Elizabeth, Betsy, and Bess—schoolmates E-Book

Amy Ella Blanchard

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Seitenzahl: 291

Beschreibung

MISS JEWETT had just rung the bell and the children trooped into the schoolroom, taking their places as quietly as exuberant youthful spirits would permit, the smallest boys and girls in the front row, the older ones further back. It was a cheerful room, and Elizabeth, by the side of her chum, Betsy, thought of the changes which had taken place there since Miss Jewett was installed as teacher. Where had been bare walls, except for a couple of uninteresting maps, now were attractive pictures which brought visions of all sorts of delightful historical places; shelves in front of the windows displayed gay, blossoming plants, while in an aquarium, standing in their midst, gold-fish darted about. In the centre of the black-board Miss Jewett had just drawn the picture of a man and woman in Puritan dress; a big yellow pumpkin ornamented one corner of the board, in another was a turkey, in the third an ear of corn and in the fourth a squirrel nibbling a nut. The pictures were drawn with colored chalks and there was not a child who did not look upon them with sparkling eyes.

Leseprobe

Elizabeth, Betsy, and Bess —Schoolmates

ByAMY E. BLANCHARD

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I Before a Holiday

CHAPTER III The Piece Bag

CHAPTER VII Winter Doings

CHAPTER VIII Bess Gives a Party

CHAPTER X Elizabeth Offends

CHAPTER XI Betsy is First Aid to the Injured Feelings

CHAPTER XV Elizabeth Wears Blue

CHAPTER XVI The Gray House Opens

CHAPTER XVII Mrs. McGonigle’s Babies

CHAPTER XIX The Model’s Pay

CHAPTER XX The Locked Door

ELIZABETH, BETSY AND BESS SCHOOLMATES

CHAPTER IBefore a Holiday

M

ISS JEWETT had just rung the bell and the children trooped into the schoolroom, taking their places as quietly as exuberant youthful spirits would permit, the smallest boys and girls in the front row, the older ones further back. It was a cheerful room, and Elizabeth, by the side of her chum, Betsy, thought of the changes which had taken place there since Miss Jewett was installed as teacher. Where had been bare walls, except for a couple of uninteresting maps, now were attractive pictures which brought visions of all sorts of delightful historical places; shelves in front of the windows displayed gay, blossoming plants, while in an aquarium, standing in their midst, gold-fish darted about. In the centre of the black-board Miss Jewett had just drawn the picture of a man and woman in Puritan dress; a big yellow pumpkin ornamented one corner of the board, in another was a turkey, in the third an ear of corn and in the fourth a squirrel nibbling a nut. The pictures were drawn with colored chalks and there was not a child who did not look upon them with sparkling eyes.

“Thanksgiving,” the whisper went around. Miss Jewett nodded. “Yes, Thanksgiving, and when we come to our history lesson I will tell you how our first Thanksgiving Day originated and why we still keep it in remembrance.” Then Miss Jewett took up her violin and drew the bow across the strings. She paused a moment before she began to play. “We will sing a very old hymn this morning,” she said, “one that was written by a man named Kethe, away back in the sixteenth century, and it might well have been sung by the Pilgrim Fathers on that first Thanksgiving Day. It is very quaintly worded, I think. You may all look for it in your hymnals; it begins: ‘All people that on earth do dwell,’ and we shall sing it to the tune Old Hundred, for that seems most appropriate, as the tune is as old as the hymn.”

She started the first note and Elizabeth gave a quick sigh of pleasure. It was a constant surprise and delight to her to find how many things Miss Jewett could do: she could play the violin and sing sweetly, if not very powerfully; she could draw wonderful things on the board; she wore the daintiest and most becoming clothes and she made the lessons a pleasure instead of a task. Surely she was the most wonderful teacher in the world, and Elizabeth adored her. “Anything more like an angel than Miss Jewett could not possibly be,” she confided to Betsy at recess, “especially when she plays the violin.”

“But angels play on harps,” objected Bess Ferguson who had joined them.

“They don’t always,” returned Elizabeth, “for I’ve seen pictures of them with violins; Betsy’s uncle Rob has one among the photographs he brought from Europe.”

That settled it and Bess had no more to say; indeed, Elizabeth had a way of forcing unanswerable arguments upon this less quick-witted friend of hers, and it was seldom that she did not get the best of it. Just here Flo Harris came up and was greeted cordially; she was not often invited to join this trio, for it was an understood thing that Elizabeth with her first best friend, Betsy, and her second best, Bess, did not care for an addition to the group at lunch time. It was regarded as a privilege when another girl was admitted; Flo, however, had special claims upon this occasion, for this was her first appearance after some weeks of illness. She was still rather pale and thin, and the girls regarded her with something like admiring envy.

“Come right over here, Flo,” Elizabeth invited her. “We have a lovely lunch today. Betsy has some of those great big red grapes that grow in her aunt’s garden, Bess has some special cakes and I have a special jar of marmalade. You’re well enough to eat anything now, aren’t you?” she asked a little anxiously.

“Oh dear, yes,” returned Flo, accepting the attentions offered, “but I have been awfully ill; I wasn’t expected to live.”

The three girls gazed at her with new interest. The phrase, “not expected to live” had a weird fascination for them all, Elizabeth especially. She had never reached such a danger point, although she had gone through an ordeal during the summer when an accident threatened to rob her of her sight. “Well,” she said, “I was never quite that bad, although I did nearly have my eyes put out.”

“And once I was awfully ill with measles,” put in Bess.

“Yes, but you were never where they gave you up,” returned Flo in triumph. “There was one night when, my mother said, the doctor declared that he didn’t expect I would live till morning.” Again the alluring phrase.

Elizabeth offered another spoonful of marmalade, Betsy laid half a second bunch of grapes in Flo’s lap and Bess added her last cake, from which she had just taken one bite.

“You look so lovely and pale,” said Elizabeth admiringly. “I would give anything to be pale; it is so interesting. I think when I die I would like to languish away,” she added sentimentally, “although I wouldn’t like to have a worm feed on my damask cheek.”

“Who had that?” inquired Flo with interest.

“Why, don’t you know the poetry that says a worm in the bud fed on her damask cheek?”

At this a merry little chuckle sounded from just above them and Miss Jewett’s bright face looked out from the window; “Elizabeth, you funny girl,” she said, “you don’t get that quotation right; it is: ‘And let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, feed on her damask cheek.’”

“I always thought it was a worm, a real live worm,” replied Elizabeth, quite taken aback. “I don’t believe I understand it yet, Miss Jewett.”

“Neither do I,” spoke up Flo.

“Why, it means this: that the young woman concealed her love and the effort to do so showed its effect; concealment took her vitality, the rose from her cheek, and made her pale—just as a worm in the bud of a rose destroys it.”

“Oh!” The girls saw the point. “I am rather glad it is that way,” decided Elizabeth, “for I cannot bear any kind of worm, and Betsy is always teasing by putting caterpillars on me; I dislike them more than spiders. Miss Jewett, did you know that Flo wasn’t expected to live?”

“Yes, I heard the sad news at the time. We are very thankful to have her back again, aren’t we? I hope she will get some roses into her pale cheeks.”

“I think it is nice to be pale,” remarked Elizabeth honestly.

“Oh dear me, what a notion,” exclaimed Miss Jewett. “It is much nicer to be rosy and healthy and strong and active.”

Elizabeth looked doubtful. She was generally very ready to adopt Miss Jewett’s opinions, but she could not give up this treasured idea at once though she did not say so; instead she asked solemnly, “Miss Jewett, were you ever at the point of death?”

Miss Jewett smiled. “I believe so, when I was a child.”

Elizabeth sighed regretfully. “I never was.”

“You think it is something to boast of?” said Miss Jewett. “Why?”

Elizabeth cast about in her mind for a true reason, but she could not settle upon a satisfactory one. “I don’t know exactly,” she answered at last, “but we girls always do. I suppose it is just like having the biggest or the finest or the rarest of anything; we feel proud of it because it goes ahead of what the rest have.”

Miss Jewett laughed. “That is not a bad explanation, Elizabeth. You use your mind very well, though one doesn’t always want to be the biggest in all directions.”

“No,” returned Elizabeth with conviction, “I shouldn’t want to be the biggest liar or thief, for instance.”

They all laughed, Miss Jewett included. “You’d better come in now,” she said. “We want to have that Thanksgiving story, you remember.”

“But that won’t even be a fib,” retorted Elizabeth merrily.

“No, we can depend upon its being solid fact,” returned her teacher.

Having disposed of the last remnant of marmalade, the final grape and the remainder of the cake, the girls shook the crumbs from their laps and went inside to hear the story of the first Thanksgiving, and then to go forth, somewhat earlier than usual, for their holiday. On the way home there was great talk of the next day’s jollification. Miss Jewett and her aunt, Miss Dunbar, were to dine at Betsy Tyson’s, and the afternoon Betsy and Elizabeth were to spend together at the home of the latter. This was determined upon after Betsy explained that she would be left alone otherwise. “There will be no one at home,” she told her friends, “for uncle Rob and Hal are going to the football game with Miss Jewett and your sister Kathie, Elizabeth.”

“What will your aunt Emily do?” queried Elizabeth.

“She and Miss Dunbar are going to take tea with Mrs. Lynde.”

“And I have to stay at home,” complained Bess. “Grandma said she couldn’t think of my going away from home on Thanksgiving.”

“It will be rather stupid, won’t it?” said Elizabeth compassionately.

“Yes, it will,” returned Bess in an aggrieved voice. “I wish you and Betsy would come over and spend the afternoon with me.”

“Oh, but—” Elizabeth began and looked at Betsy. There was never much fun in visiting at Mrs. Lynde’s; everything was so spick and span, so very orderly. Mrs. Lynde did not like any noise and would not permit anything out of place. The girls never had as good a time anywhere as at Elizabeth’s home, the least pretentious among them all. For this holiday Betsy and Elizabeth had planned a specially entertaining afternoon and were not ready to give it up.

“I promised Elizabeth I would spend the afternoon with her,” said Betsy doubtfully.

“Couldn’t you possibly come to my house, Bess?” asked Elizabeth. Although Bess would not be any great addition to the proposed play, Elizabeth was quite willing to include her.

Bess shook her head. “No, grandma and mamma both said I must stay with them.”

“Oh dear! Well then they won’t want us,” decided Elizabeth, “for on a holiday like Thanksgiving we wouldn’t think of going unless they particularly invited us, would we, Betsy?” Elizabeth was rather pleased with herself at having found a way out of the difficulty.

“But if I ask them they will invite you,” persisted Bess.

“It wouldn’t be the same,” Elizabeth was positive. “They probably will go to drive and will want you with them; there wouldn’t be room for us and so you see we’d only be in the way.” Elizabeth spoke forcibly, the slower Bess finding no answering argument.

“You’ll have lovely things to eat,” Elizabeth went on, trying to console Bess, “and you’ll wear that beautiful new frock, of course. We might run in for a teentsy-weentsy minute to see you in it, after church, you know. We could do that, couldn’t we?” She turned to Betsy to receive her assenting nod, and Bess, pleased at the prospect of displaying her finery, gave up further urging.

“Walk up to the next corner with me, Betsy,” said Elizabeth to her first best as they left Bess at her own gate, and Betsy agreed.

“I never saw anyone like you, Elizabeth,” said the latter admiringly. “You always know just what to say to Bess to make her satisfied. We really didn’t exactly want her, did we? Yet she wasn’t a bit offended.”

“I didn’t mind her coming to our house,” declared Elizabeth; “it was only that I didn’t want to go to hers. It would be as dry as pine needles to sit around in that stiff way, as they do at her house. We couldn’t jump about or run or make the least noise, for Bess would have to be careful of her new frock, and we’d have to talk in whispers and do some crazy fancy work or something. That reminds me, Betsy, I have a lovely idea for Christmas. If you will come over some rainy Saturday we can flabricate something nice.”

“What?” asked Betsy.

“Why, some little sachets, not sachets exactly, either—scent bags. I thought of them long ago, and I gathered all the sweet-smelling leaves and things I could from the garden to put in the bags: lemon verbenas, rose leaves, bergamot, rose geranium, lavender, and oh,—lots. I’ll give you some. My only trouble is to find bits of silk or ribbon to make the bags of; Kathie confisticates everything of that kind.”

“I’ll tell you what we can do,” returned Betsy; “we can swap. I’ll furnish the pieces and you can furnish the filling. Aunt Emily is very nice about letting me have pieces; she likes to encourage me in doing fancy work,” Betsy laughed. “I could have gathered sweet things from our garden, too,” she went on, “but I didn’t think of it and it is too late now, so the best I can do is to supply the outsides while you supply the insides.”

“Oh, that’s lovely of you, Betsy,” responded Elizabeth appreciatively. “Of course it is too late to get garden things now, for the frost has nipped everything, and besides they have to be dried. Won’t it be something nice to look forward to for the next rainy day? We’ll go up into my playroom and make the bags; it will be quite light by the window, you know, even if it is in the attic. I speak to make the prettiest for Miss Jewett.”

“Oh dear,” responded Betsy disappointedly, “I was just going to say that myself; you always do get ahead of me, Elizabeth.”

“Why, no, I don’t, but—I suppose it wouldn’t do for each of us to give her one, would it? Even if they were different. Well, I will tell you what; if I think of anything just as nice I’ll agree to your having the prettiest piece and to giving that bag to Miss Jewett.”

“And if you don’t think of anything, what then?”

“Then maybe you will.”

“Now, Elizabeth, you know I am not anything like as clever as you about having ideas for such things.”

“You flatter me, your serene highness. All right, then I can ask Kath; she knows of lots of things to make and she will show me how when I tell her the good cause. I’ll give up the bag if you want it so much.”

“I suppose I am a mean, selfish worm,” sighed Betsy, “but it does go to the spot to have anything as nice as that for Miss Jewett, and besides she is to be my aunt, you know, and I have the right to give her the best.”

Elizabeth inwardly resented this, but there was no denying the fact, to her mind, and she could answer only: “Woe is me, that she is not to be mine, but you know something else; we’ll have the same brother and sister after awhile.”

They stopped at the corner, Betsy declaring she could not go a step further; therefore, walking backwards, they called to one another till Elizabeth, stumbling against the protruding roots of a tree, thought best to face about, calling over her shoulder: “See you at church tomorrow.”

CHAPTER IIPrisoners

E

LIZABETH and Betsy were left in possession. Even Electra had the afternoon and evening off on Thanksgiving Day. Elizabeth’s big brother, Dick, with his chum, Hal Tyson, Betsy’s brother, had gone to a football game, taking Kathie and one of her girl friends. Mr. and Mrs. Hollins had determined upon a drive, after the hearty Thanksgiving dinner, and had taken Babs with them to see some relatives five miles distant, while Bert had been allowed to go to the game, too.

“I don’t know about leaving you two little girls all alone,” said Mrs. Hollins doubtfully, as she was putting on her hat. “Don’t you think you’d better come with us? We can take the surrey just as well as the buggy, and then there will be plenty of room.”

“Oh, dearest love-mother, we don’t want to go,” replied Elizabeth. “We’d so much rather stay here and play by ourselves. We will not get into any mischief, I solemnly asseverate. We’re going to play up in my playroom and the attic and we will be right there when you come back. We’ve eaten so much dinner that we shall not want to descend to the nether regions for any food and we will be as safe as crickets under a big stone.”

“You ridiculous child, I hope you will be safe. I will see that the outside doors and windows are fastened and we will take the latch-key. If you promise to play in the attic and not to do anything with matches or fire, I think I can trust you.”

“We won’t have a single sentiment of fire or matches and we will be just as good as pie,—as the pumpkin pie we had for dinner. I’ll tell you what we’re going to play, mother. It is very much according to the day, a historical sort of entertainment: we’re going to play Mayflower and Plymouth Rock and Indians. I’ve thought it all out. The big chest is to be Plymouth Rock and the old rocking-chair the Mayflower. You won’t mind our hitching the chair along the floor a little so as to make it more like sailing. I haven’t decided whether I shall be John Alden or Myles Standish; maybe I can be both. Betsy is going to be Priscilla, and we are going to be very historical and thankful, so you see we shall not have any chance of getting into mischief.”

“Then if that is the case I can leave you. There are ginger-snaps in the stone jar in the pantry, if you get hungry.”

“Oh, but I don’t believe the Pilgrims had ginger-snaps, do you? Perhaps they had plum-duff. I don’t know what that is exactly, but it sounds Englishy and old-fashioned. But if our muscles need refreshment after our arduous journey we will seek the stone jar, mother.”

“Betsy will stay with you till someone comes, I suppose.”

“Oh yes, for Dick is coming home after the football game and of course Hal will come, too, and one of them can take Betsy home. Besides, Bert will be back before the rest because he has gone on his wheel to the game.”

“Very well, then I think I need not worry about you. I see your father coming with the buggy, so I must go.”

“Good-bye, then, dearest mother Alden. Kiss me farewell, for your son John is going on a long journey across seas to a new country. Ye good ship Mayflower bears him away.”

“Good-bye, son John,” returned Mrs. Hollins, falling into Elizabeth’s make-believe. “I hope your journey will be all you expect. We shall try to be back by dark,” and, responding to Babs’ vociferous call, Mrs. Hollins went out.

“Now then,” said Elizabeth, not waiting to see her parents off, “we will hie to the ship, Priscilla.”

They rushed off upstairs, a corner of which was given over to Elizabeth for a playroom. Here she kept her favorite books, her dolls, her treasures of various kinds. But the girls did not settle down in this usually favored place; instead they took possession of the middle of the attic, pulling a huge, old-timey rocking-chair to the point opposite a big chest. Betsy, with a handkerchief tied over head and a cheesecloth dust-cloth used as a kerchief for her shoulders, established herself in the chair, while Elizabeth hunted up a wide-brimmed felt hat of her brother Dick’s and a Norfolk jacket that she might be properly attired. By dint of mighty rockings they managed to hitch along the chair towards its destination, although it was slow work.

“Do not be cast down, Priscilla,” said the would-be John. “We shall reach our haven in good time. Methinks I see a faint upheaval yonder which has a degree of permeance not like the restless sea.” She shaded her eyes with one hand and peered forwards. “Aha!” she cried, “I am right. It is a mighty rock, and to it we will strive to make our way. Art glad, Priscilla?”

“Truly I am and very thankful,” responded Betsy. “I like not these buffeting waves.”

“Marry, neither do I!” replied Elizabeth. “It is a long and wearisome voyage we have made, but there is land at last.” She climbed to the seat of the chair and waved her hat vigorously, crying, “Land! Land!” But her violent demonstrations were too much for the clumsy craft, for it lurched backwards and the two voyagers were spilled out. They were not hurt, however, but scrambled up laughing and rubbing their elbows. “That was a mighty wave indeed,” cried Elizabeth. “A little more and we had been drowned, Priscilla. We must now wade ashore and reach the rock.” With much pretended effort they managed to do this, clambering to the top of the chest and falling upon their knees in thankfulness.

The next thing was to build themselves a house, which they did from some broken chairs and discarded umbrellas. But it was too tame a matter to sit there for very long, and Elizabeth rushed off to hunt game, returning breathless and reporting the meeting of a fierce savage. Leaving their house behind them, they escaped to the house of a neighbor, where, for no reason at all, they declared themselves safer, and where suddenly John Alden changed into Myles Standish, to go forth doughtily and fight the Indians. Priscilla was also transformed into a man, electing to be William Bradford.

However, they soon tired of battling with Indians and decided that something more sentimental would be to their liking. “I’ll tell you what,” said Elizabeth; “there’s an old spinning-wheel somewhere about; we can get that and you can be Priscilla and say, ‘Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?’ You can be sitting at the wheel and be singing the hymn we had at school yesterday, and I will come in. I think there is an old hymn-book in the store closet where mother packs away the winter clothes. It is locked, but the key is hanging right by the door.”

They dragged forth the old spinning-wheel, after Priscilla had resumed her maidenly dress, and then they went to hunt up the dilapidated hymn-book which Elizabeth remembered having seen on the shelf of the locked closet. It was a Yale lock, but easily opened, and in a few moments they were inside the closet, which was really like a little room and was lighted by a small window high in the side. Elizabeth rummaged around and at last found the book.

“Here it is,” she announced. “Now we will see if the same hymn is in it.”

They sat down together on a box and began looking over the book. “What a queer smell this room has,” said Betsy.

“It is the camphor balls,” Elizabeth told her. “Mother has been unpacking some of the clothes for winter and I came across a paper box of the balls while I was looking for the book. Here’s the hymn all right, Betsy. Now, come, let’s go back.”

But this was easier said than done, for, upon trying the door, they found it had swung to and was locked, the key being still on the outside.

“Now we’ve done it,” cried Elizabeth. “We are prisoners, Betsy, for there is no possible way of getting out.”

“What shall we do?” cried Betsy, looking distressed.

“We can’t do anything till the family come home. We shall just have to stay here and amuse ourselves the best we can; it won’t be so very long. They will miss us and will come up to look, then when we hear them we will bang on the door and call to them.”

“But it may not be for ever so long after they get back.”

“Oh yes, it will, for they will know we don’t want to stay up here in the dark. We can really play just as well in here even if it is smelly. We can pretend we are prisoners taken by the Indians, or that we are hiding from them and don’t dare to come out.”

Somewhat comforted, Betsy accepted the situation with a good grace, though they did not find playing prisoner a particularly exciting game and soon wearied of it. In the face of bare walls and not much space Elizabeth’s imagination failed her and they sat down rather crestfallen to wait rescuers.

They had been silent for about five minutes when suddenly Elizabeth jumped up, saying, “I know what we can do; we can play jacks with the moth balls.”

“That is an idea,” Betsy said in a pleased voice. “It will be much better than sitting still doing nothing.”

Elizabeth lifted the box of moth balls from the shelf. They cleared a space on the top of the box where they had been sitting, and, squatting down upon the floor, they began the game. The novelty of their playthings lasted till dark began to set in and they could no longer see to play. The little room was so dimly lighted that it was really not so late as it seemed, even on this November afternoon. They were not uncomfortable for there were parcels of blankets and such things wrapped in paper and piled up on the floor; these they leaned against, taking various positions as they became restless.

“It isn’t so very warm, is it?” said Betsy, after a long silence.

“No, but we can easily get out something to wrap ourselves up in. I think if we were to lie down we might be more comfortable. We can make a bed of some of these big packages; it won’t hurt, and I will get out a blanket to put over us.”

This was a new arrangement and they laughingly prepared to lie down, cuddling under a heavy blanket and feeling quite satisfied to wait events. It grew darker and darker. It was very still in the house and very still in the little room; only the sound of gentle breathing came from the pallet on the floor.

In course of time the various members of the family returned. First came Bert, who, finding that the door was locked, did not attempt to get in, but went off to Patsy McGonigle’s to see how he had fared upon Thanksgiving Day. Next came a merry party of young people. Dick had a latch-key and let in the crowd. They went into the parlor and began to sing college songs, then Neal Paine proposed that all go over to his house.

“I’m jolly hungry myself, after that long ride,” he said, “and we’ve a barrel of oysters sent up for Thanksgiving, so what’s the matter with going over, all of us, and having an oyster roast?”

“First-rate,” agreed Hal.

“So say we all of us,” Dick seconded him. So out they all rushed across the street, leaving the house to silence though not to utter darkness.

Not long after this the wheels of the buggy crunched up the driveway. Mrs. Hollins and Babs alighted and Mr. Hollins drove off to the barn. “By the looks of things I should say that Dick and the rest had returned,” remarked Mrs. Hollins as she entered the lighted room. “I wonder where the little girls are. Perhaps Elizabeth has walked home with Hal and Betsy,” and, leisurely taking off her coat and hat, she sat down to unfasten Babs’s wraps.

Presently Mr. Hollins came in. “Where are the youngsters?” he asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Hollins. “The boys have evidently been here. I haven’t been upstairs, but I imagine that Elizabeth has walked home with Betsy and Hal; perhaps they all went off together, though Elizabeth promised to be here when I returned. Suppose you call up and see if she is at the Tysons’s.”

Mr. Hollins went to the ’phone, returning in a few minutes with the report that there was no response to the call. “They’re all away, I suppose,” he said. “I noticed that the house was quite dark as we came by. Perhaps the girls have gone to Bess Ferguson’s. I’ll try there.” The reply to his query was that neither of the girls was there and had not been since early in the day.

“I will go upstairs and hunt around,” said Mrs. Hollins; “perhaps they are in the house after all.” Leaving Babs with her father, Mrs. Hollins mounted the stairs and searched through all the rooms on the next floor, then she took a lamp and went up into the attic. Here were signs of the late presence of Elizabeth and her friend, Betsy. The big chair still lay where it had been overturned, the spinning-wheel loomed up dimly before the window, a bow and arrow of Bert’s lay on the floor, garments were strewn around. “Elizabeth will have to come up tomorrow and set things to rights,” murmured Mrs. Hollins, as she looked around with a half smile. Then she called softly, “Elizabeth, Elizabeth!” But there was no answer. After waiting a moment Mrs. Hollins went slowly downstairs to rejoin her husband. “I can’t find them anywhere,” she told him. “I’ve been all over the house. Where do you suppose they can be?”

“Here comes Bert,” said Mr. Hollins, “perhaps he can give us some light on the subject.”

Bert came whistling up on the porch and in a moment came in. “Hallo,” he said, “you’ve got back, haven’t you? Gee! but it was a fine game.”

“Have you seen anything of your sister Elizabeth?” inquired his mother.

“Not a sign. When I got back the house was all locked up so I went over to see Patsy. The McGonigles had roast pork and sweet corn and potatoes, and they were just as thankful as anything.” Bert never lost an opportunity of bringing to light the virtues of the McGonigles.

“Never mind what the McGonigles had,” said Mr. Hollins; “what we are more interested in is the whereabouts of your sister.”

“I’ll bet she is hiding somewhere just to give us a scare,” declared Bert.

“Then you can go and find her,” suggested his father.

Upstairs and down tramped Bert, storming at last into the attic whose shadows and dark corners were rather disheartening to even an older person. Bert did not advance very far into the dim recesses, but, standing in the doorway, shouted stentoriously, “’Lizbeth! I say, ’Lizbeth, where are you?”

Then something happened. Mrs. Hollins appeared with a lamp. “I have just thought,” she murmured, and went straight to the door of the closet. She saw the key sticking in the lock, turned it and looked in to see an auburn head closely snuggled by the side of a dark brown one.

Bert peered around his mother’s shoulder. “Well, I’ll be switched if they’re not asleep,” he exclaimed.

Betsy sat up and rubbed her eyes. “It’s very smelly in here,” she remarked.

Bert went off into shouts of laughter which awakened his sister.

“You’ve come at last,” said Elizabeth, scrambling from her improvised couch. “We thought you never would come.”

“How long do you think I have been looking for you?” asked her mother, with a smile. “A full half hour. How did you happen to choose such a place for a nap?”

“We didn’t choose it,” answered Elizabeth. “It chose us. We came in here to get a hymn-book and the door had to go and close itself, so we were locked in; we’ve been here for ages.”

“Then you’d better come out as quickly as you can and get some fresh air. I don’t wonder you fell asleep in that stuffy place.”

The girls were only too glad to obey, and at Mrs. Hollins’s suggestion ran up and down the porch ten times to get their lungs full of fresh air; then they were ready for ginger-snaps and such things, their Pilgrim days being over.

CHAPTER IIIThe Piece Bag

“E

LIZABETH, you must set things to rights in the attic,” said Mrs. Hollins the next day. “Everything is in confusion there, and you know I can’t allow that.”

“Oh yes, mother, I will do it,” Elizabeth assured her, “but you see we had to leave it so yesterday because we were imprisoned, incartcerated.”

Mrs. Hollins smiled. “You dearly like a redundancy of letters in your words, don’t you, daughter?”

“What is redundancy?” inquired Elizabeth, pleased at hearing a new word.

“It means more than enough.”

“I suppose Elizabeth thinks one cannot have too much of a good thing,” remarked Dick, looking up from his book. “The longer she can make the word the better. Where were you ‘incartcerated,’ Elizabeth?”

“In the packing closet with the moth balls,” replied his sister. “It was an awfully stuffy place.”

“I should think so, and it is a wonder you were not asphyxiated,” returned Dick. “There is a good long word for you, Libzie.”

“Say it again,” begged Elizabeth.

Dick repeated the word and Elizabeth slowly said it after him. “Ass-fix-he-ate-ed. It would make a lovely charade, Dick.”

Her brother put back his head and roared. “I’ll bet you can’t spell it. I’ll give you a nickel if you can.”

Elizabeth made several attempts but failed in each one, so Dick finally had to tell her, and she carefully wrote it down on a piece of paper that she might puzzle Betsy when she should come, though at the same time she maintained that she still thought it would make a good charade. She was so intent upon planning this out that she entirely forgot about the condition of the attic and, as it was a bright, clear morning, she decided that if she could gather an audience and press Betsy into service they could act charades out of doors.

However, she failed in her errand, because Betsy