SPRING is an unknown season in Lakeville. But if one waits sufficiently long, there comes at last a period known as the breaking of winter. Since, owing to the heavy snows of January, February and March, there is always a great deal of winter to break, the process is an extended and—to the "overshoed" young—a decidedly trying one. But even in northerly Lakeville there finally came an afternoon when the girls decided that the day was much too fine to be spent indoors; and that the hour had arrived when it would be safe to leave off rubbers. The snow had disappeared except in very shaded spots and the Bay was free of ice except for a line of white that showed far out beyond the intense blue. The sidewalks were comparatively dry, but streams of icy water gurgled merrily in the deep gutters that ran down all the sloping streets. Although this abundant moisture was only the result of melting snow in the hills back of Lakeville and possessed no beauty in itself, these impetuous streams gave forth pleasant springlike sounds and made one think sentimentally of babbling brooks, fresh clover and blossoms by the wayside. Yet one needed to draw pretty heavily on one's imagination to see either flowers or grass at that early date; but the feel of them, as Jean said, was certainly in the air.

"Let's walk down by Mrs. Malony's," suggested Mabel.

"She doesn't milk at this time of day, does she?" queried Henrietta, cautiously.

"We needn't go in," assured Mabel. "We'll just run down one hill and up the other; but it's always lovely to walk along the shore road. There's a sort of a side-walk—if folks aren't too particular."

"Wouldn't it be beautiful," sighed Jean, "if Bettie could only come too? This air would do anybody good."

"Yes," mourned Marjory, "nothing seems quite right without Bettie."

The girls, a trifle saddened, went slowly down the hill.

"We must certainly steer clear of Mrs. Malony," warned Henrietta, as the egg-woman's house became visible. "Another dose of her hot milk would drive me from Lakeville."

"There she is now!" exclaimed Mabel. "I recognize her by her cow; she's driving it home."

"Perhaps it ran away to look for summer," offered Marjory. "The lady seems displeased with her pet."

"An' how are the darlin' childer?" cried Mrs. Malony, greeting her friends while yet a long way off. "'Tis a sight for a quane to see, so manny purty lasses. But where's me little black-oiyed Bettie—there's the swate choild for yez? Sure Oi heard she was loike to die, wan while back. Betther, is ut? Thot's good, thot's good. An' wud yez belave ut, Miss Mabel,—'tis fatter than iver yez are, Oi see—Oi had yez in me moind all this blissid day."

"Why?" asked Mabel, rather coldly.

"Well, 'twas loike this, darlin'," explained Mrs. Malony, dropping her voice to a more confidential tone and nodding significantly toward a distant chimney. "'Twas siven o'clock the mornin' whin Oi seen smoke risin' from the shanty beyant. All day Oi've been moinded to be goin' acrost the p'int an' lookin' in at thot windy to see if 'twas thot big-eyed Frinch wan come back wid the spring."

"You don't mean Rosa Marie's mother!" gasped Mabel.

"Thot same," proceeded Mrs. Malony, calmly. "But what wid Malony white-washin' me kitchen, an' me pesky hins walkin' in me parlor and me cow breakin' down me fince, sure Oi've had no toime to be traipsin' about."

"Couldn't you go now?" queried Jean, eagerly. "If it is that woman we ought to know it."

"Wait till Oi toi up me cow," consented Mrs. Malony.

The four friends, with Mrs. Malony in tow, picked their way over the badly kept path that led to the shanty.

"The door's been mended," announced observant Marjory.

"It doesn't seem quite proper," said gentle-mannered Jean, "to peek into people's windows. Couldn't we knock and ask in a perfectly proper way to see the lady of the house?"

"Sure we could thot," replied Mrs. Malony.

"Do hurry!" urged Mabel, breathlessly.

There was no response to Jean's rather nervous knock; but when Mrs. Malony applied her stout knuckles to the door there were results. The door was opened cautiously, just a tiny crack at first, then to its full extent. A dark-eyed woman with two thick braids falling over her shapely shoulders confronted them.

She swept a mildly curious glance over Mrs. Malony, over Jean, over Marjory, over Henrietta. Then her splendid eyes fell upon Mabel; they changed instantaneously.

In a twinkling the woman had brushed past the others to seize startled Mabel by both shoulders and to gaze piercingly into Mabel's frightened eyes. The woman tried to speak; but, for a long moment, her voice would not come.

"You—you!" she gasped, clutching Mabel still more tightly, as if she feared that the youngster might escape. "Ees eet you for sure? But w'ere, w'ere——?"

No further words would come. The poor creature's evident emotion was pitiful to see, and the girls were too overwhelmed to do more than stare with all their might.

"Rosa Marie's all right," gulped Mabel, coming to the rescue with exactly the right words. "She's safe and happy."

"Ma babee, ma babee," moaned the woman, her long-lashed eyes beaming with wonderful tenderness, and expressive of intense longing. "Bring me to heem queek—ah, so queek as evaire you can. Ma babee—I want heem queek."

Then, without stopping for outer garments or even to close her door, and still holding fast to the abductor of Rosa Marie, the woman hurriedly led the way from the clearing.

Mrs. Malony would have remained with the party if she had not encountered her frolicsome cow, a section of fence-rail dangling from her neck, strolling off toward town.

On the way up the long hill the woman, who still possessed all the beauty and the "mother-looks" that Mabel had described, talked volubly in French, in Chippewa Indian and in broken English. As Henrietta was able to understand some of the French and part of the English, the girls were able to make out almost two-thirds of what she was saying.

On the day of Mabel's first visit the young mother had departed with her new husband, who, not wanting to be burdened with a step-child, had persuaded her to abandon Rosa Marie, for whom she had subsequently mourned without ceasing. As might have been expected, the man had proved unkind. He had beaten her, half starved her and finally deserted her. She had worked all winter for sufficient money to carry her to Lakeville and had waited impatiently—all that time without news of her baby—for mild weather in order that the shanty, the only home that she knew, might become habitable.

The hill was steep and long, but all five hastened toward the top. Marjory ran ahead to ring the Black-Crane door-bell. Mabel piloted the trembling mother straight to the nursery. Jean, learning from Martin where to look for Mrs. Crane, ran to fetch her.

Rosa Marie, in her little chair and placidly stringing beads, looked up as unconcernedly as if it were an ordinary occasion. The woman, uttering broken, incoherent sounds sped across the big room, dropped to her knees and flung her arms about Rosa Marie. Then, for many moments, her face buried in Rosa Marie's neck, the only-half-civilized mother sobbed unrestrainedly.

The child, however, gazed stolidly over her mother's shoulder at the other visitors, all of whom were much more moved than she. Mrs. Crane, indeed, was shedding tears and even Mr. Black seemed touched. As for Mabel, that sympathetic young person was weeping both visibly and audibly, without exactly knowing why.

Since the repentant mother, who refused to let her baby out of her arms for a single moment, begged to be allowed to take Rosa Marie to the shanty that very night, Mrs. Crane, aided by the willing girls and Mr. Black, did what they could toward making the place comfortable.

After Martin and Mr. Black had carried a whole motor-carful of bedding, food and fuel to the shanty, the now radiant mother, Rosa Marie, her toys, her clothes and all her belongings, were likewise transported to the humble lakeside dwelling. Everybody was so busy and the whole affair was over so quickly that no one had time for regrets.

"I declare," said Mrs. Crane, wonderingly, "I ought to feel as if I'd lost something. Instead, I'm all of a whirl."

"I said," Mabel triumphed, "that she'd come back."

Jean was commissioned to go the next morning to break the news to Bettie. It seemed to Dr. Bennett and to the hopeful Cottagers that this important happening would surely rouse the listless little maid if anything could. Mr. Black, who arrived with a great bunch of violets while Jean was telling the wonderful tale as graphically as she could, expectantly watched Bettie's pale countenance. Her wistful, weary eyes brightened for a moment and a faint, tender smile flickered across her lips.

"I'm glad," said she. "Now Mrs. Crane won't have to have whooping cough and all the other things."

"Mrs. Crane is going to find work for Rosa Marie's mother," announced Jean, "and the shanty is to be mended."

"That's nice," returned Bettie, who, however, no longer seemed interested in Rosa Marie's mother. "But my ears are tired now; don't tell me any more."

After this failure, Mr. Black followed crestfallen Jean downstairs; he drew her into the shabby Rectory parlor.

"Now, Jean," demanded he, sternly, "is there a solitary thing in this whole world that Bettie wants? Is there anything that could possibly happen that would wake her up and bring her back? I'm dreadfully afraid she's slipping away from us, Jean; and she's far too precious to lose. Now think—think hard, little girl. Has she ever wanted anything?"

"Why," responded Jean, slowly, as if some outside force were dragging the words from her, "right after Christmas there was something, I think. A big, impossible something that nobody could possibly help. She didn't talk about it—and yet—and yet—— Perhaps she did worry."

"Go on," insisted Mr. Black, "I want it all."

"She seemed to get used to the idea so—so uncomplainingly. Still, she may have cared more than anybody suspected. She's like that—never cries when she's hurt."

"What idea?" demanded Mr. Black. "Cared for what? Make it clear, child."

"You see," explained Jean, "all of us—Henrietta, Marjory, Mabel and I—have been talking a great deal about going away to boarding school—we're all going. But Bettie—Bettie, of course, knew that she couldn't go. There was no money and her father said——"

"And why in thunder," shouted Mr. Black, forgetting the invalid and striding up and down the room with his fists clenched, "didn't somebody say so? What do folks think the good Lord gave us money for? Why didn't—Come upstairs. We'll settle this thing right now."

Impulsive Mr. Black, with dazed Jean at his heels, opened Bettie's door and walked in. Bettie lifted her tired eyes in very mild astonishment.

"Bad pennies," she smiled, "always come back. What's all the noise about?"

"Bettie," demanded Mr. Black, "do you want to go away to school with those other girls next September?"

Bettie opened her eyes wide. Jean said afterwards that she "pricked up her ears," too.

"Because," continued Mr. Black, keeping a sharp watch on Bettie's awakening countenance, "you're going. And if I say you're going, you surely are. Now, don't worry about it—the thing's settled. You're going with the others."

"Open the windows," pleaded Bettie, her face alight with some of the old-time eagerness. "I want to see how it smells outdoors."

"I believe we've done it," breathed Jean. "She looks a lot brighter."

And they had. No one had realized how tender, uncomplaining Bettie had dreaded losing her friends. And in her weakened state, both before and after the fever, the trouble had seemed very big. The load had almost crushed sick little Bettie. Now that it was lifted, and it was, for Mr. Black swept everything before him, there was nothing to keep the little girl from getting well with truly gratifying speed.

"Bettie," asked Dr. Bennett, the next evening, "are you sure this is your own pulse? If it is, it's behaving properly at last."

"She ate every bit of her supper," said Mrs. Tucker, happily, "and she asked, this afternoon, if she owned any shoes. She's really getting well."

"I'm hurrying," laughed happy Bettie, "to make up for lost time. Do give me things to make me fat—as fat as Mabel."

"She's certainly better," said the satisfied doctor. "By to-morrow we'll have to tie her down to keep her from dancing. She's our own Bettie, at last."

THE END

Transcriber's Notes:

Punctuation errors repaired. Varied hyphenation retained.

Front page description, "Scovill" changed to "Scovel" (Florence Scovel Shinn)

Page 96, "Bennettt" changed to "Bennett" (Mrs. Bennett, rescuing)

Page 165, "shruddered" changed to "shuddered" ("Ugh!" shuddered Marjory)

Page 214, repeated word "a" removed from text. Original read (like a a lobster's)