BETTY! Bet-ty!" called Nannie from the foot of the stairs, "tell Jack that he's got just about three minutes more, as papa has started to put on his overcoat, and he does so dislike to have us late for church. Do make him hurry!"

But that, as I knew very well, was easier said than done, for Jack hates to hurry. Almost at the last minute, when we had gathered in the schoolroom to let Miss Marston see us before we started out with papa for church, it was discovered that Jack's boots needed cleaning. So now he was up in the attic, brushing away at them, and singing with all his might,—

Jack was just beginning the last line of this verse when Nannie called to me; so I let him finish, then I shouted up the attic stairs, "Jack, you've just got about two minutes and a half; papa has started to put on his overcoat. Are you ready?"

"Most," Jack answered; "I've got one more heel to do,"—as if he'd had a dozen or so! and he actually started on another verse of the hymn.

I flew up the attic steps and gazed indignantly at him through the railings: "You are the most provoking boy I ever knew," I said, "and the biggest poke! I do believe you love to be late. There's everybody down in the hall ready to start, and here you are loitering as if you had hours to spare."

"Are you two coming, or are you not?" cried Phil from the hall below. "The procession is ready to start, and woe to stragglers! If service began at twelve instead of eleven o'clock, Jack, you'd still be late. Come on, Betty."

"I declare, if you aren't all the greatest pack of naggers!" exclaimed Jack, impatiently, throwing down the blacking brushes and snatching up his hat; then he raced after us down the stairs and brought up the rear as we filed out of the front door.

There are always so many of us to go to church—all of us children (except Alan, who goes to the children's service in the afternoon), and Miss Marston and papa—that we do make, as Phil says, a regular procession as we walk down the avenue and across the park to the old brown church every Sunday. I don't mind going in the procession, nor does Jack,—unless he's very late; but Nora thinks it's horrid, and Phil and Felix always hang back for the very last, and try to look as if they didn't belong to us at all. Nannie and MÄdel go with papa, Kathie and Paul with Miss Marston, and the rest of us straggle along as we like until we get to the church. It's brown and very large, and has a good deal of ivy growing all over it. It's the church where Murray Unsworth and Helen Vassah stood sponsors for their little cousin Paul; they go there and their grandfather and grandmother.

Papa likes to sit away up front; so up the middle aisle we go,—oh, how the boys and Nora hate this part!—and file into the first two pews. We are always early, and sometimes it does seem so long before service begins. Jack and I sit at the upper end of the first pew, and I couldn't tell you how many times we have read the Creed and Commandments that are printed back of the chancel, and the memorials on each side. Then we look out the hymns for the day, and read them all through. Jack likes to do this; he has all sorts of odd ideas about them; for instance, he says that when he sings,

he somehow always thinks of the picture in papa's study of St. Michael and the Angel. He says he can see, right in his mind, the great beautiful angel of light triumphant in the strength of God, and under his feet the stormy evil face of the conquered Lucifer. I've got so now that I too think of the picture when I sing the hymn, and of the hymn when I look at the picture.

Then in the other hymn, where it says,

Jack says he sees—just like a picture—a steep hill up which a whole lot of people are striving, with all their might, to climb; they're poor and tired and sick and lame, but they struggle bravely on; and by the beautiful gates at the top of the hill stands One grand and white and shining, wearing a golden crown. He bends forward and takes hold of each tired traveller as soon as he is within reach, and helps him safe within the gates; and in the hands that do this are "wound-prints." Jack always shuts his eyes and lowers his voice when he tells us about this thought of his; only Nannie and I know of it, and while I am hearing about it I always feel quiet.

How he does enjoy singing! His little body seems to expand, and you'd be astonished at the noise that he can make. This particular Sunday that I am telling you about my ears were fairly ringing as Jack joined in the chorus of "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and I wasn't sorry when Phil leaned over from behind and whispered, "Say, Rosebud, you're not detailed to lead the choir, you know."

Even the choir-master looked at him; but, perfectly regardless of everything and everybody, Jack sang through the five long verses, and sat down with the air of having thoroughly enjoyed himself.

I made up my mind, though, that I'd say something about it on our way home; but just as we were coming down the church steps Jack gave my arm a nudge. "There are your friends," he said, with a grin,—"the two of 'em; just see Phil and Felix scoot!" And when I turned quickly to see, who should it be but Mr. Erveng and Hilliard!

Mr. Erveng has been over to call on papa since that horrid afternoon that he escorted Phil and me home; but Hilliard didn't come with him, and we weren't sorry,—I mean Phil and I,—for we both felt foolish about meeting him; we hadn't forgotten that giggle of his when we took off our bonnets and veils that day in his father's library, and I think we both felt that we didn't want to know him any better.

Mr. Erveng and papa walked across the park together, talking, and as we all followed behind,—Felix and Phil were out of sight,—who should come up beside me and lift his hat but that Hilliard! "May I walk with you part way home?" he asked, "I want to say something to you."

He speaks slowly, deliberately, and has a way of half-closing his eyes when he's talking, that gives him a sleepy look,—though he can open them very wide too, sometimes; and he's sallow, and has lots of freckles. Altogether, he isn't nearly as good-looking as our boys, or Murray Unsworth; still he has rather a nice face, and we've found out that he is just as gentle and nice as a girl to his mother,—I mean in waiting on her and doing things for her. But all the same, I don't know whether I like him or not; you see he's never had a sister, never been much with girls, and he's got such silly, prim ideas about them.

Well, to go back: when he asked that, I said, "Oh, yes, I suppose so;" but Jack says my tone wasn't very polite. I didn't mean to be impolite, but seeing him brought that horrid afternoon right to my mind, and I could just hear him giggle all over again; I assure you Phil and I'll not try that sort of thing again,—not if the Fetich never gets sold.

And evidently that was in his mind, too; for he said, "I want to apologise for being so rude as to laugh that day in my father's office,"—that's the way he talks, so formal, as if he were as old as papa,—"and for guarding—"

"We didn't think it was at all polite, I must say," I broke in.

But he went right on; that's another of his ways,—if one interrupts him fifty times in a remark, he'll listen, but make no reply until he's finished what he started out to say. Now I think that's provoking,—I wonder how he'd get on if he lived in our family!—and it makes the person that interrupts feel very small and nettled, too. "And for guarding you and your brother home, as if I doubted your word," he finished.

Well, now, do you know, I hadn't ever thought about that part,—his going along to guard us,—until he said this; and then, all at once, I felt very angry. "I think it was very, very rude of you," I said decidedly, "and I really wish you would go away and walk with your father, or by yourself—"

"Why, Betty!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise; then, leaning across me, he said politely, "Please don't think that Betty is a rude girl, for indeed she isn't; but she is awfully quick-tempered, and when she gets mad she is apt to say lots of things that she doesn't mean. She is really quite a nice girl. I'm Jack Rose, her brother; so you see I ought to know."

"So you should; I'm glad to meet you," Hilliard said, shaking hands with Jack. Then he added to me: "I do hope you and your brother will let us be friendly. I've told my mother about you both, and she wants so much to know you and your sisters. Perhaps some of you would come over and see her? She is very much of an invalid, and is not able to go out, except for a drive now and then; but when she is well enough to see them, she enjoys having visitors."

I was ashamed of having spoken so sharply, but I didn't want to go and see Mrs. Erveng; so all I could say was, in a lame sort of way, "Thank you; perhaps—if papa says we may."

Instead of letting the matter drop there, he must needs go on: "I have tried several times to speak to your brother,—at college, and once on the street,—but he seems to avoid me," he said. "I wanted to explain to him; I was afraid you might think my father was severe, but he really didn't beli—he didn't suppose—that is, the young people we've known—" He stopped, looking awfully red and embarrassed, then ended up with, "I'm afraid I'm making an awful muddle of it, but I'm really very sorry; I hope you and your brother will understand that."

By "brother" I think he meant Phil, but Jack took it to himself. "Of course, oh, certainly," he said, nudging my elbow to say likewise, and bobbing his head round my shoulder.

But I wouldn't, for I understood, just as well as if Hilliard'd said it, that he—they all—thought our coming over to his house, as we had done, to sell the Fetich, was a very queer proceeding. Miss Marston had said that they must think me very unladylike. She so often tells me people think that of me that I've got used to it and don't mind; but I felt very uncomfortable when it occurred to me that perhaps this boy and his father and mother thought so too. "Why didn't you say right out that you thought my dressing up and coming over to your house that way was very queer and unladylike?" I demanded. "I know it's what you think." He opened his mouth to speak, but I went on quickly: "Pooh! that's nothing to what I can do. I can slide down three flights of banisters without one swerve, and make worse faces than any one we know, and whistle, and brandish Indian clubs, and fence and climb besides, and, oh! lots of other things that only boys do; why, I'm strong enough to be able to thrash Jack—there now!"

"I'd just like to see you try it!" put in Jack, hastily, ruffling up; then, in an undertone, with a nudge of his elbow, "Oh, come now, Betty, do behave yourself."

But Hilliard just looked at me—his eyes were wide enough open now—as if I were some strange kind of animal; he really looked shocked. I wondered what he would think of some of my performances at home, and I couldn't resist saying, "I suppose the girls that you know never do such things?"

"Not when they are as old or as tall as you are," he answered quietly.

Just then Miss Marston and the little ones and Nannie and Nora came up to us, so I introduced Hilliard to them, and as soon as we saw that Nora was talking to him, Jack and I dropped behind and kept there.

"Betty," said Jack, severely, as we turned away, "you are really a most provoking girl! I told that boy that you were nice, and you turned right round and acted abominably. What possessed you? I didn't hear him say one thing to make you angry."

"Jack," I answered, "sometimes you're as dense as a London fog. That boy is a conceited poke because he has no sister; and you'd be just like him if I weren't here to train you."

"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Jack, indignantly. "Talking about conceit,—where do you put yourself?"

Two hands came suddenly between us; a pleasant voice said, "Let's talk about the sermon, and see which of us remembers most of it;" and there was Max. He had been in church, he said, but stopping to speak to some one had detained him, and he was now going home to have dinner with us,—which meant a visit with papa after dinner, and then a nice long talk with us in the schoolroom. Max is so nice about that; he never slights us. In fact, I think he spends more and more time with us, for he and Nannie have started in to play violin and piano duets together, and he comes one week-evening to practise. He has lent her his violin,—a beauty!—and he takes the piano part. His ward—"the great Shad," as Phil and Felix call him—has not yet arrived; but Max told us this Sunday, as we walked along, that he expected him to be in the city very soon, "and then," he said, "I shall bring him round to be introduced to you young people."When we reached our house, Hilliard said good-bye, and ran across to his own gate; but Max, Mr. Erveng,—Max has been to call on the Ervengs, and has renewed acquaintance with his college-mate,—and papa stood talking for a few minutes before they separated. As we entered our door, Nannie was right behind me, and I heard her say to Felix in a low voice, "Look at papa as he stands between those two men; don't you think he looks very old and worn?"

"Well, he's years older than they, isn't he?" asked Fee, turning to look. I too craned my neck for a glimpse, but barely caught sight of the top of papa's hat over Phil's shoulder.

"Not so many," Nannie said; "he is eight years older than Mr. Erveng, and ten years older than Max. Not enough to show such a difference."

"Why, he looks twenty years older than either of them;" then, lowering his voice,—but I heard him,—Felix added, "Poor old pater! He seems to enjoy talking to Mr. Erveng; but do you know, Nannie, I'm awfully sorry we played that joke about the Fetich. I fancy he hasn't been quite the same since."

"No, he hasn't, and he's working desperately to get the book finished; he even works in the evening, when he used to read as a recreation. I hope he won't get ill." Then the front door closed, and there was a general rush upstairs to take off coats and hats.

I wasn't very happy the rest of that day; Nannie's remark about papa, and what that disagreeable boy across the way had said, kept coming back and coming back to me, so that I really got quite unhappy over it, until I told Nannie the whole thing that night, and then I began to feel better. Though Nannie always tells you right out if you've been wrong, she is also sure to say something to comfort you.

I was in the schoolroom the next afternoon, practising, when suddenly the door flew open, and in bounced Jack, in a state of wild excitement. "Oh, think of it! think of it, Betty!" he exclaimed joyously, "I'm going to sing—to sing! just think of it!"

"Why, you've been doing that for a long time, haven't you?" I asked, with a lively recollection of what I had endured only yesterday.

"Oh, but this is different; it's to be in church,—I mean in the choir,—and I'm to be paid for it!"

"What! really?" I gasped in astonishment. "Why, Jack! Do tell me all about it!"

This he was only too delighted to do; but he was so excited that he could not sit still, and he kept walking backward and forward before me while he was speaking. "Well, it was this way," he said; "just now, while I was playing in the yard, Hannah said papa wanted to see me. Of course I thought right away that something must be wrong, and I didn't feel very happy over it, I can tell you; but when I got to the study, there was papa with a big piece of news for me. Mr. Hawkins from our church had come to see him to ask if he would let me sing in the choir, and was waiting in the drawing-room for my answer! Why, I'd have been glad to sing there for nothing, you know; but when papa went on, and said I would get fifty cents for each Sunday that I sang, I was so delighted, Betty, that I really couldn't say a word. But I guess papa knew by my face how overjoyed I was, for he patted my shoulder and said, 'Well, then, you can go in the drawing-room and tell Mr. Hawkins that you will accept his offer, and be at rehearsal on Friday evening;' and then he spoke about what an honour it was to be chosen to sing God's praises in His own house. I tell you what, Betty, I'm going to try to be a very, very good boy; now aren't you glad for me?"

Indeed I was glad, and I told him so; and then what do you think he said? Why, he came close to me, with his clasped hands behind his back, and rocked himself to and fro on his heels and toes; his eyes were shining with delight. "Betty," he said, "I'm to get fifty cents a week at first, and more, Mr. Hawkins says, just as soon as I can read music readily. Now I'm not going to spend one cent of it,—not a single penny. I'm going to save it up until I get a lot, and then,—what d'you think? I'm going to send Felix to college! Isn't that a splendid scheme? now isn't it? You see," he went on eagerly, "I've been praying for a way for Fee to go,—you have, too, haven't you? and Nannie,—and I think God has just answered our prayers by letting me get this."

"Yes; but won't it take an awfully long time at that rate to save enough to send Fee?" I asked.

"Oh, not so very long," Jack replied cheerfully. In the exuberance of his joy he took hold of the schoolroom table and threw his heels in the air; he looked so funny that I could have roared with laughter,—Jack is as clumsy as a cow! Then all at once he remembered something, and coming over to me said, very impressively, "Now, remember, Betty, you're not to say one word about this to Fee,—not a word; I sha'n't mention it to any one beside you, but Nannie, and she wouldn't tell; and then, when we've got enough, we'll give it to Fee, and tell him what it's for. Hoopla!" And again he embraced the table and threw his heels in the air.

VIII.