The Secret Sanctum log cabin stood
In Buttercup Meadows beside the green wood,
And the birds at nest-building would pause and sing
That joyous song which they carol in spring,
And the brook as it purled on its fern-edged way,
And the daisies and buttercups golden and gay,
Were all of them telling, “It’s May! Lovely May!”
And there the maids of the Sunny Clan
Met one Saturday a party to plan.

“Girls,” said Rosamond Wright, as she looked out of the cabin for the twentieth time, “it is quarter-past three and Adele not yet come.”

“Oh, I forgot,” Betty Burd exclaimed, as she placed a bowl of daisies on the rustic center-table, “Adele asked me to tell you that she might be a little late, as she had to go on a very important errand!”

“There is some one coming now on horseback,” Peggy Pierce remarked as she came up from the brook with a pitcher of sparkling water.

“All that I can make out is a cloud of dust,” said Bertha Angel, as she shaded her eyes to look.

“It is Adele!” cried Betty Burd. “She’s turning into the meadow lane now.”

The six girls ran out eagerly to meet the lassie, who came galloping up on Firefly. Leaping lightly to the ground, Adele let the pony go wherever he wished to browse, knowing that he would return to her when she whistled.

The girls pounced upon their favorite and led her into the cabin, where she sank down among the soft-pillows, exclaiming, “I’ve ridden so fast, I’m ’most out of breath, but I knew that you girls would be waiting here, and so I came on a gallop. Now be seated and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Down on the floor the Sunny Six sat, tailor-fashion, and Adele began: “I’ve been over to the Orphans’ Home to see the matron, Mrs. Friend. She’s a dear! She was so pleased to hear that we wanted to give Eva Dearman a birthday party, and what do you think? That little girl was brought up just as nicely as we have been. Her father was a wealthy broker, but he lost his money, and then both of her parents died. Some neighbors took care of Eva until her money was all gone and then they sent her to the orphanage.”

“Heartless wretches!” exclaimed the impulsive Betty Burd. “Seems like it wouldn’t have cost them much to have given the poor motherless girl a corner in their home.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Adele continued, “and Mrs. Friend says that all Eva Dearman has to her name is the deed to some worthless desert property in Arizona.”

“Oh, girls,” exclaimed the romantic Rosamond Wright, “what if there should be gold on that desert land, and what if our Orphans’ Home girl should turn out to be an heiress!”

“Such things only happen in story-books,” said the practical Bertha Angel. “Now don’t let’s interrupt Adele again. We want to hear the plans for the party.”

“Mrs. Friend told me that there are twelve girls in the Home who are just about our own age. One of them, Amanda Brown, is so surly and disagreeable that none of the others like her, and the matron said that we need not ask her unless we wish, but of course we would not think of leaving her out.”

“Perhaps a party is just what she needs,” suggested Gertrude Willis, the minister’s daughter.

“And now,” said Adele, “don’t you think it would be nice to give a present to each one of the Home girls?”

“It would be a nice thing to do, surely,” Gertrude answered. “How much money have we in the club treasury?”

The girls had each given what they could to start a Sunnyside fund, and Doris Drexel, whose father was a bank president, had contributed a small bank in which to keep their wealth.

Bertha Angel rose and said gayly, “I’ll go and get the bank and then we’ll count our money.”

Now, back of the log cabin was a shed, and, one of the boards in the floor being loose, the girls had hidden their bank in a dark hole which they had found underneath it. The shed was then padlocked and the precious fund they believed was surely safe. It would have been safe enough had it been locked in the log cabin, as the girls well knew, but Rosamond had declared that it was much more romantic to steal out to the shed and place it in the dark hole under the loose board, and so, to please her, this had been done.

Bertha took the rusty key and ran around to the shed. When the door was open, the girl noticed that the board was slightly lifted, and that the stone which they usually placed on it had been rolled away. What could it mean? Kneeling, she lifted the board higher and thrust her hand into the dark hole. But the bank was not there.

Springing up, she ran back to the cabin, calling excitedly, “Girls! Girls! What do you suppose has happened?”

The startled six rushed out of the cabin door. “Why, Bertha, what is the matter?” Adele exclaimed. “You look as though you had seen a ghost.”

“It’s worse than a ghost,” said Bertha dismally. “Our bank is gone.”

“Gone!” echoed all of the girls in amazement.

“Then we can’t give the party or the presents or anything,” wailed Betty Burd.

“And I’ve spent all of my allowance for two months to come,” moaned Adele.

The girls reached the shed and each one felt in the dark hole under the loose board.

“It must have been a tramp,” Doris Drexel declared.

“Maybe he’s hiding in the woods this very moment,” said Rosamond fearfully.

“It couldn’t have been a tramp,” Bertha remarked thoughtfully, “because the door was locked and there is no window.” Then suddenly she burst into a peal of merry laughter. The other six looked at her in puzzled amazement.

“Why, Bertha,” Adele exclaimed, “surely there is nothing funny about it!”

“Yes there is,” Bertha replied, her eyes dancing. “Don’t you remember that, at our last business meeting, we decided that our bank might be stolen, and that we would change its hiding-place?”

“Oh, of course,” said Peggy Pierce. “And that very day I took it down-town and asked father to keep it in his safe. I’ve been cramming so hard for examinations, I guess, that now I can’t remember anything.”

“Never mind, Peggy,” said Adele, as she slipped her arm around the crestfallen girl. “Our memories all play strange pranks at times.” Then, turning to the others, she called, “Come on; let’s don our hats and finish this meeting down at the Bee Hive, because, of course, we would buy the birthday presents there anyway.”

Firefly came on a gallop when Adele whistled, and whinnying for the lump of sugar which his mistress always had for him.

“Gertrude, would you like to ride?” Adele asked. But Gertrude said that she wasn’t a bit tired and would much rather walk with the others.

“Well then, Betty,” Adele began, and the others laughed at the happy eagerness with which that small girl clambered up on the pony’s back. Betty was only eleven, though she would soon be twelve. She was petite and dark and sparkling, and everybody’s pet. Away she galloped over Buttercup Meadows, her hair flying out like a mantle about her shoulders.

Half an hour later the six who were walking reached the Bee Hive, and found Betty, flushed from her gay ride, awaiting them. Luckily at that hour of the day the store was not as busy as its name implied, and jolly Mr. Pierce gave his whole attention to the flock of happy girls. How he laughed when he heard the story of the lost bank. Out of the safe it was taken and the money was counted by the treasurer.

“Exactly six dollars and thirty-three cents,” she announced. “Now the question is, will that amount of money purchase suitable birthday presents for twelve guests?”

The girls had not noticed that during the counting Peggy, the darling of her father’s heart, had beckoned him to the back of the store and had begged him to be a dear and give them something extra nice for the orphans. Had the girls known about this, they would not have been as surprised as they were when Mr. Pierce stepped forward with a tray on which were ever so many necklaces with lockets of different designs.

“Oh-h!” breathed the six with delighted sighs. “But, Mr. Pierce, we never could purchase twelve of these adorable chains for six dollars and thirty-three cents.”

“The cause is such a good one,” said Mr. Pierce, with a twinkle at Peggy, “that you may have them at cost.”

Then followed a rapturous fifteen minutes, during which the girls selected twelve necklaces and lockets.

“Orphans always have to wear things just alike,” Adele declared, “and so I am sure that they would like to have these different.”

“I suppose that we ought to give them stockings or handkerchiefs or something useful,” suggested Bertha Angel, the practical.

“Maybe so,” said Adele, “but this time the poor things are going to have just what we would like for ourselves,—something useless and pretty.”

When at last the twelve necklaces were chosen, each was placed in a little square white box lined with pink silk. The Sunny Seven thanked Mr. Pierce and then away they went with their treasures. The twelve orphans, busily working at the Home, little dreamed of the pleasure that was in store for them.