Christopher’s request that Jo Perkins might have the use of a horse and wagon for the afternoon to take him and Billy Carpenter on a picnic was granted with some hesitation.

“Jane is going to the author-lady’s to have a silly party for her old doll and I don’t want to go,” he said. “Perk’ll look out for Bill and me all right. You’ve often let me go fishing with Perk, grandfather.”

“Yes, but then there was no other boy along to suggest mischief.”

Christopher looked a wee bit guilty, remembering the swimming project.

“We aren’t going to get into mischief,” he exclaimed hastily. “It’s just to be a picnic and do the things boys do; roast potatoes in a fire and—and all sorts of things.”

“Very well, then,” replied grandfather a little absent-mindedly. “Only remember that we’ve got to hand you and Janey over, whole and sound, to your father and mother in less than a month.”

Mr. Baker gave his permission with a little less consideration than he usually gave to the twins’ requests, perhaps because his mind was busy with his own affairs. One of the letters which Christopher had brought from the postoffice had been from the city about some business which grandfather was afraid he would have to go into town to attend to himself.

“I can’t bear to think of your tramping about those hot city pavements in this August weather,” exclaimed grandmother in distress, when he told her about it. “Can’t you possibly arrange it by letter?”

“No, I must see two or three men personally. If Kit were home” (he meant his own son, Christopher’s father), “he could attend to it for me, but as it is, I can’t see anything for it but to go myself. I shall start to-morrow and get back in three days.”

Christopher was secretly glad that his grandfather was going away for a few days. When he returned and was told that Christopher had learned how to swim, he would be very glad, the boy felt sure.

Grandmother felt quite dismayed when she was told that the three boys were to go off on a picnic. It seemed like a very great responsibility for her to bear by herself; but as there was no real reason why she should ask Christopher to put off his excursion she said nothing about it.

The day of the party arrived and Jane was so impatient to start that she would have gone without even finishing her dessert if grandmother had permitted.

“But Mrs. Hartwell-Jones said to come early. Oh, dear!” she groaned as Christopher passed his plate for a second helping. “If you’re going to sit there and stuff all day, Kit Baker, we might as well not go at all. You won’t have any room in your tummy for your picnic, and Huldah has packed an awful big one.”

It had been arranged that Joshua was to drive the twins into the village. He had left a horse in the blacksmith’s stable overnight, while a certain special shoe was made, and he intended to ride it home. Jo Perkins had not quite finished his work at the stable, so he was to follow on his bicycle and join the others at Billy Carpenter’s house.

“Now, remember, Kit, you are to go back to Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s to get Janey, and be sure to be there promptly at half-past five; not a minute later,” exclaimed grandmother for about the twentieth time; and she proceeded to give the same instructions and many more to Jo Perkins.

Joshua had harnessed the most reliable old horse in his stable to the wagon that was to be entrusted to Jo Perkins’s care for a whole afternoon—a horse that had never been known to look twice at any object and which would have been perfectly content to sleep through the day as well as the night. He lumbered over the country road at an easy trot, and when they were only half-way to the village Christopher looked over his shoulder and spied Jo Perkins speedily overtaking them on his bicycle.

“Oh, I say, Josh, make him go, Perk’s coming. Don’t let him catch up,” and he squirmed on his seat with excitement.

Joshua good-naturedly urged the horse into a swifter trot, then into a clumsy gallop as Jo Perkins bore down upon them over the level road. Jane clasped Sally tight to her breast with one hand while she hung on with the other. The road was still level and Perk was gaining steadily. He was bent double over the handle bars, pedalling frantically. Soon a long, gently sloping hill gave the horse the advantage, for he kept up his easy gallop, while Perk dropped far behind, laboring hard. Christopher sent a derisive yell after him, but he rejoiced too soon. Jane had more foresight. She remembered the down slope on the other side of the ridge.

“Perk’s going to beat,” she declared calmly, “’cause Josh won’t let the horse trot down-hill.”

“Oh, Josh, do, just this once,” urged Christopher, almost falling off the seat in his excitement. “It won’t hurt his old knees just for once.”

But Joshua was firm.

“I’m not going to abuse your gran’pa’s horses,” he said severely, permitting the horse to slacken his pace to a walk. “An’ what’s more, you’ve got to promise me, honest Injun, that you an’ Perk won’t let him trot down any hills, nor run races.”

“We aren’t going down any hills,” answered Christopher sulkily.

He looked over his shoulder again and saw Perk appear at the top of the hill, red-faced and panting. With a hoot of triumph, the boy cocked his knees over the handle bars and whirled down the hill, letting the pedals take care of themselves.

“Yah!” wailed Christopher, “he’s coasting! He’ll pass us like greased lightning.” And as he spoke, Perk flashed by them, an exultant grin on his face.

“Ah, you think you’re smart!” jeered Christopher in a vexed tone.

But pride always has a fall. As Perk reached the bottom of the hill he glanced back to see how much of a gain he had made, and the wheel of his bicycle struck a large stone in the road. Over toppled Perk on his head, tumbling into a heap by the roadside. Jane screamed and even Joshua was startled. He urged the horse into a trot again.

“Oh, Perk’s not hurt!” declared Christopher scornfully. “A fellow can stand lots worse croppers than that.”

And Perk was not hurt. By the time they reached him he had scrambled to his feet and was examining his bicycle to see if any harm had come to it. But he rode quietly behind the wagon all the rest of the way into the village.

Billy Carpenter was standing in front of his gate, watching for them, and the impatient Christopher could hardly wait while Perk stowed his bicycle in Mr. Carpenter’s barn and Joshua escorted Jane to Mrs. Parsons’ front door.

“You’re in an awful hurry to have me go,” Jane exclaimed to Christopher, a bit jealously.

For a moment she forgot Sally’s birthday party, and wished she was going on the picnic too. It hurt to think that perhaps Christopher did not want her—was glad she was not going. He really acted as if he were!

But her disappointment soon vanished—vanished the moment she set foot in Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s sitting-room. The party planned was so perfect! In the first place, there was the present for Sally—a dainty little bed in which to take her rest when visiting the lady who wrote books. Mr. Carpenter had found the small wooden bedstead stowed away in a loft over the post-office, left over from a stock of Christmas toys. Letty, with deft fingers, had painted the dingy, dust-grimed wood white with tiny pink rosebuds (difficult to recognize, perhaps, as rosebuds, but very pretty) and had made, with Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s help, a dainty white canopy, tied back with pink ribbons. There were sheets and pillow-cases and even a little kimono made of a scrap of white cashmere and edged with pink ribbon.

“Where is Christopher?” exclaimed Mrs. Hartwell-Jones as Jane mounted the stairs alone. “I had a surprise for you all.”

“Kit has gone on a picnic with the boys. He didn’t want to come to Sally’s birthday,” replied Jane with a catch in her voice.

“Never mind, dear. Boys seem to like to get off by themselves now and then, don’t they, dear? We’ll have a little dove party. But I have answered a question of Kit’s, however, which now he will miss hearing,” she added, glancing at a pile of closely written pages on her writing desk.

“Oh!” exclaimed Jane, looking from Mrs. Hartwell-Jones to Letty, her cheeks growing crimson. “You’ve written the story you promised—just for us!”

“Yes,” laughed Mrs. Hartwell-Jones, “just for you. I got my idea from Letty’s song and Christopher’s questions about it. Shall I read it now, while we are waiting until it is time for the party?”

“Oh, yes, please! And I can be putting Sally to bed.”

Letty, who had been in a flutter of excitement all day as she watched those pages of story growing, flew over to the table for the manuscript, and bustled about, making Mrs. Hartwell-Jones more comfortable and arranging the light.

“Oh, perhaps Anna might like to hear the story, too! Might she come?” she asked impulsively.

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones said yes, graciously, feeling secretly proud of Letty’s thoughtfulness.

“Now,” she said, when shy little Anna Parsons had been brought up-stairs and everything was ready, “we must have Letty’s song first, as a sort of introduction.”

So Letty sang the “Winter Lullaby” again, sweetly, simply, without any thought of herself or how she was doing it, but evidently enjoying the soft, plaintive melody. When she had finished Mrs. Hartwell-Jones took up her paper and read:

“The Tulip’s Dream

“Once upon a time a little tulip lived in a lovely big garden. It was the middle blossom of the front row of a bed of beautiful, pale yellow tulips, whose petals shone like the softest velvet. But alas for this poor little front tulip! It had broad red streaks running down the middle of each of its petals, making them seem bold and flaunting and common. And none of the other tulips in the bed would speak to it; they had not even a word of sympathy to offer.

“The lady who owned the garden had taken great pains to have this particular tulip bed planted with just the shade of flowers that she wanted, and it was such a disappointment to have had the very front blossom of all turn out to be so different and ordinary. She used to visit the garden every day with her little daughter. Standing in front of the bed they would discuss the ugly little tulip.

“‘I have half a mind to pluck the flower,’ she said one day. ‘It looks so horrid that it quite spoils the effect of the bed. But all the other blossoms are out and if I took this one away it would leave such a gap.’

“‘The flower can’t help having red streaks in it, mother,’ replied the little girl. ‘P’rhaps it feels bad at being different from all the rest! But it is ugly,’ she added.

“The poor little tulip drooped its head and pined. It is very, very hard to be thought ugly and different; and harder still not to be wanted. So the tulip drooped and faded and dropped its petals long before any of the other flowers in the bed.

“And when the lady found the red and yellow petals lying on the ground she exclaimed:—‘Why, how odd that this tulip should have died first. I always thought that those common, hardy varieties lasted longest!’

“Her little girl picked up one of the scattered petals and stroked it.

“‘See, mother, it is really very pretty,’ she said. ‘I wonder if the flower was not nicer than we thought after all?’

“Although the lady had spoken of the tulip as dead, because the blossom was gone, of course we all know that it was not dead. But that down, down in its brown little root, or bulb, under the warm, moist earth, its life was throbbing as strong as ever. The tulip heard the little girl’s words, therefore, and was somewhat comforted by them. But it still mourned over the red streaks down the middle of its petals, for it was quite sure that it had not meant to be that way, but soft, pale yellow like all the other tulips in the bed.

“‘You ought not to take it so to heart,’ whispered a gentle shower to the falling petals, and it bathed them in soft, warm drops. ‘Your petals are red because the sun has kissed them.’

“But the tulip would not be comforted. It shed its satiny petals and crept down inside its bulb-nest to sleep away its sorrow and disappointment.

“After a time the tulip bulbs were dug up by the gardener and carried away to the cellar to make room for other flowers that would bloom during the summer. In the autumn they were brought out and planted in their bed again, and as it happened, the little red and yellow tulip was put exactly where it had been before. The warm, dark earth snuggled it close to her fragrant bosom and whispered: ‘Sleep well, little tulip, and dream that you are the most beautiful, pale yellow tulip in the world.’

“So the little tulip fell asleep and lo, at the first call of the spring robin it waked, feeling very, very happy.

“‘Go, tell the sky your dream,’ whispered Mother-Earth, and pushed the bulb upward. The tulip shot up a delicate, whity-green stalk through the dark clods,—up, up, until it saw the great, deep-blue sky far above it. The air was sweet and warm and a few early birds were singing. Becoming more and more happy and excited, the little tulip pushed upward and spread its petals to the smiling sky. And lo, they were of the loveliest pale yellow, and shone like the softest velvet!”

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones had ceased her reading for quite a full minute before the children realized that the story was ended.

“Oh!” sighed Jane. “I am so glad that the tulip was happy at last!”

“But what do you suppose made the petals turn?” asked Mrs. Hartwell-Jones.

“Blossoms do change colors, different years. I’ve seen ’em in our own garden,” said Anna Parsons practically.

“Oh, it was because the tulip wanted it so much!” exclaimed Letty.

“Yes, it was because the tulip wanted it; but there are different kinds of wants, Letty, dear. Some people want things selfishly, just because the things would give them pleasure. But the little tulip felt that it had disappointed some one by being the color it was—and so felt that it was not doing its real duty in the world. So, by wishing and hoping and waiting patiently, it got what it wanted. If it had been a person instead of a flower, of course just hoping and waiting would not have been enough. There would have been work to do, as well.

“But if whatever we want is right, and of some benefit to the rest of the world, we are pretty sure to get it in the end.”

“Oh, do you think so?” cried Letty eagerly; looking as if she had some particular thing in her mind.

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones smiled and patted her hand.

“Yes, I really think so, dear child. But it is time for the tea-party now,” she said.