RULY no one ever looked into a face more beaming than Regie's when Mrs. Fairfax told him of their plan to leave him in Sister Julia's care, and that they were both to board at the Murrays.

“I've been wondering what you would do,” said Regie. “I knew you could not take along a boy on crutches; and, Mamma Fairfax,” he added, ruefully, “I thought I was in the way for once at any rate.”

Then Mrs. Fairfax drew the little fellow into her lap, and said, very tenderly and earnestly, “Remember this, Regie Fairfax: you have never been in the way yet, and you never will be so long as you stay the dear good boy you are to-day.” A grateful, happy look came into Regie's face, and he nestled his head close down on Mamma Fairfax's shoulder, quite forgetting that nine-year-old boys are supposed not to care in the least for that sort of thing.

Well, the day for the move to the Murrays dawned at last, though at times it had seemed to Regie as if it never would come.

In the thought that he was going to live in the same house with Nan and Harry, the little reprobate almost forgot he was to say good-bye to Papa and Mamma Fairfax for three whole months at least. But Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax were quite willing he should forget it, and were only too delighted to see the little fellow anticipating so much happiness. It would have been sad enough to have sailed away over that great ocean, leaving a brokenhearted as well as a broken-legged little Reginald behind them.

Still dependent upon his crutches, Regie of course could not help very much with the packing, but as he sat on the piazza, in the warm September sunshine, Sister Julia gave him a lapful of his own neckties to sort over and fold into a box. They were to move that very afternoon. It was half-past eleven now, and at twelve Harry and Nan were coming, as they thought, to say “Good-bye.”

Puzzled little Nan and Harry! They had not heard a word of Reginald's coming to stay with them. Had they known it, they would not have been trudging sorrowfully along the beach as they were that very moment. Naturally they wondered at the strange preparations going forward at home. Fresh dimity curtains had been tacked up in the room over the kitchen, and there was a new bowl and pitcher on the wash-stand, and some red-bordered towels that were very beautiful in Nan's eyes. But when the children asked their mother the reason for all this, she had told them that times were a little hard, as indeed they were, and that they were going to take a couple to board.

“I don't like the idea of a couple to board at all,” Harry had confided to Nan when they were gathering up the chips one morning in the woodshed.

“Neither do I,” sighed Nan, “but if times are hard of course we ought to make the best of it.” That Sister Julia and Reginald were the couple never entered their foolish little heads for a second.

Regie sat sorting the neckties, putting the worn ones, and the ones he did not like, at the bottom of the box, you may be sure. Now and then he would stop to watch the four Brooks' boys, who were playing tennis in front of their cottage, and then it seemed as though he could not stand keeping still another moment; but he knew he must, and that word must is a very tyrannical and exacting little master. Presently the waggon from the store at Atlanticville, where they sold everything, from kerosene oil to shoe-strings, drove up and stopped; and a little errand boy, no larger than Regie, jumped down and pulled a basket out from the back. The basket was filled with groceries, and was so very heavy that the boy had to slip the handle way up to his elbow, so that he could rest part of its weight on his hip, as he carried it into the Brooks's kitchen.

When he came out again he stopped to watch the little tennis players with such a wistful look on his thin face, while the old horse, as overworked as his child-driver, improved the opportunity for a hurried browsing on the Fairfax terrace.

“What a difference!” thought Regie, noting the contrast between the boys in knickerbockers and polo caps and this shabby little stranger. “I wonder why some boys have to wear themselves out trudging round with dinners for other boys who do nothing but have a good time the whole summer long!”

In another moment the little fellow jumped into his waggon, and, as if to make up for lost time, jerked the old horse into a bobbing sort of gait, which was something better than a walk and yet could not honestly be called a trot Then Reginald sat dreaming and looking out to sea. Perhaps he was thinking of a time when there might be a better order of things, not exactly of a better world,—that blue ocean and cloud-flecked sky were about as beautiful as anything could be—but of a time when the sins and misfortunes of the fathers should no longer be visited upon the children, and when everyone should have an equal chance. At any rate his thoughts were far away from anything about him, and Harry and Nan came nearer and nearer, without his ever seeing them, and he only knew they were there when Nan rushed up in front of him and said “Boo!” as if to frighten him out of his reverie.

“Why, I did not see you at all!” exclaimed Regie.

“Of course you didn't; you were looking right over our heads,” said Harry, seating himself on the edge of the piazza, and straightway beginning to whittle on a block, which was fast being converted into a boat hull. “You seem to be able to see farther than anyone I know of,” he added. “You looked then as though you were staring right round the world and up the other side.” Reginald blushed a little. Somehow or other, in the presence of matter-of-fact Harry, he always felt ashamed of this dreaming habit of his.

“We're awful sorry you're going,” said Nan. “It's so dull for bodyguards when there's no king to care for.”

“I'm glad you're sorry,” said Regie, biting his lip to keep from smiling. He did not want to have the pleasure of telling them over quite yet. Then there was a lull in the conversation. It was going to be very lonely without Regie, and the bodyguard, particularly Nan, had little heart for conversation.

“How's your base-ball club getting on, Harry?” asked Reginald, feeling he must either keep matters going or tell right away. “It was great fun your beating those fellows up at the Branch.”

“It was quite a beat,” Harry replied, complacently, “but I guess our beating days are over.”

“Why?” asked Regie, astonished.

“Oh, our catcher, the best in the 'nine,' you know, is disabled.”

“That's too bad, but I suppose he'll get over it,” said Regie, cheerily.

“Well, I rather guess not,” Harry drily remarked; “he's dead,” and he held the little boat-hull at arm's length to get a better view of its shape. If Nan had been paying attention she would have taken Harry to task for speaking in such apparently heartless fashion of poor little Joe Moore's death. But instead of listening, she was wondering when would be the best time to give Regie a little rubber pencil-case her right hand was affectionately clasping, as it lay in the bottom of her pocket. There was another long pause, and Reginald could keep his secret no longer.

“Children,” he said, importantly, “where do you suppose I am going to when I leave here?”

“To New York, of course,” replied Nan, with a little sigh.

“No, sir'ree; to Captain Epher Murray's;” and Regie, glancing from one puzzled face to the other, fairly beamed with delight.

“To our house?” said Nan, incredulously.

“By Jimmini!” exclaimed Harry, tossing his hat so high in the air that it caught on the leader of the roof.

“It isn't so!” said Nan, decidedly, and shaking her head from side to side, showing that she believed that to be one of the things literally too good to be true.

“Yes, it is true,” said Sister Julia, who had just come on to the porch with her arms full of boxes; “and I am coming too, and the pony, and Hereward, and Ned.”

“And we're going to stay till Christmas,” chimed in Regie.

“And what is more,” added Sister Julia, “we are coming this very day, and you have arrived just in time to escort the king in person, as a true bodyguard should. His little Royal Highness will ride in his own court carriage,” and as she spoke Pet and the village cart jogged up to the door.

Then for a few moments Sister Julia and Nan busied themselves, stowing away in the cart such valuable commodities as two or three tennis racquets, a base-ball bat, a tool chest, a small photographing camera, and other things too numerous to mention. Meanwhile Harry, to use his own expressive English, had “shinned up” one of the piazza posts, and succeeded in regaining his jubilant hat.

Nan's brown little face as she bustled about was wreathed in smiles, but she said nothing. Awhile ago she was too sorry to talk, and now she was too happy.

Finally, Sister Julia helped Reginald into the cart, and Nan, with Regie's crutches in her lap, took her seat on one side and Harry on the other.

'“When is your mother going?” questioned Harry.

“To-morrow morning early,” Reginald replied.

“Well, don't you want to say goodbye to her?”

“Do you suppose I'd be going off like this, Harry Murray, if I were not going to see her again?” with as much imperiousness as a real king.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax are coming to your house to-night to supper,” Sister Julia explained.

“They are, are they?” said Harry, somewhat gruffly. “Well, I think they might have told Nan and me something about it all.”

“Oh! I don't,” Nan cried, eagerly. “I think s'prises are lovely. I love to be s'prised.”

“And I love to s'prise people,” said Reginald; “and so Mamma Fairfax planned for me to do it.”

“Now I guess you're all ready,” Sister Julia remarked, wisely changing the subject, as she tucked the linen lap-robe close about Nan, so that her stiffly-starched little gingham dress should not puff out against the wheel.

“Where are the dogs?” asked Harry, looking forward to their establishment in his home with possibly as much interest as to that of their little master.

Regie gave a loud, shrill whistle. That was one of the few things he could do just as well as before he broke his leg, and so he seemed to take special delight in doing it. Hereward and Ned came bounding from some point back of the house, and Pet, seeming to understand that all was in readiness, started off of his own accord. Hereward and Ned, comprehending at once that they were to be allowed to follow, flew hither and yon in the wildest manner, bringing up at the cart every few minutes as if to report proceedings.

“Regie, why do you always say Papa Fairfax and Mamma Fairfax, instead of just papa and mamma?” Nan asked presently. Evidently she had been turning the matter over in her mind for some seconds.

“Because—because—” Regie hesitated,—“because, don't you know, I'm adopted.”

“'Dopted,” said the children, in one breath. Reginald nodded his head in the affirmative, and sat thoughtfully watching the sand as it fell from the wheel with each revolution. If he had looked into Nan's face or Harry's he would have seen a world of wonder in it.

Finally Nan said, in a very sympathetic way, as though she felt it must be something very dreadful,—

“I do not know just what being adopted means, but have you always been so?”

“Almost always. You see, Nan, my own father died when I was a little fellow, and then Papa Fairfax, who was my father's best friend, took me for his own little boy; and that being took is being adopted.”

In certain earnest moments Regie often forgot all about grammar.

“O—h!” said Nan.

It is astonishing how much that one word may mean when one gives it the right inflection. As Nan used it, it stood for “Yes, I understand now; you need never say another word about it, but isn't it strange? Not your own father and mother! I shall have to do a great deal of thinking about that.”

By this time Pet had travelled the half mile between the cottages, but without doubt Hereward and Ned had made two miles of it. Regie half believed they had understood the conversations going on about them, and knew that they were to be permitted to enjoy, for three months longer, the freedom of their life by the sea, instead of being cooped up in the cramped backyard in town. At any rate, they were a pair of very jolly dogs that warm September morning.