Gay awoke the next morning, feeling that something delightful was in prospect.

"What is it, I wonder?" questioned the sleeper, just summoned from dreamland. "Oh, I know, it's the ball-game!"

Gay sprang out of bed and ran to the window to see if the weather was clear. Yes; the sun was up, smiling his most charming welcome, and Gay began to dress with the reckless haste of one who must be up and away. Such haste was unnecessary; the ball-game was not to be played until afternoon, but having something to look forward to adds impetus to one's movements.

"I must put on a strong waist; I don't want my clothes to fall apart on the diamond!" said Gay to himself. "That's the worst of being a girl; it's such a bother to keep picking out dresses. Yesterday I wore this white dress, but I can't put it on to-day. No, I have to hunt through the closet for something else. This flannel blazer will be just the thing to wear with this flannel skirt; it's ripped a little but I guess it will hold. I don't dare to say anything about it for fear Aunt Beulah will make me mend it! I wonder if I can run in skirts. I guess I'll take a turn in the back yard and find out!"

No one was astir but Margery, who was at work in the kitchen when Gay came in.

"Good morning, Margery."

"What are ye up so early for? Ain't ye tired after your party?"

"Not a bit. Nice party, wasn't it, and aren't those splendid boys, particularly Lyman?"

"Ye-es, they ain't bad boys for common folks, but there are ever so many nicer boys in the village, Miss May; real, little fine gentlemen, an' their fathers and grandfathers before them were gentlemen."

"They are not anything but boys, are they?"

"No, I suppose not; but they are different from that stuff that was here last night."

"Boys are boys, that's all they are. There are two kinds, perhaps; cads, cowards, tell-tales and mean boys are one kind; the splendid fellows are the other kind. There are poor cads and rich cads; rich splendid fellows and poor splendid fellows; white cowards and black cowards, and white mean fellows and black mean fellows. You see, Margery, you can't tell a bit by a fellow's father what he'll be; you've got to judge by the fellow himself. If he is all right he is and that's the end of it. If he isn't right, why, that's the end of it, too, for everybody jumps the cad or the coward just as quick as he shows his colors."

"It's a mystery how you know so much about boys, Miss May."

"I play with boys all the time."

"I shouldn't think your ma and pa would like that."

"They do like it."

"Well, it's a mystery! It's all along o' them higher edication notions, Miss Linn says, but I don't understand it. Times have changed since your ma was brought up fifteen or twenty years ago. I don't know what they'll be twenty years from now when maybe you'll be a ma yourself."

"And maybe not!" laughed Gay, leaving the kitchen and going out into the shady backyard, for his morning practise. Exercises were about to commence when Lyman came into the yard.

"Game's off, Brown," said he.

"What's up?" asked Gay, anxiously.

"We were going to play the Plainvilles but their captain is off his base and we'll have to put it off till Saturday or maybe Monday. We'll let you know of course if you still think you'd like to come."

"Well, I should smile!"

Lyman laughed when this slang cameo fell from Gay's lips. "You are the greatest girl I ever saw!" said he.

"I dare say I am," said Gay.

"And the nicest," said Lyman, thinking his first remark not very complimentary. "You're not a bit like other girls; you're so square and such sport. Are there any more like you in New York?"

"Lots," said Gay, thinking what fun it would be when Lyman found out the truth. "I've a sister—we call her Brownie—she's twice as good as I am. She is as square as a brick and full of fun. She isn't quite as handy with her fists as I am, but she's quick, I can tell you! She can swim like a fish, she can play a fine game of tennis, and she's just the best girl going. You can't put her anywhere that she doesn't come to time."

"She must be a daisy! How old is she?"

"About my age; I hope you'll see Brownie some day—you'd like her. She——" Gay paused abruptly. How was it faring with that absent sister? Well or ill? Well, of course, he reasoned, it was so easy to be a boy!

Easy for a boy, certainly, but at that very moment the little girl in Cedarville was finding it exceedingly difficult to be a boy. While Gay was the heroine of Hazelnook May was the hero of Cedarville, but with what varying degrees of success and pleasure were their positions attended. Gay was popular and happy; May was unhappy and in disgrace. Their even exchange had not worked evenly.

"I must be off; I've got to work haying to-day," said Lyman.

"I'd love to work in a hay-field—to ride on a big rake, or do you use the little ones with long handles?" asked Gay, with eager interest.

"Both; little and big horse rakes. They wouldn't let you come, would they?" said Lyman, meaning the aunts by "they."

"I suppose not."

"If you can come I'll tell you the way. Keep right on past the post office till you come to a big meadow—you'll see me there."

"I'll show up if I can."

"Some of the other fellows will be there and they will be glad to see you. I'll tell you what it is, Brown, there isn't one of us but would do anything for you, for there isn't another swell young miss in the place that would have acted as you have right along."

"Drop the swell, can't you? There's only one kind of a swell worth mentioning—the square one—and I'm not that. You wouldn't think so if you knew me."

"You can deny it," said Lyman earnestly, "but you'd feel as we do if you had lived in a country town all your life and no one looked at you except they wanted some work done at Christmas or Easter or a Sunday-school picnic, and then somebody that people thought a swell should come and take you by the hand and treat you like—anybody. That's what you did."

"I took you under the ear, first," remarked Gay.

This unfeminine, if playful, rejoinder did not disconcert Lyman. "Well, wasn't that treating me like an equal?" he asked, triumphantly.

"I think I understand it. All the talk about being equal is bosh, I think, but it is enough to make one act like sin to be treated as if one was of no account. But you boys ought to brace up and show what you call swells that you are better than they are. That's the way to get even with such people; be really nicer than they are."

Lyman looked admiringly at Gay. "You'd make anybody try," said he, "I never heard the minister say anything half as brightening-up like."

"What minister? The one that hangs out here all the time?"

"Yes."

"Of course he never said anything but his prayers! And I'll bet he says them looking in the glass. Why, he doesn't know the boys in his congregation—what kind of a father would a man be if he didn't know the children in his family? And a congregation is just a large family, that's all."

"But people say he's going to marry your Aunt Celia."

"That milk and water—mostly water—man? Not much, my boy! Aunt Celia's head is too level for that."

When Lyman was gone away Gay wondered if the gossip about his aunt and the minister was true. "If it is," he said to himself, "I'll never call him uncle; not even to please Aunt Celia. When they ask me I'll say—politely, of course, but so they'll know I mean it—'Do you think I'll call him uncle? Not much!'"

It was not until afternoon that Gay had an opportunity to join his friends in the hay-field. Once there he soon became the centre of attraction; the boys clustered round and were so delightfully cordial in their manners—Lyman had duly reported the conversation of the morning—that Gay was quite overcome and felt like telling the truth and having some kind of a real boy's game to knock the edge off their compliments. He did so far forget himself as to suggest leap frog, but the boys declined the honor, possibly from a sense of propriety. The boys were occasionally surprised by the freedom of Gay's manner, but as Robert said, later, when the subject was under discussion, "It isn't altogether Brown's manners that we're stuck on; it's her friendliness and because we know she is true blue."

Gay was introduced to the men in the fields, who showed their appreciation of the supposed "she" by inviting her to ride on the load of hay. Gay not only accepted the invitation but helped put the hay in the stable-driver's barn. It was a charming afternoon and the youthful haymakers enjoyed it.

"Making hay knocks spots out of parties!" said Gay. "I never had such fun in my life."

Ethel Payne, her brother Ned, and the minister, of course, were on the porch when Gay came home.

"Where have you been?" said Miss Linn. "We have looked everywhere for you, dear."

"I've been helping Mr. Carver get his hay in. It was fun. I drank molasses and water out of a stone jug and I got almost all of it in my mouth; a little of it went down my neck, but not much."

The minister tried not to look disgusted; jolly Ethel tried not to laugh; Ned tried not to stare; the aunts tried not to look displeased—and all did precisely what they tried not to do.

"But you didn't ask permission, dear," said Miss Celia, reproachfully. This sudden relapse into evil ways after the excellent behavior of yesterday was mortifying to the lady.

"I know it, auntie," said Gay, stealing his arm around Miss Celia's neck. "If I had asked permission you wouldn't have let me go."

Miss Celia smiled at this reasoning, and Ned and Ethel laughed.

"It must have been fun on the hay," said Ethel. "Mustn't it, Ned?"

"Yes, I'd have liked it myself," said Ned, graciously.

"Come with me to-morrow morning, won't you?" asked Gay. "Mr. Carver has another load to get in and the boys would be glad to see you."

"I'm not sure of that," said Ned. "They are always firing stones at us Academy fellows."

"What did you Academy boys do first? Something, I'll bet."

"May, you must try not to use slang," murmured Miss Linn.

"Uncle George says slang is picturesque English," laughed mischievous Gay. "I try not to use it, for mother says she doesn't like too much of it, but it slips in. It's such handy stuff, you always find it when you want it, and sometimes when you don't, and that's more than you can say of proper words. But, Ned, what have the Academy fellows done?"

"We may have called them a name or two," admitted Ned.

"And they answered with a stone about as hard as your name. Well, I don't see much to choose between stones and names," said Gay.

"Perhaps not," said Ned. He was not insensible to Gay's reasoning, but he was not quite ready to admit its truth.

"I fear, Miss May," began the minister, endeavoring to speak pleasantly, although feeling an un-Christian desire to shake this terrible child, "I fear that your parents would not approve of your intimacy with these boys; they are uncultivated and otherwise undesirable acquaintances."

"Excuse me, sir," said Gay, with exasperating politeness, "you said you didn't know the boys; if you don't how do you know that they are uncultivated and undesirable?"

"I know the class they represent," explained the minister, not without impatience, for he did not like to be argued with by a child.

"If they are uncultivated I should think a good way to keep them so would be for cultivated people to avoid knowing them," Gay said, slowly.

"I fear you are a hopeless radical, Miss May," the minister said with a desire to bring the conversation to an end.

"Radical" was a new word to Gay, but he grasped its meaning after a moment's thought. "I am afraid I am," said he, "if radical means somebody who thinks one person should be treated as well as another."