The twins greeted Letty’s return tumultuously. They had been very indignant over her journey and had considered it most unnecessary and thoughtless of Mrs. Hartwell-Jones to take Letty away at such a critical time, thus threatening to upset all their plans. But two days were not so very long.

“You almost spoiled everything, but only almost, so it’s all right,” said Jane magnanimously.

“We did a lot of practicing,” added Christopher with his mouth full of chocolate, “and this is fine candy, thank you.”

“We’ve kept the secret splendidly and not a soul knows anything except those who are in it,” went on Jane importantly.

In fact, the children were planning an immense surprise for the celebration of the last evening at Sunnycrest. The great scheme was Christopher’s idea, and he found some difficulty at first in persuading Letty to take her part in it. She consented at length, partly for the fun of it, partly because she was so happy that she wanted to do whatever any one asked her to do.

A great mystery pervaded the place—a mystery which the grown-ups had to be very careful at times not to see through, for the children found it hard, in their joy and excitement, not to betray secrets. Billy Carpenter was included in the affair, and he and Christopher spent hours every day in the hayloft, rehearsing some private performance which resulted in a good deal of thumping and an occasional hard bump. They also did a great deal of hammering and sawing, which employment demanded frequent calls upon Jo Perkins’s time and even upon Joshua’s valuable moments.

Letty and Jane were busy, too, in Jane’s room, snipping and sewing away at costumes. They made an unexplained trip into the village one morning in the pony carriage. Jane had her allowance and Letty was enjoying the unexpected, undreamed-of thrill of possessing her own spending money. On their return they smuggled their packages up to Jane’s room and confided their purchases to no one but Christopher.

It was evening of the last day of the delightful Sunnycrest house-party. By general request supper was an hour earlier than usual and none of the children—not even Christopher and Billy Carpenter—ate very much. They were in a constant fidget to have the meal come to an end. Indeed, the two boys excused themselves before it was over and rushed out to help Jo Perkins complete the final arrangements.

When the grown-ups went out to sit on the veranda as usual, they found a transformation. The front lawn had been turned into a circus ring by means of a low, rather wobbly circular railing. An inner railing was staked out with string so as to form a track. Although the autumn daylight still lingered, thanks to Huldah’s promptness with the early supper, Joshua had stationed four large stable lanterns at intervals around the ring and Jo Perkins had strung festoons of gay Japanese lanterns, left over from the Fourth of July, along the edge of the railing. The veranda chairs had been placed in a row on the driveway, facing this ring.

As the party seated themselves, Christopher’s head could be seen every few seconds, bobbing around the corner of the house. Huldah and the two housemaids came out and stood on the veranda and Joshua joined them.

When every one had assembled Christopher, in rather an extraordinary costume composed of a long mackintosh, boots much too big for him and a silk hat of his grandfather’s—with a false band inside to make it fit—strutted into the ring. The long whip he carried proclaimed his character as ringmaster. He mounted on an inverted keg, evidently put there for the purpose.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began in a loud voice, which he tried to make deep and impressive, “we hope you will all enjoy our circus, for we have worked very hard to get it ready.” Great applause from the audience, which rather disconcerted the youthful manager. “We have decided not to have a procession,” he went on in a more natural voice, “because that would show all our—our acts, and we want to keep the different things we are going to do a secret until you see them. We hope you will enjoy it as—oh, I said that before. Ah—oh—thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your attention. We’ll be ready in a minute,” and with an abrupt little bow Christopher jumped off the box and clumped away in his big boots at an awkward run.

After a very short interval of waiting he appeared again, this time airily attired in a striped bathing suit, in lieu of tights, followed by Billy Carpenter in like costume.

“Oh, I hope they won’t take cold. Fortunately it’s a warm night,” murmured Christopher’s mother.

The two boys capered into the ring and proceeded to show off the results of their week of practicing and labor. They turned handsprings and stood on their heads; Billy walked a short distance on his hands and Christopher turned a back somersault landing, a little to every one’s surprise, including his own, on his feet. Then they jumped and tumbled together, performing fantastic feats at leap-frog. They were very quick and agile and really rather clever.

The audience was most appreciative and encored them again and again. When they had finally retired, with many bows and flourishes Jane appeared dressed in a long full skirt of flowered muslin—one of her grandmother’s, shortened—a white kerchief crossed on her breast and a quaint little cap on her head. She carried her doll Sally in her arms.

“Letty’s handiwork,” whispered Mrs. Hartwell-Jones proudly as she surveyed the costume.

In her sweet, piping voice Jane recited “Beautiful Grandma.” The audience clapped and clapped and called “encore” again and again but the piece was long and had taxed shy little Jane’s powers. She shook her head as she gave her cunning little bob of a curtsey and finally called:

“I don’t know anything else that would go with this costume and besides, I have to get dressed for——” She stopped and ran off, laughing.

There was a slight pause and then Christopher reappeared in his costume as ringmaster. Again he mounted the keg and made another speech, cracking his whip to secure attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted impressively, “we have made arrangements for a rare treat for you all this evening. I wish to announce the only and positively the last public performance of Punch and Judy! All right, bring ’em along, Perk.”

Jo Perkins appeared in sight around the corner of the house leading the Shetland ponies. They were literally covered with wreaths and festoons of goldenrod and wild asters. The little carriage to which they were harnessed was decorated in the same manner and Letty, sitting enthroned on the seat, was dressed, not in the imitation Roman toga she had worn under Mr. Drake’s direction, but in a short white frock such as she had worn at Willow Grove when she had first exhibited the ponies for Mr. Goldberg. She had on long pink stockings and white tennis shoes—a result of the shopping trip—and carried a long wand wrapped in silver paper. A crown of silver paper, with a bunch of flowers at the sides, completed her costume.

“That is exactly the way she was dressed when I saw her at Willow Grove,” Mrs. Baker, Jr., whispered to Mrs. Hartwell-Jones.

“Poor child, do you suppose she will miss the old life, with its constant change and excitement?” asked Mrs. Hartwell-Jones a little wistfully.

“I am quite sure she will not. See how happy she has been this summer. And her blessed mother would be so thankful to know she had been saved from it. She did not like Letty’s occupation; she told me so herself, and always went to the theatre with her as long as she was able. Afterward she sent a maid. Dear little Letty, how she must have missed her mother’s care! But the lack of it has not harmed her, Mrs. Hartwell-Jones. She is as sweet and gentle-hearted as ever.”

They turned their attention to the little performer. Letty had unharnessed the ponies and in response to a hearty burst of applause led them forward, one on each side, and all three bowed in a most fascinating manner. Then Punch and Judy went through their simple tricks as accurately and docilely as if they had performed them regularly twice every day all summer. Christopher, sitting on his keg which he had moved to one side, played “Listen to the Mocking-Bird” on a mouth-organ for an orchestra.

But, contrary to the expectations of the audience, the showing off of Punch and Judy did not complete the entertainment. Billy Carpenter took Christopher’s place at the mouth-organ and Letty dropped down out of sight behind a little screen of bushes near by, while Jo Perkins reharnessed the ponies and drove them off.

Perk reappeared in a few moments pushing a wheelbarrow in which reposed a large crate. He was followed by Jane, who was dressed this time in Letty’s Roman toga. She carried her two largest dolls, which she placed in two small chairs facing the ring. Then Jo Perkins, with some effort, lifted the crate from the wheelbarrow, and opening this improvised cage released a monster that leapt to the ground with a truly blood-curdling growl. The audience really looked a little startled. The strange animal was clothed in shaggy black fur and waved a pair of forelegs that ended in alarming looking claws.

“My best bearskin rug out of the camphor chest,” whispered grandmother in a voice choked with laughter. “Kit must have coaxed Huldah to lend it to him. How well he has fastened it on. How do you suppose he manages to hide his face so cleverly?”

Gravely, Jane proceeded to put the clumsy bear through his tricks. But the animal was unruly and growled and threatened his trainer in quite a fearsome way. At length he turned and shambled, growling fiercely all the while, straight toward the audience. He stopped as he perceived the two children (the dolls), stiff and immovable in their chairs, sniffed the air a moment and then charged them with a terrific roar. The trainer screamed, threw aside her toga and assuming the character of fond mamma rushed forward, clasped the dolls to her breast and shrieked for help. Up rose Letty, like a good fairy in her filmy white frock, and bounding across the ring flung a cover, which looked suspiciously like one of Huldah’s kitchen aprons, over the infuriated bear. After a long, exciting tussle (and some suppressed laughter) in which Jane and Billy Carpenter joined, the bear was subdued and bundled into his cage, from which he popped out at once to respond with the others to the peal upon peal of applause from the highly amused audience.

Poor Mrs. Baker, Jr., did not know whether to laugh or cry, and eased her feelings by doing a little of each.

“It was so exactly like the real thing,” she whispered to grandmother wiping her eyes. “My poor, precious little lambs!”

During the confusion that followed, audience and performers all talking together, grandmother saw Huldah and the maids disappear indoors. Huldah wore such an air of mystery and importance that grandmother immediately suspected that refreshments were to complete the programme.

It was quite dark by now and a little chilly as well, and the grown-ups suggested going indoors to talk over the grand affair. Whereupon Christopher bounded ahead to make sure a certain door was shut and ushered everybody into the parlor. Before many minutes had passed, however, every one was summoned to the dining-room. There the table (which it seemed to all the grown-ups had only just been cleared from supper) was loaded down with every delicacy that the fertile minds of the twins could suggest and Huldah concoct.

“Kit had a voice in the planning of this menu, I’ll be bound,” said that young gentleman’s father with a laugh.

“Surely,” agreed his wife, “and I noticed that he did not eat quite as much supper as usual this evening. I felt anxious at the time, but now I understand; he was saving up.”

“Of course I was,” admitted Christopher frankly. “What fellow wouldn’t save up when he knew what was coming?”

“Who, indeed? The only objection I have to make is that you didn’t warn me, and give me a chance to save up, too,” answered his father gravely.

“I am concerned about only one thing,” said Mrs. Hartwell-Jones to grandfather, as they sat side by side at the table. “I don’t know what to do with Punch and Judy during the winter. I can hardly take them to the city with me.”

“Why not let me keep them out here?” proposed grandfather promptly. “There is plenty of room and to spare. Then when you decide where to spend next summer I can have them shipped to you.”

“But Letty and I are coming back to Hammersmith next summer,” replied Mrs. Hartwell-Jones quickly. “We are so devoted to the dear place, and you all have been such kind friends to us, that we want to spend as many summers here as possible.”

Every one looked pleased at this news and the twins set up a shout of joy.

“Then we’ll see Punch and Judy again, and have some more jolly rides,” they cried.

“And we’ll have Letty again, too, and Mrs. Hartwell-Jones,” added Jane. “Just think, Letty, if we hadn’t seen the ponies that day after the circus, and thought about ’em for Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and her lame foot, you might never have known her.”

“It is you, you dear, precious child, and your thoughtfulness that gave me Letty,” exclaimed Mrs. Hartwell-Jones, catching Jane up in an ardent, unexpected embrace—rather disconcerting to the big piece of chocolate cake which Jane was holding suspended between plate and mouth during her little speech.

“Dear Mrs. Baker,” went on “the lady who wrote books,” turning to Jane’s mother, “of course you have heard from all the family the story of Jane’s idea of having Letty drive the ponies out here so that she might gratify her desire of seeing a poor, modest writer of books; and afterward how Jane’s sweet desire to help Letty find suitable work to do gave me the opportunity of knowing and gaining possession of my daughter!”

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones spoke the words with great pride, and Letty ran across to her embrace. Then Mrs. Hartwell-Jones took a small parcel out of her work-bag.

“Will you give me permission to make Janey a small gift, Mrs. Baker, to show her how happy and grateful I am?”

She undid the parcel and revealed a small jeweler’s box. She opened this in turn and lifted out something small and glittering. Kneeling in front of the pleased, astonished Jane, she slipped a slender, shining chain of gold over her head and kissed the smiling, rosy mouth.

“Oh, cricky!” ejaculated Christopher, his voice tingling with a faint note of envy.

His eyes were big with surprise and excitement.

Jane followed the direction of his gaze and looked down at what she supposed was a locket on the end of her chain. It was a tiny gold watch, ticking merrily. It had a pretty, open face and Jane’s initials engraved on the back.

“Oh, Mrs. Hartwell-Jones, dear Mrs. Hart-well-Jones, is it really for me!” she gasped. “Oh, how much you must love Letty!”

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones laughed, but the laugh was checked in the middle by a little sob. She turned and held out her arms again to Letty.

“My little girl, my little girl!” she whispered brokenly.

Jane ran to her own dear mother’s arms, and grandmother caught hold of one chubby hand. They all cried a wee bit, too—in silent sympathy for the lonely woman and lonely child who had found each other.

“Oh, shucks!” exclaimed Christopher uncomfortably.

He turned his back on the womenfolk and helped himself and Billy to another piece of cake.

The Books in this Series are:

HELEN SHERMAN GRIFFITH

Helen Sherman Griffith was born in Des Moines, Iowa, the youngest daughter of Major Hoyt Sherman, and a niece of General Sherman. She now lives in Chestnut Hill, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her first story, at the age of ten (written with a pencil stub while reclining prone on the grass with her legs waving skyward, like her ambition), was called “The Lost Evangeline” and concerned an abducted Princess. This fondness in her extreme youth for magnificent nomenclature has finally resulted in “Jane” and “Mary” being her favorite names, for heroines.

When she was twelve a local paper published a short story of hers and at the age of fourteen she won a prize of fifty dollars. She has written chiefly for girls, with occasional inroads upon the field of short stories of which a novelette “Incognito” that appeared in Lippincott’s might be termed a long one. Twenty-four plays constitute her effort in the dramatic line.

Her juvenile books number ten. One novel, “Rosemary for Remembrance”, may be added to the list which, to the author’s private chagrin, was recently classed along with the juvenile.

Among her favorite authors are Dickens, Trollope and Jane Austen. Her books for girls are: