Fully expecting Mrs. Frederic Fernell to pour into her ears the story of Rosa’s rebellious habits, with the intention of soliciting Nancy’s aid toward their correction, Nancy instantly assumed the defensive. She did not come out to New Hampshire to reform Rosalind Fernell, and besides that, she was not ready to admit that Rosa needed reforming.

All of which really marked Nancy’s sincerity, for she was by no means a “poser.” She knew she had failings herself, so why should not Rosa have some? Because each differed in her weakness, did that make either less weak or less troublesome? Not according to Nancy’s reasoning, at any rate.

The figure floating into her room, as usual sent a dainty fragrance on ahead.

“I’m so glad you like your scarf, dear,” said Betty, sinking into the nearest chair, “and I see you do.”

“Oh, I love it,” said Nancy, forgetting everything else but her gratitude. “Thank you so much for giving it to me—Betty.” She always paused before using the name without any other distinguishing mark of respect.

“I knew it would match you—you are so varied in your own tones. Well, my dear, I do so want you to have a lovely time with Rosa this summer, that I just stepped in to assure you of that. Your Uncle Frederic and I are most anxious to have both of you enjoy yourselves. To help you to do so, we have made some new plans.” The chair with the parrot cushion suited Betty best, so she sank into that as gracefully as usual.

Nancy caressed the playful scarf she still held about her shoulders and she, also, sat down. New plans! She hoped they would not be so very different, for she was only now becoming acquainted at Fernlode, and rather dreaded the unusual.

“It can be terribly dull here,” pursued the lady, “and for two young girls especially. So I have coaxed my husband to allow Rosa and you to attend little affairs at our hotel—properly chaperoned, of course,” she concluded.

“At the Sunset Hotel?” queried Nancy, a little uneasily. She had no clothes suitable for such functions, was what she instantly thought.

“Yes, my dear. You see, your Uncle Frederic has implicit faith in the good judgment of our friends the Durands, and they will go with you—they always do attend the Sunset,” said Lady Betty.

“That’s lovely, of course,” faltered Nancy, “but mother had no idea—”

“I understand, dear child,” interrupted the little queen in her lace robes in the big chair. “You shall need pretty things, and I just love to buy them, so I’ve had a box sent in to you. You see, Rosa,” as Nancy was attempting to speak, “has an idea no one can buy anything for her. She is stout, but young enough to grow thin,” said the remote step-mother, “yet, I can’t interfere with Rosa. It just makes her more furious.”

“It’s lovely of you to bother with me, Betty, and I do like pretty things. But I hate to give you so much bother.” Nancy felt very stupid making such commonplace thanks. Ted would have choked to listen to that foolish speech. Was Betty going to avoid the troublesome subject of Rosa’s tempers? Was Nancy going to escape the tactful lecture she had felt sure of receiving?

“If things have to be altered Margot will attend to that,” went on the Lady Betty, “and you just wear everything. That’s what they’re for. Have a good time and grow fat! Wouldn’t it be wonderful if some little fairy took from Rosa what she gave to you?”

“I suppose we both could afford at least some of that sort of change,” said Nancy, warming up to Betty’s pleasantries. “But if I had just known what clothes I should have needed, I am sure I would have brought them along.”

“Then, I’m glad you didn’t know. Otherwise I should have missed all the fun of my shopping tour. Folks think me very vain, I know,” admitted the pretty Mrs. Fernell, “but I do love beautiful things. I’d like to dress a whole army of girls—”

“But not like soldiers,” ventured Nancy.

“Like the prettiest soldiers in all ages—the girls who fight the battles of wanting things they deserve, yet cannot always have.” In this rather confused speech, even Nancy could see that Betty was trying to avoid reference to her own (Nancy’s) possible needs.

“You are very kind, indeed,” said Nancy quietly.

“Not really. Because, you see, my dear, I have given myself so much pleasure. But I hope things will fit and that you will like—most of them.”

“I’m sure to,” declared Nancy. Then as Betty stood up she asked:

“Isn’t anything in the box for Rosa? If I see that she likes anything may I say you would like her to have it?”

“You clever child!” laughed the lady, and Nancy’s admiration for her charms increased with the flow of silvery sounds. “You are really an idealist; you must have everything ideally arranged,” she finished.

“But I am not, really,” protested Nancy, now actually sensing the dreaded lecture.

Nancy felt rather foolish, as any girl would, in spite of the way Betty complimented her, for back of it all she was sure, quite positive the real point of the talk lay in the need of Rosa for healthy companionship. Not that Nancy wasn’t grateful for the confidence and for the gifts, but because she really wasn’t “an old lady” and hated anything that made her feel like one.

“Rosa is with her daddy now, so I’m stealing this little chat with you,” was Mrs. Fernell’s next remark. “I do love Rosa—all our family always loved her mother,” said Betty, much to Nancy’s surprise. “My sister was Katherine’s school chum, and that’s how Fred and I became acquainted.”

“Oh,” replied Nancy, the single syllable embodying her surprise.

“Yes.” A deep sigh from Betty was also significant. “But Rosa has proved a problem. She resents, it seems, my marrying her father, although I have tried quietly to show her how little I intend to interfere with her life.”

She knew it would come; it just had to, and she couldn’t have expected to escape it, although at the moment Nancy hated her position as confidante, against her most loyal feelings for Rosa. That was just it; she couldn’t escape it. Presently her care of Rosa would be thrust at her, just as if she had been some kind of nurse.

“It will work out all right; I’m sure, however,” went on the pretty one, “if only we can keep Rosa away from certain influences. You see, Nancy, this is an unpleasant topic for me, naturally,” and the soft voice fell into deep blue velvet tones, “but as I am going away, and as I really do stand very close to Rosalind, I feel you should understand.”

“Yes,” was all Nancy could think of saying.

“There was a girl here—you have probably heard of her, Orilla Rigney,” began Mrs. Fernell again, although she was still standing, “and she is responsible for much of Rosa’s aggressiveness. You see, she and her mother lived here as sort of care-takers, and your Uncle Frederic was so kind to them they felt the place was and should be their home. The girl has tried to injure me ever since I came here. As if I could have anything in common with them.” Here Mrs. Fernell paused, haughtily. “Unfortunately she has gotten into Rosa’s confidence, with a lot of silly nonsense,” she continued after a moment. “Well, Nancy, you see I am piling troubles upon your head, but Rosa is a great baby in spite of her decided ways. So just have a good time, wear the pretty clothes, and when you write to your mother tell her we hope to find her in the big country across the water. Frederic Fernell thinks his sister is just one woman without equal, and I feel I know her through his admiration and love—”

This sudden turn in the glimpse of Betty’s character left Nancy simply gasping with surprise. She wasn’t at all the foolish, pretty doll she had been pictured, she did love Rosa, and Rosa was simply crazy to be so opposed to her, thought Nancy.

One thing was certain, however, nobody, just nobody, had a good word for Orilla. Jealousy is an awful thing, Nancy reflected, for even in her short life she had heard of its offences and, of course, Orilla was jealous.

Before Rosa returned from her confab with her father and before Lady Betty was back in her own room, Nancy had again fallen into speculation as to when, where and how she would actually meet Orilla.

“When the coast is clear,” she promptly decided. “When the folks are gone and Rosa is alone. But I’ll be here,” decided Nancy, not realizing how promptly she was espousing the cause she had been so determined to ignore.

Then a thumping and pouncing through the hall announced the arrival of Rosa. She was calling to Nancy, shouting, yelling without even expecting or even giving Nancy the slightest chance of replying.

“What do you know! What do you know!” she sang out joyously. “We’re going to the hotel! Down to Sunset! Nancy Brandon, what a lark! In the dark! Let us park!” she went on foolishly, trying to rhyme words to suit her caprice. “If you hadn’t come, of course,” she brought her voice down a few keys but not quite to dead center, “I shouldn’t have been allowed that. Betty has fallen in love with you—”

“Don’t be silly, Rosa,” said Nancy quite sagely. “It’s all on your account and you’re a perfect goose not to know that she is in love with you!”

“With me! Fat, furious me! With the bad tempered manners, and badness cropping out all over me!” scoffed Rosa.

“Like the bad boy in the play who was always scared to death of a pop gun. Rosa, you are not a very good actress,” laughed Nancy, and in that little speech she showed Rosa the way that she, at least, regarded her faults. They were a pose, a manner put on to ward off sympathy. And Rosa herself could not hate sympathy more than did Nancy.

They talked over the prospects of that summer hotel until it would seem all the summer’s fun and good times were dependent upon it. Rosa just couldn’t wait to see what Betty was sending in from Boston in the box, which Nancy had tactfully said was “for us,” and it was then, just as Betty had hinted, that Rosa forgot her rebel pose, for she actually expressed great hopes of what might be in that box for her!

“I have to do everything so quietly, so as not to arouse her suspicion,” Betty had said. And now Nancy was hoping that she too would be able to follow that policy.

Nancy Brandon might indeed be an idealist, but she was blissfully ignorant of possessing any such subtle quality.