The first two months at school generally pass very quickly; after that, the time is apt to move a little slower. The first two months at Miss Marr's school passed so quickly that the girls all confessed themselves "so surprised" when December came with Christmas scarcely more than three weeks away. Miss Marr gave a vacation on Christmas week, when the boarding-girls, as those who were inmates of her house were called, could go to their homes, if not too far off, and return by New Year's eve, for it was a fixed rule that they must all be back by that time, and not one of them but was delighted to obey this rule, for not one of them would have lost Miss Marr's New Year's party, which, according to Kate Van der Berg, was the best fun of the year.

"But what do you do, what is the fun?" inquired Dolly Dering, who was present when Kate made the above statement.

"What do we do?" answered Kate. "Well, in the first place, on New Year's eve, we have a jolly little party of just ourselves,—we girls in the house, none of the outside girls, the day pupils,—and we play games, sing songs, tell stories, do anything, in fact, that we want to do, and at half-past ten there is a little light supper served, such as ices, and the most delicious frosted sponge-cakes, and seed-cakes, and then there is bread and butter, and hot cocoa for those that want it. After this we feel as fresh and rested as possible, and all ready to sit the old year out and the new year in."

"Oh, you don't do that?" cried Dolly, delightedly, for to sit up late was one of her ideas of happiness.

"We do just that"

"Well, and then?"

"Then," went on Kate, laughing, "we begin to grow a little quieter. We tell stories in lower voices; we watch the clock, and as it strikes twelve, we jump to our feet and all break out singing a New Year's song or hymn. Sometimes it is one thing and sometimes it is another. Last year it was Tennyson's

"And Hope's violin playing," exclaimed Myra Donaldson here. "Don't you remember how Hope played the violin last year? She just made it talk; don't you remember?"

"Oh, yes," went on Kate, hurriedly. "Hope played, and then we all wished each other a 'Happy New Year,' and went to bed. The next day—"

"What did she play?" asked Dolly, breaking in upon Kate here.

"Oh, she played—she played—"

"Robert Franz's 'Good-night' song and Behr's 'Good-morning,'" struck in Myra again, impatient at Kate's hesitation.

"Oh, I know Franz's 'Good-night,' and doesn't the 'Good morning' go like this?" asked Dolly, beginning to whistle the air of Behr's.

"Yes, that is it, and I played the accompaniment," answered Myra. "It was just delicious. We all cried, for it seemed as if the violin sang the very words."

"I never heard either of them on the violin, but my sister sings them both," said Dolly.

"I think these were arranged for the violin by Hope's teacher, specially for Hope," exclaimed Myra. "I think Hope—"

"Don't you want to hear what we did the next day and the next evening?" called out Kate, exasperated at Myra's harping on Hope and her violin to Dolly.

"Oh, yes;" and Dolly brightened up expectantly. Myra, at that moment receiving a sharp little reminder under the table from Kate's foot, and another reminder from Kate's warning look, subsided into silence, while Kate took up her story of New Year's day and evening.

"Of course, after that midnight watch, we breakfasted late,—oh, so late! and the best part of it was, we breakfasted in our rooms."

"In your rooms?" exclaimed Dolly.

"Yes, at ten o'clock, tap, tap, came on our doors, and enter Susette with a tray, on which was a delicious breakfast for two, and a dear little bouquet of flowers for each of us. Isn't Miss Marr a dear to think of such things?"

"Will she do the same this year?" questioned Dolly, eagerly.

"Oh, yes; she has always done the same in the main things,—the evening luncheon or little supper on New Year's eve, the sitting out, then the breakfast, and the reception party New Year's night. She only varies some of the details."

"Oh, you have an evening party New Year's night?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Who is invited? Who comes?"

"Well, I can tell you one thing,—that everybody comes who is lucky enough to be invited, and the invited are all the outside girls and one friend of each; that is, each girl can invite one friend. We boarding-girls have the same privilege. I always invite one of my relations, and isn't there a scramble amongst them to see which it shall be?"

"And what do you do at the party?"

Kate looked a little disgusted at this question. "What do we do? We do what most people do at a party," she answered rather tartly.

"Well, what I meant was, do you dance?" asked Dolly, in a half-apologetic tone.

"Dance? I should think we did, and we have music, and at the very end the best fun of all."

"I shouldn't think it would be such great fun, just to dance with girls."

"You are not obliged to dance with girls."

"What! You don't mean—that there are young fellows—men?"

"There are boys,—that's what I call them,—boys like my brother Schuyler. Schuyler is seventeen."

Dolly gave a long drawn "Oh!" It was evidently an "Oh" of relief; but directly she asked, with demure mischief,—

"Can't you have 'em over seventeen?"

Kate laughed. "Well, we can't have regular grown-ups, you know, and we don't want them. But we can have them all the way from fifteen to eighteen, I believe."

"How odd! Doesn't Miss Marr think we are up to conversation with grown-up young gentlemen?"

"She thinks probably that 'grown-up gentlemen,' as you call them,—gentlemen out in society,—wouldn't care to come to a school-girl party, and that it is much more suitable to have boys of our own age,—boys we all know, or most of us know, at any rate, and who have something the same interests that we have,—school interests, and things of that kind. For my part, I shouldn't know what to say to gentlemen so much older than myself."

"Oh, wouldn't you?" cried Dolly, with an air—a knowing sort of air—that exasperated Kate. "I have a grown-up sister, and I've seen a good many of her gentlemen visitors. I never found it hard to talk to them," went on Dolly, with a still more knowing air.

"And I have a grown-up brother," retorted Kate, "and I've heard him tell how men go on about half-grown girls and their forwardness and boldness and pertness, and how they—the young men—disliked that kind of thing, or else amused themselves with it for a little while, and then made fun of it."

Dolly's face had flushed scarlet at these words, and at the end she burst forth angrily,—

"I suppose you mean that when I talked with my sister's, I must have been forward and bold and pert."

It was Kate's turn now to flush. She saw that in her irritation—Dolly was apt to irritate her—she had been unwarrantably rude, and swallowing her mortification, she at once made haste to say,—

"I beg your pardon, I—I shouldn't have spoken as I did. I am very sorry."

Dolly gave a quick glance at the speaker, hesitated a moment, as if waiting for something further, then jumped up and flounced out of the room with an angry impetus that there was no mistaking.

"Well, that is interesting, I must confess," ejaculated Kate. "I begged her pardon; what more did she want?"

"She wanted you to say that you hadn't the least idea of her in your mind,—that you didn't mean that she was forward or pert, and you said nothing of the sort; you only begged her pardon for having spoken as you did," explained Myra Donaldson, giggling a little.

"And that is what I meant,—just that,—that I was sorry for having spoken—"

"Your thoughts," said Myra, giggling again.

"Dorothea is generally a good-natured girl," spoke up Anna Fleming here, with a kind impulse to be just.

"Oh, I like Dorothea very well. I should like her better if she didn't bounce and flounce so. You can't say that her manners are as nice as they might be, can you?" said Myra, looking appealingly at Anna.

"N—o, I can't say that her manners are really nice," answered Anna.

"I think she is vulgar!" Kate suddenly snapped out, with a vehemence that quite startled the other two girls.

"Vulgar! why, Kate, she's one of the Boston Derings."

Kate made a little face, and then in a sarcastic voice, "Who are the Boston Derings?" she asked.

"Now, Kate, you know perfectly well that the Boston Derings belong to the best society in Massachusetts, and that they have always belonged to it from the first," protested Anna, getting things rather mixed in her eagerness.

"From the first!" repeated Kate, laughing derisively. "I suppose you mean from the time of Adam."

"Now, Kate, you know perfectly well what I mean. The Derings came from an old family."

"Like Sandy MacDougal."

"Eh—what—who is Sandy MacDougal?"

"Our gardener. He came straight to us from Scotland, and he's as proud as a peacock of his family. He says the MacDougals have been first-class gardeners for generations."

Myra Donaldson gave another of her giggles, but Anna did not join in her levity. Instead of that she said with dignity,—

"What I mean is an old family like the Van der Bergs."

Kate flushed rosy red. This was "a retort courteous," and for a moment she was dumb; but a moment after, she sat up in her chair, and cried laughingly,—

"The Van der Bergs are not proud, except of one thing in their family history."

"What's that?" inquired Anna, quickly.

Kate laughed again. "It is the performance of a long-ago ancestor,—a Dutch boatman named Van der Berg. It was in that early time when the Netherlanders were struggling against Spain to establish their own liberty and independence. William the Silent, Prince of Orange, you know, who had been the Netherlanders' best friend when he was at the head of their commonwealth, was dead, and his son, Maurice, Prince of Nassau, was working with John of olden Barneveld to help the Netherlanders, as his father had been doing, to become strong enough to get altogether out of the clutches of Spain. But how ridiculous of me to talk history to you like this, just because of that old story! To change the conversation, what is it you are knitting, Anna,—a shawl or a cape?"

"No, no, we don't want to change the conversation," protested Anna and Myra, who knew quite well what a delightful story-teller Kate was, and never more delightful than when she was "talking history,"—telling "true stories," as they expressed it. Neither of the girls was very fond of studying history, but they were very fond of listening to Kate whenever she would "talk it," or whenever she would pick out of it its—to them—labyrinthine mazes some stirring incident, and read it to them. So their protest now was very decisive against any change of conversation; and thus urged to go back to her subject, Kate went on with the story of her ancestor. She had not gone far, however, when she stopped short again, saying,—

"But wait! Motley tells the story so beautifully in his 'United Netherlands;' let me read it to you in his own words. It's too bad to try to tell it in my words; and here's the book right on this lower library shelf."

"It was the work of a moment to possess herself of the book"

It was the work of a moment to possess herself of the book; and the girls, settling themselves comfortably in their chairs, gave themselves up to the pleasure of listening to the following spirited narrative:—