Grandfather remembered Christopher’s promise to Jane and did get up another picnic “for the ladies,” but the ladies included only Jane and her grandmother. Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and Letty were not invited for several reasons, chiefly because grandmother had expressed the wish to have it strictly a family party. She realized that the end of Jane’s and Christopher’s visit at Sunnycrest was drawing near; that before very long their father and mother would return and carry the children back to their home in the city. And so she thought that one last party, all by themselves, would be very nice. Jane and Christopher thought so too. They were always happy and contented with their grandparents.

Of course they went to the woods—the only picnic grounds worth considering except on circus day. Grandfather drove past the swimming pool, so that Jane might see the spot where Christopher had learned to swim and wherein he had almost drowned on that memorable afternoon. They went on farther yet into the woods. It was all deliciously green and brown; still and cool. Jane was quite confident that she would catch sight of a fairy before long.

Grandfather had brought some fishing-tackle, and after the picnic ground was chosen and the horse unharnessed and made comfortable, they all sat in a row on the bank of the stream and fished. At the end of half an hour Jane, to Christopher’s secret envy, was the only one who had caught anything. It was a fat little perch that wriggled and shone in the sunlight.

“Oh, the poor little thing!” cried Jane, and covered her face with her hands while grandfather took it off the hook.

“Coward-y cat!” jeered Christopher. “Isn’t that just like a girl! Afraid of a fish!”

Jane took up the cold, squirming thing and held it tight in both hands, looking her brother straight in the eyes.

“I am not a coward-y cat, Kit Baker,” she said quietly. “I just couldn’t bear to see the poor thing being hurt with that dreadful sharp hook.”

Christopher felt subdued. It had not occurred to him to feel sorry for the fish.

“It’s only a fish,” he muttered. “They don’t feel much.”

“Janey is quite right,” said grandfather. “A truly kind heart always sympathizes with any animal, however small, that is in pain.”

They fished on patiently for another half hour, not talking much (Christopher could not keep absolutely silent) for fear of scaring away the fish, which, however, must have had either a bad fright or a warning, for they refused to bite or even nibble. Finally grandmother suggested that it was rather useless to try any longer.

“But one fish won’t go very far,” grumbled Christopher. “Let’s try for just one more. It’s hungry work, fishing.”

“I think Huldah has packed enough in the basket to keep us from starving until supper time,” laughed grandmother, “and as there is only one poor little fish for all of us, suppose we just put him back into the water?”

“Oh, no,” cried Christopher aggrieved.

“Oh, yes, let’s,” exclaimed Jane. “Poor little fish, we’ll make him happy. He’s my fish and I guess I have the right to say what shall be done with him,” she added defiantly, seizing the basket as Christopher made a lunge for it. “If your stomach wasn’t so greedy, Kit Baker, your heart would be kinder.”

Jane let the wriggling pink fish slip back into the brook, where he darted out of sight in an instant among the rushes.

The hamper that Huldah had packed certainly did promise to satisfy the appetite of even the hungriest people in the world. There were all sorts and conditions of sandwiches; thin and square with the crusts cut off. Some had slices of chicken inside, others pink boiled tongue. Still others had tender leaves of dressed lettuce—these were grandmother’s favorites—and others with jelly. Then there were soft ginger cakes and crisp sugar wafers; apple pie—Huldah’s famous apple pie with plenty of cinnamon—hard boiled eggs that had the yolks beaten up with salad dressing; pears, plums and a whole chocolate layer cake. There were also bottles of milk and coffee which latter grandmother heated over a spirit lamp in a tiny saucepan put in for the purpose. Christopher wanted to build a fire out of sticks and bits of wood for the coffee, but grandfather said it was too hot for that.

After the luncheon was over, Jane and Christopher went off to gather moss and pine-needles. Jane had planned to make a pine pillow to take home to her mother, who declared that they always cured her headaches. Letty had promised to help her with the sewing, for Jane did not like to sew very well, not even to make doll’s clothes, and it was only a labor of love (or the occasional desire to be thought grown-up) that could induce her to use a needle.

Fir trees were somewhat scarce in the grove and the children had to walk some distance. They left grandfather and grandmother discussing something in very low, serious tones.

“What are they talking about?” asked Christopher, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his grandparents. “They look like they sometimes do when we’ve been up to something.”

“But we haven’t—not for a long time,” put in Jane defensively. “Not since the time you played hookey with Perk and drowned because you didn’t know how to swim.”

“I didn’t play hookey. Grandfather let me go.”

“He didn’t say you might go in swimming.”

“Well, he has since,” returned Christopher triumphantly, as if that settled the matter. “But something is up,” he added, returning to his subject. “Do you suppose they’ve found out about our putting that hard cider we found in the cellar into the pups’ milk?”

“It was only some left-over stuff, and it didn’t hurt the pups,” said Jane hurriedly, for the idea had been hers. “And it did make them act funny.”

They both laughed at the recollection.

“Well, then, maybe it’s the green stripes I painted on the pig the day we pretended he was a zebra in the circus. Grandfather said green paint was very poisonous. I’d have used brown paint if I could have found any; it would have been lots more lifelike. Anyhow it didn’t seem to hurt the pig any, although it did lick a lot off.”

“I know what it is they’re talking about,” replied Jane with an air of importance. “It’s not the pigs and it’s not the pups. It’s about Letty.”

“Letty! What has she been doing?” demanded Christopher in astonishment. He had looked upon Letty as so far above naughtiness as to be considered almost a goody-goody.

“She hasn’t done anything,” explained Jane. “They are just talking about where Mrs. Hartwell-Jones is going to send her to school this fall. I heard Mrs. Hartwell-Jones say something about it to grandmother the last time we were there.”

“Oh, is that all!” exclaimed Christopher indifferently, and lost his interest in the subject immediately.

But, if the twins had known it, Mr. and Mrs. Baker were discussing something much more interesting than Letty’s school, and that was, Letty’s whole future. Grandmother had had a very short, very happy note from Mrs. Hartwell-Jones just before leaving for the picnic. It seemed that the “lady who wrote books,” after a great deal of discussion with her lawyer, a long letter from Mrs. Baker, the twins’ mother, some correspondence with Mrs. Drake (whose whereabouts Mrs. Hartwell-Jones had had a good deal of trouble to discover), and finally a personal visit from her lawyer, had resolved definitely upon the great step of making Letty her own little girl.

As soon as they were alone, grandmother gave Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s note to grandfather to read. It began with the announcement of the author-lady’s decision, included an invitation for the picnickers to stop at her house on their way home for congratulations and supper, and wound up with the request that she be allowed to tell the twins the news herself.

“I want to see Janey’s face,” she wrote, “when she learns what a wonderful thing has come to me out of her little idea of being helpful to a fellow mortal. May the dear child grow up to be as tender and thoughtful a woman as she is a little girl! She will undoubtedly be greatly and widely beloved.”

“Isn’t it beautiful the way she speaks of our Janey?” said grandmother with tears in her eyes, when grandfather had finished reading the note.

“Does Letty know yet?” he asked.

“She is to tell her this afternoon, and we are to stop in on our way home from the picnic to rejoice with them. You see she invites us all to supper.”

“That will please Kit,” smiled his grandfather. “You have not given Jane a suspicion of it?”

“Of course not. Don’t you see that Mrs. Hartwell-Jones wants the pleasure of telling her herself, or let Letty do it. I wonder what Letty said and did when she was told, and what they are saying about it now?”

Letty’s feelings at that moment were really too mixed up and bewildered to describe. She had had a very happy day, performing her customary tasks in the morning and driving as usual with Mrs. Hartwell-Jones in the pony carriage. She had not felt a bit badly (as Jane had feared she might) at not being invited to the picnic. She loved the children and their good times dearly, but she was equally satisfied to be alone with Mrs. Hartwell-Jones.

That usually placid lady appeared extraordinarily excited and restless to-day.

“Oh!” Letty had exclaimed when she came into the sitting-room that morning with the breakfast tray, which she insisted upon preparing always herself. “How pretty you look! Your cheeks are as rosy as Jane’s!”

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones had laughed and kissed Letty, but she said nothing of what was on her mind, until the afternoon. It was a warm, sunshiny day with a sort of hush over the earth. The air was still and full of sweet, clean country smells. Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and Letty sat alone together in the large, up-stairs sitting-room. A little later they were to have a tea-party of two, for Mrs. Hartwell-Jones always liked a cup of tea or chocolate in the afternoon.

“Letty, my dear,” said Mrs. Hartwell-Jones gently, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice, “please sit here on the stool, close by me. I have something very important to talk to you about.”

“Something important to talk to me about!” repeated Letty in astonishment. “Oh, what is it?”

“Sit there, dear child, facing me. Now look up at me so that I can watch your eyes. Tell me, Letty dear, have you ever thought about what you would do when you grew up?”

“Not very much; not at all since I have been with you. Before—when I was with the circus I used to wonder what I could do to get away from it all. I knew that I could never stand it to go on travelling about with a circus all my life. Mrs. Drake was very good to me and the baby was dear! But I hated the life; living in tents, always on the go; no school, no little girl friends, no home!”

She sat looking at the floor thoughtfully for a moment.

“I suppose I ought to have thought about it more,” she said humbly. “I am afraid I have taken your kindness too much as a matter of course, dear Mrs. Hartwell-Jones. I shall try to show you how truly grateful I am to you for giving me such a happy home! And you know how delighted I am about boarding-school,” she added eagerly. “It seems just like—well, almost like heaven to be like other girls and go to school to learn things and be happy. I shall study hard and be good in school to show how grateful I am. And then, perhaps, when I am grown up, I can teach and pay you back for all you are going to do for me.”

“You dear little girl!” cried Mrs. Hartwell-Jones with a sob in her voice, “I want no thanks but your happiness!

“But now, listen to what I have to say. How would you like being somebody’s little girl in earnest? To have a real home to go to in holiday time, and—and some one to love you and be as nearly a mother to you as it is possible to be?”

Letty looked puzzled and a little frightened.

“Have you found some of my relatives? some one to claim me?” she asked. “Oh, Mrs. Hartwell-Jones, I don’t want to leave you! I don’t, I don’t! You have taken as great care of me as my mother could have. Please don’t send me away!”

“No, no, dear, never. You don’t understand, Letty darling. Do you know what adoption means?”

“No, I am afraid I don’t,” said Letty meekly. She hung her head and blushed, embarrassed as she always was at her ignorance, when asked the meaning of something she did not know.

“It means,” said Mrs. Hartwell-Jones slowly, “that any one who wishes, and there are no reasons why one should not do so, can take a little girl or boy into one’s home and make that child her very own, by law. And it means, Letty darling, that if you are willing, I intend to take you to my home and make you my own little daughter!”

Letty sat staring at her with wide eyes. She was too bewildered—too overwhelmed to speak. Two great tears welled up in Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Then she gave an odd little cry and stretched out her arms.

“Oh, my little girl, my little girl!” she whispered.

Neither of them knew how long they sat there, wrapped in each other’s arms, not talking except for a quick question and answer now and then. At last they were interrupted by a hesitating knock on the door, and Anna Parsons’ voice was heard calling:

“Please, Mrs. Hartwell-Jones, mother says she is afraid the chocolate will spoil if it waits any longer.”

Letty laughed and springing to the door, threw it wide open.

“Oh, Anna,” she cried, “I am the happiest girl in the whole wide world! Bring in the chocolate and cakes, quick.”

Anna turned up her nose a trifle. It seemed rather a greedy thing to say that one was the happiest girl in the world at sight of hot chocolate and cakes—even if they were Madeira cakes. But then, she did not know the wonderful thing that had happened to Letty.