"Oh, how full of briars is this working day world."

MISS BILLY had broken her shoe-string. There was not another in the house and the clock pointed half past eight of a school morning.

"If you're ready," said Theodore, putting his head in the door, "I'll walk to school with you. I have something to tell you."

"I'm not ready, and don't expect to be," said Miss Billy crossly, giving the lace a pull and breaking it again. "There now, it can never be tied. I shan't go to school at all this morning, so there!"

Beatrice was shaking the pillows at the open window. "Why Wilhelmina Lee!" she exclaimed,—"what a temper! How do you ever expect to get through the world if the breaking of a shoe-string upsets you?"

"Oh, it's all very well for you to moralise," retorted Miss Billy, trying to repair the offending lacing, "you who have nothing to do but stay at home and play lady, or do a little dusting. Look at me,—going to school every day, taking two music lessons a week, 'way back in my Latin, and those geraniums are not set out yet and it's going to rain this morning. It's enough to make any one wish to die."

"We've no time for a funeral this morning," said Mrs. Lee, bustling cheerily into the room. "Beatrice, I shall have to ask you to wash the breakfast dishes. Maggie's toothache is worse, and she is getting ready to go to the dentist. I promised her that I would make the pudding and put the bread into the pans."

"Dear me," scolded Beatrice; "I was just going to sweep my room. I can't put it off. Maggie has toothache rather too frequently, I think, and dishwater just ruins my hands!"

"Well, of all the howling dervishes this morning!" said Theodore in the hall. "Miss Billy, come along if you're ready, and there'll be one less."

The minister stood in the doorway. He held Miss Billy long enough to rub a finger gently over the pucker between her eyes.

"It's a brand new day, daughter," he said lovingly. "It's not fair to handicap it at the start with a frown."

"I have troubles of my own," said Theodore gloomily, as they jogged off to school together. "I've worked three Saturdays at Brown's, beside Decoration day, and though I haven't drawn a cent of the money, there is only forty cents coming to me."

Miss Billy stopped short, and her books fell to the ground.

"I'd like to know what kind of arithmetic you call that!" she said, staring.

"It's an example in profit and loss, and mainly loss," said Theodore grimly. "Don't breathe it, Sis,—but treats have done it."

"Treats!" echoed Miss Billy. "You don't mean to say you have spent three dollars and sixty cents in treats, in that length of time!"

"It's awful when you come to look it squarely in the face," acknowledged Theodore. "But the girls come in,—and they expect it,—and what is a fellow to do?"

"It's horrid of them, anyhow! And I'll cut their acquaintance,—every one of them,—when I find out who they are!"

"You'll do nothing of the kind," said Theodore haughtily. "I'll fight my own battles, if you please."

"Three dollars and sixty cents! If I had it in plants!" upbraided Miss Billy.

"Three dollars and sixty cents! If I had it in shoes!" mourned Theodore.

The wrinkles disappeared from between Miss Billy's eyes and she laughed outright. "It's funny, anyhow," she declared. "And you're in an awful position. I don't see how you are going to wriggle out of it now. The girls have such confidence in you by this time,—and Brown's sodas are the best in town, if they do come high."

Theodore whistled through his closed teeth. "Laugh away, Miss Billy. Add every grain of discomfort you can. But I'll wriggle out of it sooner than you think. The one thing that worries me is the fear that I'll have to put my hand down into father's pocket for my new shoes—for that's what it amounts to. Of course I can pay him back in a few weeks, but I hate to ask him for it just now."

"I'll lend you my Christmas gold piece,—I'd love to, Ted."

"Well, I should say not. I haven't come to the place yet where I borrow from girls. And these shoes will be sandals before I borrow from father, either. But you're a good fellow, Miss Billy."

Miss Billy's face beamed, and she gave her brother's arm an affectionate squeeze as they parted at the school door. "Every dark cloud has a silver lining," she whispered comfortingly.

"I wish my pocket had," responded Theodore gloomily. "Good-bye. Look out you don't flunk in your Latin to-day."

The rain that had threatened all day held off, and Miss Billy hurried home at four o'clock to plant her geraniums. Beatrice, looking very cool and pretty in a blue dimity gown, stopped her in the hall and drew her into the dining room.

"I'm glad you've come," she whispered. "The Blanchard girls are in the parlour making a farewell call before leaving for Europe. I want you to go in and entertain them while I get the Apollinaris water out of the refrigerator for a pine-apple frappÉ. Be nice and polite, dear, and shake hands with them. And do be careful what you say. Don't tell them how many rooms there are in the house, or how much rent we pay, or hint at economy in any way. Run along now,—there's a good sister."

"I can't," objected Miss Billy. "I don't like those Blanchard girls, and I have to set my plants out."

"Oh, please," begged Beatrice. "You must. They'll see everything if they are left so long alone. Tuck your hair-pins in and hurry along,—there's a dear."

Very reluctantly Miss Billy made her way to the parlour. There was a rustle of silk skirts as the Blanchard girls rose to greet her. "How do you do?" said Miss Billy, in her best manner, making her voice and outstretched hand as cordial as possible.

"So glad to find you in," drawled Miss Maude, with a shade of condescension in her manner. "We rode miles trying to find the place,—we had forgotten your address, you know,—and when we did find it,—what do you suppose?—it is the strangest coincidence,—why, Casey, our coachman, don't you know, moved out of this very house in April."

"Well now, maybe that wasn't malice," thought Miss Billy hotly. "But I promised Beatrice, so I'll go right on making myself amiable." "Yes?" she said aloud coolly. "Mrs. Canary has told me a great deal about the Caseys, but of course I never thought of connecting them with your John Casey. Indeed we've been so busy getting settled—that sounds like coffee grounds, doesn't it?—and we've had so many of our friends dropping in on us daily, that we haven't had time to think at all."

"Have you heard," lisped Miss Blanche, "that the Van Courtlands are intending to join their daughter in Cologne, next month? We did so wish we might sail with them, but Mr. Van Courtland thought we had better not defer our plans, as his time was so uncertain. Have they called lately?"

"Well, I can't truthfully say they called, for Mrs. Van Courtland brought a gingham apron with her when she came and helped mother arrange the silver and china, and Mr. Van Courtland spaded half my flower-beds for me. He used to be a farmer, you know, before he was a banker."

The young ladies of fashion exchanged glances of surprise. When Miss Maude spoke again there was trace of warmth in her manner.

"You are quite cosily situated here; are you at all lonesome for the old home in Ashurst Place?"

"Well," said Miss Billy frankly, "I miss the bath-tub most awfully," and the next moment could have bitten out her tongue. "That's the first glaring indiscretion," she thought despairingly, "and there'll be more if Beatrice doesn't hurry with that frappÉ."

Miss Blanche smiled encouragingly. "Do you know," she confided, "father thinks it was a great mistake, your moving here. He says he thinks your father's position as rector of St. John's demanded an entirely different course. Father says there are at least a dozen men in the church that would have tided your affairs over. But ministers are seldom good business men, and I suppose your father is no exception to the rule. How does your dear mother bear up under it?"

"Under what?" asked Miss Billy. "You mean moving to Cherry Street? Oh, mother is brave. She's like the young lady of Norway:

"Beside, Miss Blanche, you are labouring under a delusion. I assure you we enjoy our new home in Cherry Street."

"Oh, it's very pleasant," conceded Miss Blanche hastily. "By the way, what has become of that lovely little ÉtagÈre of yours? I missed it the moment I stepped into the room."

Miss Billy threw patience and prudence to the winds. "It's stored in a storing-room," she declared. "The last time I saw it, there was a bird-cage and a foot-stool on top of it. We had to pack a good deal of our furniture. We haven't fourteen rooms now, you understand."

"Good-afternoon, ladies," said a voice in the doorway. It was Theodore, looking very mischievous. "I'm sorry I can't shake hands with you,—but I've been giving a hand in the erection of the conservatory on the south side—a fad of Miss Billy's."

Miss Billy gasped. A conservatory! He must mean the glass sash he had been fitting over the pansy bed!

"We've been at no end of trouble and expense since we moved here," went on Theodore. "You see it is the first 'place' we have really had. There's one hundred and fifty feet of ground here. Beatrice has planned for a sort of Southern California verandah from which she can serve afternoon teas, and mother wants the lawn wired with electricity for social purposes."

"How delightful," murmured the guests, looking a bit uncertain, while Miss Billy sat rigidly upright, trying in vain to catch Theodore's eye. Certainly, her mother had said that at the breakfast table, but it had been a joke, nothing more.

"I have a leaning toward an up-to-date stable and riding ponies, myself," went on Theodore airily, and looking at Miss Billy now as if to say: "No word of untruth in that!" "Still, there's the college grind to consider,—I shall be qualified next year, you know,—and a fellow gets precious little time for recreation."

"Are you—ah—still at Brown's drug store?" interpolated Miss Maude, looking mystified. "Sister Myrtle has spoken of seeing you there. The child thinks so much of you."

"And of ice-cream sodas," thought Theodore grimly. "Yes," he said aloud, "Mr. Brown wanted me to help him out on Saturdays for a little while. He's in the church, you know. But I shall give it up when vacation comes."

Beatrice was entering with a dainty tray. "You'll pardon the delay, won't you?" she said sweetly, as she offered the sparkling glasses. "You'll have some, Miss Billy?"

"No, I thank you," said Miss Billy, with heightened colour and a hasty manner. "If you will excuse me I'll see to my geraniums. Good-afternoon."

"And I," said Theodore, "shall betake myself to the bathroom to remove the unseemly signs of toil. I'll take my frappÉ with me, Bea,—may I? Good-bye, girls. Write me from gay Paree when you reach there," and Theodore followed Miss Billy into the dining room.

"Well?" he asked interrogatively, as he seated himself on a corner of the table to sip his frappÉ.

"It's far from well, Theodore Lee," snapped Miss Billy reproachfully, undecided as to whether to laugh or cry. "You told awful, unmitigated falsehoods! You know you did!"

illustration

“I have a leaning toward an up-to-date stable and riding ponies, myself.”

"My dear sister, I only enlarged upon truthful topics in a brilliant and society-like way. Beside, I had to hand them back the small change. I never in my life heard such stilted, patronising talk as they were giving you. And when they jumped on father,—well, that decided it. Good land, Sis,—what's the matter with this frappÉ!"

"Don't drink it if you don't like it," said Miss Billy, refusing to be friendly.

"Like it! Why it's awful! It tastes like spruce gum and carbolic acid and chloroform all mixed up. Smell it, Miss Billy."

"When you were little, mother used to wash your mouth with soap when you told falsehoods. It is probably some hazy recollection of that which is perverting your taste."

Theodore was taking another cautious sip. "It's a little like sauerkraut, but it has the effervescence of soda water. It's the most curious stuff I ever tasted."

Miss Billy unbent sufficiently to put her nose to the glass.

"Why, it smells like yeast," she said wonderingly.

"That's what it is," said Theodore, snapping his fingers triumphantly. "I knew it wasn't chloroform or carbolic, but I couldn't just name it. It's yeast!"

"But what can yeast be doing in the frappÉ?" questioned Miss Billy unbelievingly. Then as a sudden light broke upon her, she exclaimed, "Oh, Ted,—Beatrice must have gotten the yeast bottle instead of the Apollinaris water!—and for the Blanchard girls of all others! They are in there trying to drink it now. What shall we do?"

"Nothing," said Theodore decidedly,—"they've drank it by this time. You watch how they will 'rise' to go. 'Sweets to the sweet,'—likewise yeast to the yeasty. Dear girls,—how airily their feet will spurn the pave. And it will do Miss Blanche good! She's as flat as an oatmeal cracker."

"Theodore, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Miss Billy was almost crying now. "Think of father when he hears all this,—and Beatrice's feelings,—and the awful remarks they will make about us——"

"If you are looking for your handkerchief, you're sitting on it," said Theodore soberly. "Don't cry, Billy. I am going to father now and make a clean breast of the whole affair. There's no use staying to console Beatrice about the yeast. She'll have fifty sporadic spasms!"—and he strode from the room.

"Oh, dear,—this has been a day of nothing but troubles," sighed Miss Billy, wiping her eyes,—"and I lost my temper the very first thing over a shoe-lace, and everything has gone crooked ever since. Poor Beatrice,—she tries to be so nice and ladylike,—and I know she will never get over this,—never!"