When Spring came, spirits and strength began to flag. Everything without was so alluring, that indoors and duties grew dreadfully monotonous and tiresome. Bea found that her sweeping and dusting fell terribly behind, because she spent so much time sitting in the window-sills, and standing in the doors, where the sunshine was so temptingly clear and warm, and from where the yard and trees, so rapidly budding out, could be enjoyed. Olive dreaded her close dark counting-room, but said little about it, in the belief that complaining wouldn't help. Ernestine's four scholars lessened to two, and as the days grew warmer she spent much of the time on the lounge, looking listless, and betraying little interest in anything.

Kittie and Kat, found that snatching moments from work, to take a race down the yard, or gather some particular cluster of fresh young blossoms, gave dish-water a chance to cool; or dust, left ready for taking up, to blow back to all corners of the room. Meals began to fall behind, but everybody was too warm and listless to eat much, or mind the tardiness. In short, everybody had the spring fever, but such ordinary complaint was not noticed, until, as the heat grew more debilitating, Bea said to her mother one evening, as they stood in the door, looking out into the soft still moonlight that lay so purely over the fresh early grass and blossoms:—"Mama, seems to me Ernestine is not well."

Bea could not understand why her mother should start so, at such a slight intimation, or why her face should look so anxious as she turned it.

"Why, dear?"

"She lies down so much; it may be because the weather has turned warm so suddenly, but seems to me, she is so pale and quiet, and it is something so unusual, that I couldn't help but notice it; but then, may be, it's nothing after all."

"Only the weather, I fancy," answered Mrs. Dering; but Bea saw that she looked uneasy, and that all that evening she watched Ernestine, who lay on the lounge, more lively than she had been for several days, with a sparkling light in her eyes, and a rich color in her face, that made her more beautiful than mother or sisters had ever seen her before. Bea watched her mother with some anxiety and no little curiosity. How sad and troubled her eyes looked, as they rested on Ernestine's radiant face, while every now and then a tremble seized her lips, even while she smiled at the continual merry nonsense that seemed to possess the girls that night.

"Ernestine's going to run away," announced Kittie, presently, with some abruptness; but no one but Bea, who was on the alert, saw how her mother started, with a force that ran her needle clear under her thumb nail, or how excessively pale she was as she wiped off the little drops of blood.

"That I am," laughed Ernestine gayly. "Some of these fine mornings I'll be gone, and you'll find a touching little note on my pin-cushion; and after I've earned piles of glory and money, I'll come back in an elegant carriage, and set you all up in luxury."

Everybody laughed, and professed much impatience for the delightful time to arrive; but Mrs. Dering pushed her sewing aside with an impatient hand that trembled, and proposed that Ernestine sing for them, which she immediately did, with a bewildering bird-like witchery, that held them all entranced, and made the girls sigh more than once, that some of the flute-like tones had not been given to them, as their talent.

Mrs. Dering's last look and words, when she left next morning, were for Ernestine, who looked languid and pale in the sunshine, with all her radiant sparkle and color gone, and no sound or look of song about her lips; and after the hack had gone, and the girls returned to the house, Kat said to Kittie, with much resentment in her voice:

"Ernestine always was the petted one in this family. Just see how anxious mama is about her having a little spring fever, and what an easy time she has, anyhow. Only two music scholars! I guess we've got the spring fever just as bad as she has, but we have to work just as hard as ever, and I don't think it is fair."

And Kittie, notwithstanding she had some such thoughts herself, answered promptly:

"Well, I suppose there's a reason of some kind, because you know Kat, mama never would do anything unfair. Perhaps she thinks Ernestine is more delicate than we are."

"Delicate—fiddlesticks! I've three minds to believe it's because she's got such big brown eyes and yellow hair, and is so—well—so—"

"Ain't you ashamed," interrupted Kittie, slamming down her dishes. "To hint at such a thing, Kat Dering!"

The very next evening that brought Mrs. Dering home, brought her with a proposition for Ernestine to go into the country for a week or two, giving her two pupils a vacation for that length of time. Perhaps it occurred to each of the girls that they needed the rest just as much, if not a little more than Ernestine, and perhaps Mrs. Dering detected the look in their faces, for she sighed, and Bea discovered that the same sad look, only deepened and more anxious, lingered in her eyes; and to show her repentance for a moment's complaining thought, she entered heartily into Ernestine's selfish joy.

"Just think how I will ride horseback," cried Ernestine, gayly. "I must fix out a habit some way, mama, and girls, you must let me have all your pretty things, because Mrs. Raymond's girls dress beautifully, and entertain a great deal."

"But my dear," spoke her mother, "I am sending you out there to rest, to enjoy their lovely home, and to grow stronger on country air, not to frolic and waste all your strength."

"Oh, mama, what an idea!" laughed Ernestine. "Why, I'm not sick, I don't need rest, all I want is a little fun and something gay. Look at Bea; she's as pale as a little ghost; you might talk about sending her out to the country to be quiet, and drink milk, but not me. I don't need it." And Ernestine nodded gayly to her own radiant reflection in the glass opposite; then without waiting for any answer, jumped up and waltzed around the room.

"What a blessing it is that Uncle Ridley gave us the dresses. My purple is just as stylish as can be, only I do wish, mama, you'd have let me had a train to it; I'm so tall, and plenty old enough. Bea, will you let me have that pretty gilt butterfly that you fixed for your hair, and your gold cuff pins? I've lost one of mine, and they are always such an addition to one's dress. Olive, you never wore your new black kids much; let me take them, will you? mine look worn, and I do love nice gloves; they always mark a lady. And your new dress. I do need a black one dreadfully, and you say you never will wear yours, so you might just as well give it to me,—loan it, anyhow."

"You may have it, for all I care," answered Olive. "But my gloves are one of the things that I cannot loan."

"Nor the dress," said Mrs. Dering, quickly. "You have quite enough dresses, Ernestine, and besides, Olive's is from her Uncle Ridley, and she cannot give it away."

Ernestine couldn't see any sense of having it lay upstairs in the drawer, though she did not say so; and privately thought that perhaps she could coax her mother around, since Olive was so willing. It proved quite a vain idea, however, though she made it her last request in the morning, before her mother left.

"No, Ernestine, I spoke quite as decidedly the first time you asked me. Be all ready to go by this day week, you have not much sewing to do. Good-bye, once more, my girls; be careful of the lights, take good care of yourselves and do not get sick. Write to Jean to-morrow, a nice long letter and tell her everything. Good-bye."

So she went away again, and nothing discouraged at her inability to secure Olive's dress, Ernestine danced gayly into the house and off to her room, to overlook, for the dozenth time, her little collection of trinkets, and to sing blithely over her dresses; for she did possess the spirit of coming down cheerfully to any thing inevitable excepting work, and then, perhaps, mama would relent at the final moment, when she saw how much a black dress was really needed.

"It's as lonesome as a desert, and Ernestine is selfish as a pig," declared Kittie, subsiding gloomily on to the stairs as the hack rattled out of sight.

"Two solemn facts, but they won't wash the dishes," rejoined Kat, balancing over the bannisters, in a way that threatened immediate perpendicularity, with a change of base from what was customary.

"I hate dishes and dish-pans and everything," exclaimed Kittie with much vehemence. "Any how, this is your week to wash, and mine to wipe; go along and get the old things ready, and I'll be out in a minute."

"I'll change with you next week," said Beatrice turning from the door, where she had stood contemplatively. "You and Kat may tend to all the sweeping, and dusting, and keeping the house in order, and I'll do the kitchen work."

"Hurrah, will you?" cried Kittie, flying up from her despondent attitude. "You're a jewel, Bea, shake hands."

Bea surrendered her hand with some misgiving, rightfully conjecturing that it would receive a shake and twist of over-powering heartiness in the high tide of Kittie's spirits; and that young lady, having done her best to dislocate that useful member, rushed off to impart the news to Kat, and swing her dish rag jubilantly.

The change of instruments, as the girls said, took place Monday morning. Bea awoke, to find her bed-posts ornamented variously, with a dish-pan, a flaunting rag and two scrupulously neat towels, while there was a sound of revelry in the lower hall, which would indicate that the twins were up, and at their new branch of work, with a vigor which novelty always imparts to labor. Not that there was anything so novel to a broom or dust-pan, but they were so tired of their work, that Bea's really seemed delightful and easy and much to be envied.

"You must have been anxious to get to work," said that sister, coming down the stairs with her post ornaments, and interrupting a lively skirmish, where brooms flew around through the air, with a cheerful disregard for the swinging lamp, or any one's head.

"Anxious to get through, you mean," laughed Kat, throwing down her weapon, and tumbling her dishevelled hair into a net. "Hollo, Kittie, your corners are swept cleaner'n mine."

"Of course," answered Kittie complacently, and turning her broom right end up, in a spasm of housewifely care. "You better go to work and do yours over; that's in the bargain, isn't it, Bea?"

"Work to be done well," said Bea, surveying Kat's corners with a critical eye. "And those are not clean; you've slipped right by them."

"Just as well," asserted Kat, whisking her broom about and scattering the dust that disgraced a small corner over such extent of surface that it could not be noticed. "That's the way. What's the use of being so particular?"

Bea shook her head and declared it wouldn't do, then gave to Kittie the overwhelming responsibility of keeping Kat straight, and departed for the kitchen.

"Set the blind to lead the blind," laughed Kat, spinning about on her heels, and finishing up with a hearty hug for Kittie, and the penitent remark: "You are getting lots better than I, that's a fact; and I must begin to brush up and sober down, or I'll be the black sheep of the flock,—as if I wasn't always that. But you really are getting terrible good, Kittie; I've seen it for a long time and it makes me uncomfortable; spin around and be gay like you used to."

"Nonsense," laughed Kittie, then looked sober, and sat down upon the stairs suddenly. "I'm not good, Kat, it isn't that; I don't know how to be; but some way, I can't be as terribly wild and gay as I used to be, there seems to be so much more to think about now, and seems to me we ought to help think as much as the others, and besides, I don't think we ought to be so wild any more; why, Kat, we're in our teens!"

"Suppose we are, dear me!" cried Kat, standing off and surveying her sister with a sort of vague alarm, "what ever is the matter with this family? Olive is getting so pleasant, and wears ribbons, and you're not going to be wild any more, and have gone to thinking; you'll both die next thing, good people always die; and anyhow, my fun's all up. I never can be gay if you sit around so solemn and goody-goody;" and Kat rumpled up her hair and looked desperate.

"The idea, what a speech!" exclaimed Kittie, looking as if her new resolutions had received a shock. "As if I couldn't be sensible without being goody-goody, whatever that is. Pick up your broom and don't worry, my dear. I'll never die of being too good."

Nevertheless, Kat looked forlorn all the rest of the day, and had spells of solemnly surveying Kittie, as though some wonderful change had taken place, and a pair of wings, or some equally astonishing thing might be the result. Next morning was as beautiful as a spring morning ever could be, and Kat took much comfort in the fact, that, in her haste to get out to the pond, Kittie flew about the sitting-room in a hurry, whisked the dirt under the stove, didn't stop to dust, except a rapid skim over the top, left the piano shut, neglected to put fresh flowers under father's portrait, and shut the blinds so as to hide all defects under a comfortable shielding gloom. Kat looked on and felt relieved. Kittie wasn't going to be so dreadfully good and proper after all, and much consoled, Kat put on her hat, and dashed out to the pond, where Kittie was already sailing about, with her head still ornamented in a dust-cap.

Bea had watched their early departure from the field of work, with some misgiving, and decided to go and take a view of the house as soon as she got the dishes put away, but just at that moment, the door bell rang; and dear me, what should she do? The twins were at the farthest end of the pond, yelling like bedlamites, Bea declared. Ernestine had finished her small share of work, then put on her cocked-up hat with a blue bow, and gone down town; so there was no one left to see to the door, and smoothing down her hair, Bea hurried through the hall with flushed cheeks and some anxiety.

True to a prophetic feeling which possessed her, the opening of the door disclosed to view the last person to be desired, on that or any other morning: Miss Strong, a regular Dickensonian old maid.

"Good morning, sweet child!" she exclaimed, the moment Bea's dismayed face presented itself. "Good morning, Miss Strong; will you come in?"

"Come in? Surely, dear. I want to see you all; and then I hear that you and your sisters are such model little housekeepers, and I think it is so lovely that you all, in your heart-rending afflictions, should bow so meekly beneath God's chastening rod, and put your shoulders to the wheel."

Bea opened the sitting-room door in fear and trembling, and blinded by the spring sunshine, Miss Strong walked into the dark room, in her girlish, hasty way, and immediately stumbled over a footstool, and landed at full length on the lounge, with such force that she dropped her beaded reticule, and knocked her bonnet off.

"Oh, I am so sorry," cried Bea, running to pick up the things, and return them to the startled and scarlet-faced spinster. "I don't know why Kittie shut the blinds, she oughtn't to."

"No, I should say she hadn't, I should, indeed," returned Miss Strong, putting on her bonnet with a jerk, and snapping her reticule. "It's a sinful shame, the way some people keep their houses dark as dungeons, to hide dirt and dust. I have heard that you were neat housekeepers, but I can't help having my opinion of people who shut out every speck of light, and trip up respectable people in this way."

Poor Bea's face burned and burned, and her heart throbbed faster as she went to the window, to open the blinds, feeling that her reputation was at stake, and that the first ray of light would kindle the faggots. Not a speck of dust, from the ceiling down, would escape Miss Strong's eagle eyes, and oh, how she would talk about it! Well, it was done; she threw them open, and turned around in the calmness of despair. The glaring sunshine came boldly in, and danced over the dusty table, over the top of the piano, where you might have written your name, right under the stove where the dirt lay thick, all around the corners, into Miss Strong's scornful, roving eyes, and into Bea's burning face. Miss Strong was angry. She never liked to be seen or heard under a disadvantage, and she surely had received an unreconcilable insult just now. Besides, she always went about seeking whom she might devour; she wore little spit-curls all over her sallow, wrinkled forehead, had a hooked nose, a long, sharp chin, a dried-apple mouth, and two fiercely bright eyes, that looked clear through you, and plainly indicated that she thought you all wrong, and at fault. Whenever she heard any one praised, she immediately set about finding a flaw somewhere, and heralded it to the world, as soon as found. She knew the Dering family were not as nice and worthy of praise and sympathy, as people seemed to think, and she had come this morning on purpose to find out, and then correct the deluded public mind. She was quite satisfied, and the "I-told-you-so" spirit was so jubilant within her, that she could hardly keep from flaunting it before Bea's distressed face. She satisfied herself, however, with looking at each dusty article with great care, brushing some imaginary specks from her dress, settling her bonnet, and asking abruptly:

"How's your mother? I haven't long to stay."

"She was quite well, thank you, the last time she was home," answered Bea, watching those eagle eyes in terror.

"Umph! Pity she can't stay home," said Miss Strong, once more taking in the room with an unmistakable glance.

"It's very lonely without her," assented Bea, catching sight of the wilted flowers under her father's portrait, and fervently hoping that her visitor's eye would not see them. But vain hope! Miss Strong's eyes went straight from the dirt under the stove up to the neglected vase, and she smiled in a way, that made Bea long to jump up and scream.

"I have often wanted to see your father's portrait, and I have heard what beautiful flowers you always kept under it. So lovely!"

"We do," answered Bea, with much dignity, and flashing a resentful glance at Miss Strong. "Papa loved flowers dearly, and we always love to have them under his picture; but Kittie must have been in a hurry, and forgotten it this morning." "In-deed," said Miss Strong slowly. "But excuse me, pray do, I wouldn't have spoken of it, but I supposed, of course, that this room had not been arranged for the day yet."

"Well, it is very early," retorted Bea, stung quite out of her patient politeness; and Miss Strong got up immediately, shutting her mouth with a vicious snap.

"I'm sure I wouldn't have called so early," she said shortly. "But I am soliciting for the Church Fund, and having heard how exceedingly generous and willing you all were to give to all such causes, I made my first call here, confident that it would yield me encouragement."

Poor Bea colored violently again, remembering that she only had enough money to pay the grocery bill, due to-morrow, and yet Miss Strong had made her feel as though she must give something; every one would expect it.

"I'm very sorry," she said, slowly. "But I really cannot this morning."

"In-deed," said Miss Strong again. "But then, people will be mistaken once in a while; I must bid you good morning, Miss Dering;" and out she stalked, before Bea could gain her breath.

When Kittie and Kat came in from the pond a little while later, they found Bea, lying on the lounge and sobbing, with a despairing energy, that excited their liveliest alarm, and made all horrible things seem possible, from mother's death down to the breaking of the cherished family tea-pot. Bea told her story, but hadn't room to remonstrate, for the sobs that caught her breath; and the girls listened in grave alarm.

"Who cares for old Polly Strong?" cried Kat, with defiant irreverence, and throwing her hat to the ceiling.

"Well, I'm sorry," cried Kittie, running to comfort the prostrate chief. "It's all my fault; Kat swept the parlor this morning and I cleaned in here. Oh, I am ashamed, and so sorry, Bea dear."

"Well—well, I think it's too—too bad," sobbed Bea, uncomforted. "She talked so mean, and—and—she'll tell everybody that—that—I'm no housekeeper, and then—then, mama—"

"If she does," interrupted Kat fiercely, "I'll tell every mortal man, woman and child, in turn, that she's a meddling old thing, if they don't know it already; and I'll tell them just the truth about this room, too."

"It was horrible in me," sighed Kittie in great self-reproach. "And when you were so kind as to change, too. We'll go right back to the dishes, Bea, and not disgrace your work any more, and I'll go right to work and clean this room decent, so that everything will shine until you can see your face in it."

By this time Ernestine's wardrobe was pretty near ready to go upon her visit. She had exercised her ingenuity in making few things look their best and go a long way; and her selfishness in getting every available thing from the girls, without ever expressing a wish that they were going to share the pleasure; because, she reasoned in her mind, if they were going, she couldn't have all their pretty things, so better be still, than express an untruthful desire. On the day after the Strong visit, she came from down-town, and walked up to the house, very much as if she were a little ashamed to go in, but which she did, with an assumption of indifference, and came into the room where the girls were sitting.

"I've got the last things," she said with a laugh, tinged with an uneasiness that no one noticed, and unwrapping a small parcel.

"What?" asked Bea, glancing up with interest; then looked at the open paper, and did not say another word.

Kittie and Kat did likewise, and in a moment Ernestine broke the silence with an impatient laugh.

"Well, what do you all look so horrified at? It was my own money, I guess, and precious little at that."

"What did you pay for them?" asked Bea gravely.

"These—" Ernestine held up a pair of snowy kids, with three buttons—"I got for a dollar and a half, cheap, because one finger is a little soiled. This—" lifting a creamy tip, with pale blue shading—"was two dollars. Won't it look lovely in my black hat?" "Yes, it will look lovely," said Bea slowly; she was really too astonished and hurt to say any more; but Kat cried out explosively:

"Oh Ernestine Dering! you selfish, selfish, old—pig, you—" "Know mama wants shoes," interrupted Kittie, with her voice full of indignant tears. "And you heard her say the last time she was home, that she did not want to spend the money for them, and here you spend three dollars and a half for—"

"Things that I want," finished Ernestine, getting up and pushing her chair away. "I've worked hard, and I think I might spend a very little bit of my own money. You all don't seem to think so, and you're not very pleasant, so I'll just leave you until you are in a better humor."

With that she went out, feeling really as though she were more aggrieved than aggressor, and stillness followed her departure.

"She's worked hard?" cried Kittie at length, with indignant scorn. "Very hard; but mama hasn't, nor we haven't—"

"Oh don't, please," exclaimed Bea, bursting into tears. "Don't say anything, girls; I don't know what I hadn't rather have, than for mama to know that Ernestine would do such a thing. Oh, I wish she need never to know it."

It did not take much thought to decide Ernestine, that she was much abused, and though her usually laggard conscience insisted on being touched, she solaced it by putting the tip in her hat, and seeing how becoming it was, and by trying on the gloves, which were a perfect fit. Then putting them away, she stole off to the garret, to carry out a plan, made in secrecy—that of rummaging the packed trunks there, and perhaps finding something that could be turned into a party dress, which she was quite sure she would need. The garret was roomy and sunny, and all the rest of the afternoon, Ernestine comforted herself, and her abused feelings by hunting among the old trunks, and spinning many gay dreams, wherein she dwelt in luxury, and all that heart could wish. She had selected a pale green silk, and a fine soft lawn from her mother's put aside wardrobe, and her mind's eye saw herself most becomingly, and beautifully dressed in them—if mama would only consent.

Over in the corner, something caught her eye presently, that she had never seen before. Only a small dark trunk with an air of secrecy about it; and something irresistibly took her right over to it, with her arm load of gay things.

"I wonder what it is," she mused, fingering the lock curiously, and feeling so strange as she did so.

"Go away!" something seemed to say imperatively; but she lingered, and fingered more curiously than ever the small key attached to a faded ribbon.

"Go away! Go away!" seemed to come again that voice, and she felt it to her inmost soul; but the very realization of an inward warning against it, urged her on. She put the key in the lock,—and hesitated; turned it slowly,—and hesitated again; then broke into a nervous little laugh, and tossed the cover open.

"Why I'm as cold as ice, what a goose! Now let's see what's in this wonderful trunk to make me feel so funny; something splendid I guess, but I couldn't help opening it, I really couldn't,—oh dear!"

It was of disappointment, for there was nothing there but a queer old basket, a pillow, with a plain little slip, and a worn faded letter on top.

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