Everybody in town knew the Hapgood house. It stood close to the street, under a row of huge elms, and surrounded with clumps of purple and white lilac bushes whose topmost blossoms peeped curiously in at the chamber windows. Such houses are only found in New England, but there they abound with their broad front "stoops," the long slant of their rear roofs, where a ladder is firmly fixed, to serve in case of fire, and the great, low rooms grouped around the immense chimney in the middle. The Hapgood house had been in the family for generations, and was kept in such an excellent state of repair that it bade fair to outlast many of the more recent houses of the town. A wing had been built out at the side; but even with this modern addition, no one needed to glance up at the date on the chimney—sixteen hundred and no- matter-what—to assure himself of the great age of the stately old house before him.

Up in the Hapgood attic a serious consultation was going on.

"Now, girls," Polly Adams began solemnly, "'most half of our vacation has gone, and I think we ought to do something before it's over."

"Aren't we doing something this very minute, I should like to know?" inquired Molly Hapgood, who had felt privileged, in her capacity as hostess, to throw herself down on the old bed which occupied one corner of the garret.

Polly frowned on such levity.

"I don't mean that, Molly, and you know it. What I think is, that we should get together regularly every two or three days and do something special. Aunt Jane is in lots of clubs and things, and— "

"I've heard it said," interrupted Jean Dwight solemnly, "that Aunt Jane spent so much time doing good outside that she never had a chance to be good at home." "Now, Jean, that isn't fair," said Polly laughing. "You know I'd be the very last one to hold up Aunt Jane as an example, only she has such good times with her everlasting old people that I thought we might do something like it."

"Which do you propose to do," asked Molly disrespectfully, "start a society for the improvement of the jail or open a mission at the poor-house to teach Miss Bean some manners?"

"Let's have a dramatic club, and get up a play," suggested the fourth member of the group, who was seated on a dilapidated hair- covered trunk under the open window, regardless of the strong east wind which now and then lifted a stray lock of her long yellow hair and blew it forward across her cheek.

"What a splendid idea, Florence!" said Jean, rapturously bouncing about in her seat on the foot of the bed. "How does that suit you, Polly?"

"We might do that, for one thing," assented Polly cautiously; "but oughtn't we to try something a little—well, a little improving, too." "I'd like to know if that wouldn't be improving?" asked Molly. "It would teach us to act, and then, if we wanted, we could charge an admission fee and raise some money."

"I think it would be splendid, girls," said Polly, in spite of herself carried away by the prospect, and forgetting her own plan. "What shall we take?"

"Let's take 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,'" said Jean. "We could make it over into a play easily enough, and Florence would be just the one for Eva. Alan could be Uncle Tom, you know."

"I think we could get something better than that," remarked Florence, in some disgust. "If I'm Eva, I'll have to die, and I don't know the first thing about that."

"Oh, that's easy enough," answered Molly, with the air of one who had experience; "just stiffen yourself out and fall over. But I don't believe you could ever get Alan to act."

"Why not take a ready-made play?" asked Polly. "It would save ever so much work."

"What is there?" said Molly, sitting up to discuss the matter.

"We don't want any Shakespeare," added Jean; "that's all killing, and Florence doesn't want to go dead, you know."

"I'll tell you what, girls," said Molly, as if struck with a sudden idea, "we'll have an original play, and Jean shall write it."

Florence and Polly applauded the suggestion, while Jean groaned,—

"I can't, girls. I never could in this world."

"Yes, you can," returned Molly, who had firm faith in her friend's ability. "You go right to work on it, and you ought to get it all done in a week or two, so we can give it before school opens."

"And we want just five people in it," said Polly. "I know I can get Alan to act, if Molly can't."

Molly shrugged her shoulders incredulously, while Jean inquired, with the calmness of desperation,—

"What shall it be about?"

"John Smith and Pocahontas," replied Polly promptly. "He almost gets killed, and doesn't quite; so that will get the audience all stirred up, but save the trouble of dying."

"But that only needs three," observed Florence thoughtfully, "and there are five of us."

"Doesn't he take her home to England, I'd like to know? There's a picture in the history where he shows Pocahontas to the queen. One of us can be king, and the other queen."

"But at court there are always lots of people round," remonstrated
Florence, with an eye to the truth of the situation.

"Never mind; we can make believe that the queen has sent them off, so as not to scare Pocahontas; that's what they call poetical license," said Polly. "Jean can see about that. There are lots of splendid things to wear, right here in this garret. Don't you suppose your mother would let us take them, Molly?"

"Yes, I know she will," replied Molly.

There was silence for a moment, while the girls considered the matter. Then Polly returned to her first charge.

"But it will take a good while to get ready to start this, so I'd like to suggest our doing something else, while we wait."

"Polly has something in her head," said Jean. "Tell us what 'tis,
Poll,"

"Well, I'll tell you," said Polly, as she rose and began to walk up and down the floor. "Aunt Jane was scolding, the other day, because I hadn't read 'Pilgrim's Progress.' She said it was a living disgrace to me, and that I must do it, right off. Now, what if we have a reading club and do it together? Have any of you read it? I don't believe you ever have."

The girls admitted that they had not.

"That's just what I thought," said Polly triumphantly. "It's so stupid that I can't do it alone, for I read the first page yesterday, and I know. But we don't any of us want to be 'a living disgrace'; so what if we read aloud an hour every other afternoon? 'T wouldn't take us so very long, and," here she laughed frankly, "I don't suppose it would hurt us any."

"I don't know but we ought to," remarked Molly virtuously, while
Jean added,—

"I've heard people say it was like measles. You'd better take it young, if you did at all."

"When shall we begin?" demanded Polly, fired with enthusiasm at the prospect.

"To-morrow," said Molly; "and you'd better come here to read, for we can be nice and quiet up here. Come to-morrow at three, and we'll read till four."

"Oh!" exclaimed Florence, suddenly springing up, as a small, dark body came flying in at the open window above her head, and went tumbling across the floor and down the stairs.

"What was that?" asked Molly, rolling off the bed.

"A green apple. I think," replied Polly, as she ran after it and seized it. "Yes; here it is."

"That's Alan's doing," said Molly sternly, "I do wish he'd ever let us alone."

"I don't," said Polly, coming to his defence; "he's ever so much fun. I get tired of all girls."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Jean quickly, bowing low, in answer to the compliment.

But Polly missed the bow, for her curly head was out of the window, and she was laughing down at a slender, light-haired lad who was just taking fresh aim at the open window.

"Come up here, Alan!" she called.

"Oh, don't, Polly!" remonstrated Molly from within. "He'll laugh at us, and spoil all our fun."

"No, he won't," answered Polly valiantly; then, more loudly, "What did you say, Alan?"

"What are you girls about up there?" he inquired.

"Come up and see." And she drew in her head just in time to escape a second missile.

"All right; I'll come if you'll promise to play something, and not spend all your time gabbling." And Alan vanished through the side door. A minute or two afterwards, his shoes were heard clattering up the attic stairs.

The four girls, whom he found sitting in a row on the edge of the bed, were such good friends of him and of each other, that the five were commonly spoken of as "the V," or, sometimes, as "the quintette." Alan Hapgood, who was regarded as the point of the V, was a wide-awake, irrepressible youth of twelve, who had a large share in the doings of his older sister and her friends. They did their best to spoil him by their unlimited admiration; but, to be sure, the temptation to do so was a strong one, for Alan was a lovable fellow, always merry and good-natured, generous and accommodating to his friends, and quick to plan and execute the pranks which added the spice of mischief to the doings of the V. In person he was tall for his age, and slight, with thick, yellow hair, that lay in a smooth, soft line across his forehead, large gray eyes, and a generous mouth, full of strong, white teeth which were usually in sight, for Alan was nearly always laughing,—not a handsome boy, exactly, for his features were quite irregular, but a splendid one, whom one would instinctively select as a gentleman's son, and an intelligent, manly lad.

His sister Molly, two years older, was an attractive, bright girl, whose only beauty lay in her smooth, heavy braids of brown hair. She and Polly had been constant companions from their babyhood, had quarrelled and "made up," had quarrelled and made up again, three hundred and sixty-five days a year for the last thirteen years, and at the end of that time they were closer friends than ever. Two girls more unlike it would have been hard to find, for Molly was as quiet and deliberate as Polly was impetuous; but nevertheless, in spite of their continual disagreements, they were inseparable. They were in the same class in school and in Sunday- school, they had the same friends, and read the same books, and had a share in the same mischief. They even carried this trait so far as to both come down with mumps on the same day, when their unwonted absence from school was the source of much speculation among their friends, who fondly pictured them as indulging in some frolic, until the melancholy truth was known.

Next to Alan, Jean Dwight was the boy of the V, a strong, hearty, happy young woman of fourteen, who succeeded in getting a great deal of enjoyment out of this humdrum, work-a-day world. Her rosy cheeks glowed and her brown eyes shone with health; for Jean was as full of life as a young colt, and vented her superfluous energy in climbing trees, walking fences, and running races, until Aunt Jane and her followers raised their hands and eyes in well-bred horror. But Jean's unselfish devotion to her mother, her real refinement, her quick understanding, and her sound common sense did much to atone for her hoydenish ways, and gave promise of the fine womanhood which lay before her. At first it had been a matter of some surprise, in the aristocratic old town, that Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Hapgood, representatives of "our first families," as they were universally acknowledged to be, could allow their children to be so intimate with Jean Dwight, whose father was only a carpenter, and whose mother took in sewing. However, any comments were promptly silenced when Mrs. Adams had been heard to say, one day, that she was always glad to have Polly with such a womanly girl as Jean Dwight, so free from any nonsensical, grown-up airs. From that time onward Jean's position was an established fact.

Florence Lang was the acknowledged beauty of the V, a dainty maiden of thirteen, with fluffy, yellow hair, great blue eyes, and a pink and white skin which might have made a French doll sigh with envy. The only daughter of a luxurious home, she was always beautifully dressed, always quiet in her manners. No matter how excited and demoralized the rest of the V might become, Florence never failed to come out of the frolic as gentle and unspotted as she went in, greatly to the disgust and envy of Polly, whose clothes had a tendency to get mysteriously torn, whose shoes appeared to go in search of dust, and whose short, curly hair had a perfect genius for getting into a state of wild disorder. It was not that Florence seemed to take any more care of herself than the others, but she was naturally one of those favored beings to whom no particle of dust could cling, who could use none but the choicest language. Such gentle children have admirers enough; it is the luckless, quick-tempered Pollies, the warm-hearted, harum- scarum Jeans, who need a champion.

If Molly and Polly had never disagreed, the quintette would have been only a trio; for, when they were at peace, they were all in all to each other. But in times of strife Molly was devoted to Florence Lang, while Polly took refuge with Jean Dwight. In this way the V was formed; and though the closest intimacy was between Molly and Polly, the four girls were firm friends, and there were few days when they were not to be found together, usually either at the Hapgood house, or at Polly's, where their visit was never quite satisfactory unless Mrs. Adams was in the midst of the group. Alan, too, was often with them, for a tendency to rheumatism, which occasionally developed into a severe attack of the disease, kept him in rather delicate health, and prevented his entering into the athletic sports which are the usual amusement for lads of his age. But though he was thus, of necessity, thrown much with his sister and her girl friends, Alan was far from belonging to that uninteresting species of humanity, the girl-boy; instead of that, he was a genuine, rollicking boy, with never a trace of the prig about him.

"Well, what was it you wanted of me?" Alan asked, as soon as his head reached the level of the attic floor.

"We didn't want you; you came," retorted Molly, with the frankness of a sister.

"No such thing; you called me,—at least, Polly did." And Alan marched across the floor to seat himself beside his champion, sure that there he would find a welcome.

He was not mistaken, for Polly remarked protectingly,—

"I did call you, Alan, for we want to have some fun, this horrid day, and we need you to stir us up."

"All right; how shall I go to work?" inquired Alan cheerfully.
"Shall I dance a breakdown, or will you play tag?"

"Let's play hide-and-seek," suggested Jean; "it's so nice and dark up here, to-day."

"Wait a minute," interposed Florence. "Alan, we may as well tell you now: Jean is going to write a play for us to act, and you are going to be John Smith and have your head cut off."

"The mischief, I am!" with a prolonged whistle of surprise and disgust. "It strikes me I have something to say about what shall be done with my head."

"Stop using such dreadful expressions, Alan," said Molly primly.
"You know mamma doesn't like to hear you say 'the mischief.'"

"Well, she didn't, 'cause she isn't here," returned Alan, in nowise abashed by his reproof. "And I don't believe she'd like to hear you girls planning to cut my head off, either."

"Oh, Alan, you goose!" said Polly. "John Smith's head wasn't cut off, for Pocahontas saved him, you know. All you'll have to do will be to lie down with your head on a stone, and have one of us girls get ready to hit you with a club."

"If you girls are going to manage the club," remarked the boy, with masculine scorn, "I'd much rather have you try to hit me, for then I'd be safe."

"That's a very old joke, Alan," said Jean, with disgust; "and besides, it isn't polite. You ought to be proud to be asked to have a part in our grand play."

"Will you act, or won't you?" demanded Polly sternly, as she seized him by his short, thick hair.

"Oh, anything to get peace," groaned Alan.

"Say yes, then."

"Yes."

"Very well. Now, you are to be ready whenever we want you; you are to do just what we want, and do it in just the way we want. Do you promise?"

"Yes, yes! But do hurry up and play something, or it will be dark before you begin."

"There!" said Polly, nodding triumphantly to the girls as she released him. "Didn't I tell you I'd get him to act?"

"You couldn't bribe him to keep out of it," said Jean, as they sprang up for their game.

The old attic was a favorite meeting-place for the V, who held high carnival there, now racing up and down the great floor and hiding in dark corners behind aged chests and spinning-wheels, now robing themselves in the time-honored garments which had done duty for various ancestors of the Hapgood family, and exchanging visits of mock ceremony, or inviting Mrs. Hapgood up to witness a remarkable tableau or an impromptu charade. Piles of illustrated papers filled one corner, and, when all else failed, the children used to pore over the sensational pictures of the Civil War, dwelling with an especial interest on the scenes of death and carnage. In another corner was arranged a long row of old andirons, warming-pans, and candlesticks, flanked by an ancient wooden cradle with a projecting cover above the head. Rows of dilapidated chairs there were, of every date and every degree of shabbiness,—those old friends which start in the parlor and slowly descend in rank, first to the sitting-room or library, then up-stairs, and so, by easy stages, to the hospital asylum of the garret. And up through the very midst of it all, midway between the two small windows which lighted the opposite ends of the attic, rose the huge gray stone chimney, like a massive backbone to the body of the house. What stories of the past the old chimney could have told! What descriptions of Hapgoods, long dead, who had warmed themselves about it! What secret papers had been burned in its wide throat! What sweet and tender home scenes had been enacted on the old settles ranged before its glowing hearths, which put to shame our tiny modern fireplaces and insignificant grates! But the old chimney kept its own counsel, and did not whisper a word, even to the swallows that built their nests in the crannies of its sides. If it had spoken, there would be no need for any one else to write of the doings of the V; for the chimney had silently watched the children day by day, and knew, better than any one besides, the simple story of their young lives.

"Now," Polly reminded them, as they were running down the stairs an hour later; "remember to come to-morrow at just three, all of you."

"What's up?" inquired Alan curiously.

"'Pilgrim's Progress,'" said Jean, as she leaped down from the fourth stair, and landed in an ignominious pile on her knees; "we're going to read it aloud together."

"I'm sorry for you, then," responded Alan. "Mother read it to me when I had scarlet fever, ever so long ago, and it's no end stupid."

"We're going to try it, anyway," said Polly, with an air of determination. "Come on, Jean; it's time I was at home. I'll see you to-morrow, girls."