“Oh, Kit, isn’t it just fun!” cried Jane, her rosy, chubby face beaming. “How fast we are going!”

“Ho,” exclaimed Christopher, “it’s not so fast. Not so awfully fast, is it, grandfather? I’d like to go about sixty miles an hour. That would be going for you.”

“Oh, Kit!” breathed Jane in mingled awe and admiration.

Jane and Christopher—or Kit as he was generally called to distinguish him from his father, whose name also was Christopher—were twins, and so far along the course of their short lives had shared everything, from peppermint drops to ideas. The stern fact that Christopher was a boy and Jane a girl was just beginning faintly to dawn upon them—a state demonstrated by Jane’s unqualified admiration of everything her brother said and did, and by his occasional condescension of manner toward her.

Jane leaned back in her parlor car seat hugging her doll—a wonderful new one with flaxen hair turned up with a comb and dressed “like a lady”—quite content with the rate at which the train was speeding through the green fields and villages; while Christopher bobbed about from seat to seat, trying the view from each side of the train in turn and wishing he could look out on both sides at once.

There were very few passengers in the parlor car, for it was early in the season for summer visitors to go to the country. Besides the twins and their grandparents there were only three other passengers: two gentlemen who were very busy talking and paid no attention to any one else, and a sweet-faced lady with gray hair who sat at the other end of the car and who watched the children with great interest. She looked as if she would like to make friends with them.

After a while she took a candy box out of her satchel and catching the twins’ eyes, beckoned to them, holding out the open box. Christopher was for bolting down the car aisle at once, but Jane caught him back and whispered something to her grandmother, who looked up from her book, exchanged smiles with the sweet-faced stranger, bowed and said “yes” to Jane.

“I thought you might like some chocolates,” said the lady as the children approached. “Won’t you sit down there opposite me?”

“Thank you,” said Jane politely, and the twins tucked themselves side by side into the big chair. The lady’s sweet, interested manner and the chocolates quickly put matters upon a friendly footing, and in two minutes the children were prattling away as if they had known Mrs. Hartwell-Jones (for that, she told them, was her name, watching out of the corner of her eye as she pronounced it to see if it sounded familiar to them) as if they had known her all their lives. Their own names, age and family history were soon told.

“Our mother and father have gone to Europe for four months,” announced Christopher importantly. “Father had to go on business and mother wanted to go with him and so——”

“She did not want to go, Kit,” corrected Jane. “The doctor thought she ought to.”

“Well, she did want to go. How could she help wanting to go to Europe?” demanded Christopher triumphantly. “So she and father went, and we are to spend the whole summer on the farm.”

“The whole summer,” repeated Jane, happily. But she swallowed hard as she thought of her father and mother off in the middle of the ocean on a big ship.

“It’s a real farm,” went on Christopher, “with cows and chickens and pigs.”

“And horses and dogs and cats,” added Jane, the lump in her throat already gone.

“Oh, they don’t count. You could have horses and dogs and cats without having a farm,” said Christopher. “There are big fields where the men plough and cut hay, and there must be dozens of cows,” he explained to Mrs. Hartwell-Jones.

“And where is this wonderful farm?”

“It’s near Hammersmith. We drive there; miles and miles!”

“The farm is called ‘Sunnycrest,’” put in Jane eagerly, “because the house—grandfather’s house—stands up on a hill. The farmhouse and stables are down the hill across the dearest little creek, where they have a dairy and make butter. Huldah lets me help sometimes. Huldah cooks for grandmother but she lives at the farm, she and Josh.”

“Josh is grandfather’s ‘right-hand man,’ grandfather calls him. He bosses the whole farm and he’s awfully nice.”

“It all sounds ‘awfully nice,’” said the gray-haired lady a little wistfully. “I am going to Hammersmith, too, only I have to stay in the village. Perhaps you will come to see me some time?”

“Yes’m,” said Jane politely. “If grandmother will let us.”

Grandmother herself joined them just then. She was afraid that the children might be tiring their new friend. She and Mrs. Hartwell-Jones introduced themselves to each other and grandmother sat down in the chair out of which the children, mindful of their manners, had tumbled. They stood quietly in the aisle for a moment or two, but as grandmother would not allow them to have any more chocolates and the conversation promised to be quite “grown up,” they ran back to their own seats.

Presently the train slowed down and finally came to a stop beside a long, dilapidated platform with a small, low wooden house. There were several sets of tracks branching out from this platform in different directions and on the platform was a group of people, standing about as if waiting for a train.

“What’s the matter, grandfather?” asked Christopher a little impatiently. “I thought this train wasn’t going to stop again until we got to Hammersmith.”

The conductor, who was passing through the train, heard Christopher’s question and stopped obligingly to explain.

“We have to wait for the Mount Pleasant train here at the Junction, sonny,” he said. “It’s a bit late, but we won’t be delayed long. Them people,” he added to grandfather, pointing through the window to the group on the platform, “have been waiting for it ’most four hours. They’re a circus troupe.”

A circus troupe! A traveling circus—how interesting! Jane and Christopher pressed eagerly to the window and stared out at the small knot of people. There was nothing remarkable about them except that they all looked tired and a little anxious. Jane surveyed them thoughtfully.

“Poor people,” she said. “I’m sorry they have to stand there so long, waiting. They look tired. And there’s a baby—oh, Kit!” She grasped her brother suddenly by the sleeve, still peering out through the window. “Oh, Kit, it is, it is!” she exclaimed excitedly. “It’s Letty!”

“Who, the baby is?” asked Christopher contemptuously. “Do stop clawing me, Jane.”

“No, no, the girl holding the baby. Do look, Kit. Don’t you see her?”

Jane loosened her hold of Christopher’s sleeve to point out a child standing a little apart from the waiting group. The girl was dressed in a faded, clean frock of pink gingham and her glossy brown hair was smoothly brushed and braided. Her face was turned away from the children, but what they could see of it looked thin and sad. She carried a jolly, restless, heavy baby in her arms who was crowing and holding out its arms toward the locomotive. Christopher looked at the girl a moment in hesitation.

“I don’t believe it’s Letty. But it does look some like her,” he added doubtfully. “I wish she would turn around more so I could see her face better.”

As if in answer to his wish the little girl did turn just then and looked directly at the children. Perhaps she had felt the intentness of Jane’s earnest gaze. At sight of the twins her face suddenly brightened and she walked slowly down the platform toward the car in which they were sitting.

“It is Letty!” exclaimed the twins together in great excitement, and they commenced to nod and smile with all their might.

“Oh, grandfather, mayn’t we go to the platform to speak to her? We haven’t seen her in three whole years!” cried Jane eagerly. “We thought she was lost.”

“Speak to whom?” asked grandfather in great surprise, looking out of the window over the children’s shoulders.

“Why, to Letty. See, there she is. She’s the little girl who saved our lives from the bear. Hurry, before the train starts,” explained Christopher, jumping up from his seat.

He and Jane rushed pell-mell down the aisle to the door, followed by Mr. Baker.

“What is it? What has happened?” asked grandmother in some alarm, looking up from her conversation with Mrs. Hartwell-Jones. “What are they going to see?”

“They say that the little girl is outside who saved their lives from the attack of the mad bear that time at Willow Grove Park.”

“Really?” exclaimed grandmother much interested. “Then I should like to talk to her, too.”

She rose from her seat, but paused to tell the story to Mrs. Hartwell-Jones.

“It happened three years ago. My daughter-in-law had taken the children to some sort of entertainment out at Willow Grove. A trained bear, driven mad by the heat, they supposed, broke loose from its keeper and charged the audience. Jane and Christopher were sitting in the very front row and the bear was almost upon them when this little girl—one of the performers, an acrobat, I think—jumped down from the stage and threw a cover over the bear’s head so that he was blinded and his trainer captured him easily enough.”

“What great presence of mind,” said Mrs. Hartwell-Jones. “I should like to see the little girl, too.”

“Then let us step outside. My daughter did go to see them at once. The child’s mother was quite a lady but in most reduced circumstances; and she went again later, meaning to help them, but learned that the mother had died and the little girl had been taken away by friends, she was never able to find out where. If this is the child, I should like to do something for her.”

In the meantime, Jane and Christopher had rushed to the door of the car, their faces beaming with excitement and delight. The girl had transferred the baby she was carrying hurriedly to its mother and stood watching the door with an air of shy expectancy.

“Oh, Letty, Letty, to think that we have found you again!” exclaimed Jane, kissing her heartily, while Christopher capered about them in glee.

“Find me? Did you ever look for me?” asked the little girl, her face lighting up with pleasure.

“Why, of course we did,” answered Christopher. “Didn’t we say we’d come again? We got your address from the boarding-house at Willow Grove and we went to see you—but you had gone away.”

“We were so sorry for you,” whispered Jane, slipping her hand into Letty’s.

Poor Letty turned away to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes. She was greatly changed, poor child, in those three years. Her face had lost all its pretty roundness and her eyes seemed too large for the rest of her face, they were so wide and sad.

“Have you been with the circus all this time?” asked Christopher with great interest.

“Yes,” she answered sadly. “There hasn’t seemed anything else to do. My—my brother Ben died too, last year,” she added with a little sob.

“Oh, I am so sorry—so, so sorry!” repeated Jane softly. “Poor Letty, I wish you could come with us.”

“We’re going to the farm to spend the summer,” explained Christopher. “Our grandfather’s farm. Don’t you remember we told you about it?”

“Indeed I do remember. How happy you both must be.”

“We are. And wouldn’t you like to come too?” asked Jane impulsively.

“Of course I should like it, if I could,” and Letty’s voice grew very wistful.

Just then a long train, with bell jangling and escaping steam hissing, rolled up to the opposite platform with a loud rumble. The waiting group of people hastened to get on it.

“Letty, Letty!” called some one sharply. “Come at once.”

“Oh, Letty,” cried Jane, “must you go? Please don’t. We don’t want to lose you again!”

“Letty, you’ll miss the train,” called a gruff masculine voice, and added, “Hurry up, now,” in a tone not to be disobeyed.

The conductor of the waiting train, his eye on his watch, emphasized the need of haste by shouting “All aboard” very peremptorily.

Letty stopped and kissed Jane and then bounded across the platform with all her old grace and agility.

“Write to me. Please write to me!” shrieked Jane after her.

The twins waved their hands frantically as Letty turned for a farewell nod, and watched the train pull out.

“We don’t even know where she’s gone,” wailed Jane. “We’ll never see her again!”

Mrs. Baker stepped from the doorway of the parlor car, with Mrs. Hartwell-Jones behind her.

“Has the little girl gone?” she asked regretfully. “I wanted to see her.”

“She’s gone,” Jane replied disconsolately. “And we don’t even know where.”

“Dear me, how very unsatisfactory,” sighed grandmother. “I should have liked so much to do something for her.”

Then they all went back into the car again as their own train began to move.

“From the fleeting glimpse I had of her, I should say that the child had a rather unusual face,” remarked Mrs. Hartwell-Jones thoughtfully, as the two ladies seated themselves again. “Can you tell me anything more about her, Mrs. Baker?”

“Janey,” said grandmother later, when they were all making ready to leave the train, “can’t you guess who Mrs. Hartwell-Jones really is? Don’t you remember her name?”

Jane shook her head.

“Why, she is the lady who wrote that lovely book you got last Christmas, of which you are so fond.”

“The ‘Jimmie-Boy’ book?” asked Jane in an awestruck voice. “But that is by——” Opening her own miniature dress-suit case, of which she was immensely proud, Jane got out the book in question and spelled out the author’s name: “Mary C. Hartwell-Jones.”

“Exactly,” said grandmother with great satisfaction. “That is her whole name, ‘Mary C. Hartwell-Jones.’ She has taken rooms in Mrs. Parsons’ house at Hammersmith for the whole summer, and she expects to write another book!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Jane, much impressed. “And she asked us to come and see her, grandmother.”

Jane stared hard at the lady with whom she had chattered so freely and familiarly a short time before and whom she now regarded with the greatest possible awe. Then, crossing to Christopher, she told him the wonderful news. And from that time on Mrs. Hartwell-Jones was known to the two children as “The lady who wrote books.”