880 people did not think so much about operations, and the family physician contented himself with prescribing simple remedies, and the advice that the child should be kept out of draughts, and not allowed to get her feet wet. Maud’s prediction on the present occasion proved only too true. In the middle of the night Daisy was aroused by a feverish demand from her little sister, for a drink of water, and by morning Maud could not swallow without considerable difficulty, and the too familiar white spots had appeared on her throat. Of course Grandma had to be told, and the consequence was a severe lecture to the other three, which lasted all through breakfast.

“I might have known what would happen when I let you all go off yesterday,” grumbled Mrs. Winslow, as she prepared Maud’s gargle in the nursery after breakfast. “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to one of you to see that the child did not sit in her warm coat all the afternoon.”

“Miss Leslie made her take off her coat,” protested Daisy, “and I don’t really think she got over-heated or anything.”

“Well, she evidently caught cold in some way. At any rate, this has taught me a lesson. Now remember, Maud, you are to gargle your throat regularly every two hours, and take one of these powders every hour. If I hear of your getting out of bed I shall punish you severely.”

“Who is going to stay with Maud this morning, Grandma?” Daisy asked, following Mrs. Winslow out into the hall. “I suppose one of us will have to stay home from church.”

Grandma reflected for a moment. She was very particular about church-going, but under the present circumstances it was evident that Maud could not be left alone.

“I think you and Daisy had better come to church with me,” she said. “Maud doesn’t need anything except her gargle and the powders, and Molly can attend to them.”

So it was settled, much to Molly’s satisfaction, and at half-past ten Dulcie and Daisy departed for church, with Grandma and Aunt Kate, and the two younger children were left to themselves. Maud, who was feverish and rather cross, was inclined to resent this arrangement, which deprived her of the society of her two older sisters.

“I want Dulcie to stay and tell me stories,” she pleaded. “Nobody can tell stories but Dulcie.”

“I’ll tell you stories this afternoon,” said Dulcie. “I don’t believe Grandma will make me go to church twice to-day, on account of your being sick.”