When the "Leaguers" announced that they intended to have a valentine party, Julia and Miss South gave their assent with hesitation.

"It has a sentimental sound," said Julia,—"a valentine party! and I do wonder whom they wish to invite."

But when they were questioned the girls explained that they did not intend to ask a single person from outside, and, of course, not a single boy. The valentines that they most enjoyed sending were to other girls, and they wanted only girls at their valentine party.

These, at least, were the words of Concetta, their spokesman, and if any of the others dissented, they did not express their disagreement.

"But we expect you, Miss South, and Miss Bourne and Miss Barlow, and all the ladies who have been so very kind to us. Miss Northcote is in the secret, but every one else is going to be very much surprised."

"We'll try not to be curious, and I suppose that you wouldn't let us bribe Angelina to tell us."

"Oh, no'm; no, indeed. Miss Angelina," and Gretchen turned to Angelina, who was standing near, "if you tell we'll never—never—"

"Oh, I'm not afraid."

"We'll never call you Miss Angelina again—just plain Angelina."

"I wouldn't stand being called 'plain Angelina,'" said Miss South, patting Angelina's shoulder as she passed by.

Now for a week or two there was much secrecy, much whispering, many hours spent in the gymnasium at times when the rules about exercising did not require the girls to be there. Snippings of bright-colored paper were found in the hall, and not only bits of paper but of colored cambric; and Julia, and Nora when she came to the cooking-class, and all the other older persons interested in the Mansion, professed to be entirely mystified by what was going on.

But at last the eventful fourteenth of February arrived, and all the guests had assembled in the dining-room. The little stage had been set up, and the audience awaited the performance with great interest. Each girl, as before, had been permitted to invite two guests, and a number of boys and men were present,—brothers, cousins, uncles, and an occasional father, and the women relatives were out in full force.

Angelina's sister had come in from Shiloh to spend a day or two, and she was doorkeeper in Angelina's place. As the guests went to their places, each one was given a heart-shaped card, the edges gilded, to which was attached by a pink cord a small pencil shaped like an arrow.

"Evidently we are to keep some kind of a score," said Nora, "but what it is to be I cannot imagine."

"Nor I," responded Brenda; "I haven't been taken into the secret, but I know that it is to be something exciting."

Brenda had not yet outgrown her love for emphatic words, and "exciting" once in a while reappeared as a reminder of her childish years.

They had not waited very long when the door from the little room behind was opened, and a barefooted maiden with a broad straw hat torn at the rim, and a blue calico gown looped up over a paler blue petticoat, appeared. She carried a rake, and "Maud Muller" was breathed around the room before Angelina, coming from behind the scenes,—that is, from the other room,—had had time to say, "Ladies and gentlemen, you are asked to listen to each character, and to make a record of two things: First, those who look the best, then those who speak the best, that is,—I mean—" and for the first time almost in the memory of those present Angelina seemed to have stage fright, and was unable to translate her sentences into the clearer and more elegant phrases that she had intended to use. Thereupon she retired in some confusion, and Maud, who was really Nellie, recited the simple lines of the charming poem:

"I doubt that Maud had exactly that brogue," said Nora. "If she had, I believe that the judge would have been too thoroughly fascinated to ride away."

After this came a strange, Spanish-looking figure, who took a kneeling attitude with bowed head. The solemnity of the effect was somewhat marred when Concetta—for she it was—turned her head around slightly to make sure that the audience was fully appreciative of her. Many were the guesses as to what she portrayed, and indeed it was one of the guests, a thoughtful girl, who ventured Ximena, "the angel of Buena Vista," and then every one else wondered why she had not been clever enough to think of this.

After the women of Marblehead and Barbara Freitchie had made themselves known, "The Witch's Daughter" was given in series of tableaux, in which Maggie took the part of Mabel, and Angelina the part of Esek Harden, in a coat which, if not historically accurate, was at least a suitable kind of masculine attire for a girl to wear. Next came Haleema as the Countess, and Luisa as Amy Wentworth, in rather elegant clothes that surely must have come from one of the chests in the end room; and last, but not least, Anna and Rhoda, the two sisters in their long white gowns,—Anna timid and shrinking and Rhoda vehemently denouncing her; Inez the former and Phoebe the latter,—reciting some of the more tragic stanzas of the poem.

"Must we give up these pretty hearts?" asked one after another as Phoebe began to collect the cards.

"Oh, you can have them back again if your names are on them, we only want to count the votes;" and then there was a general murmur, for some people had forgotten to record their opinions and a little time was lost. But in the interval Julia played a Chopin waltz that several of the girls especially liked, and followed this with a few chords of one of the choruses they had been learning, in which they all joined very heartily.

When the score cards were brought back it was found that there was a tie for the favorite character between Haleema as the Countess, and Maggie and Angelina as Mabel Martin and Esek.

Angelina was in a state of excitement when this result was announced, and was determined that the decision should be immediately in her favor; while Maggie, disturbed by being so conspicuous, hoped that the prize might be given to Haleema.

"It isn't for you to decide," said Phoebe sagely; "they'll find some way of settling it—the ladies, I mean."

This, of course, proved to be the case, and when an umpire had been chosen whose decision all present agreed to respect, he decided that the first prize should go to the Mabel Martin actors. This was not entirely to the satisfaction of the followers of the Countess, and Concetta, who was sometimes on Haleema's side and sometimes against her, now became a very active partisan, and the two younger girls frowned ominously on Angelina and Maggie. So far at least as prizes were concerned, Anstiss, as President of the League, had brought it about that every actor should have a prize, in each case an attractively bound book, with the only advantage for the winners of the first prize that they were allowed to have first choice. But there was a book for each of the others, and each girl, too, had the pleasure of hearing from her own friends that she really had made the very best representation of all. It was simply a case of where all were so good it was almost impossible to choose the very best.

Mrs. McSorley was especially proud of Maggie's performance, and her face almost lost its wonted grimness as she walked about among the girls and their guests. "I'm thinking that you'll amount to something, after all," she vouchsafed to her niece; and as this was almost the highest praise she had ever given, Maggie was more than content. It may be said here that in Turquoise Street Mrs. McSorley was much more eloquent than she had been to Maggie's face, and the neighbors for many a day heard the story of this very brilliant evening at the Mansion, and of the remarkable manner in which Maggie McSorley had recited and acted the part of the witch's daughter.

Another pleasant result of the evening was that Haleema became more friendly toward Maggie, for she had been impressed by Maggie's generosity in being willing to resign the first prize to her.

This, however, did not mean the winning of Concetta, who still seemed to feel it her duty to refrain from any direct praise or showing any friendliness for Maggie. But after this an observer would have seen that she seldom showed any direct unfriendliness, and this was one of the things that Maggie especially observed.

The fun of the valentine party was quite forgotten in the excitement that the girls of the Mansion, like every one else in the country, felt on that sixteenth of February; for that was the day when news was brought of the destruction of the "Maine." Angelina was the first to report it when she broke into the dining-room with a newspaper that she had bought from a boy at the front door. It had headlines in enormous, heavy black letters, and Miss South, in spite of her general disapproval of the headlines, could not resist reading the sheet that Angelina handed her.

"It means war, doesn't it?" cried Angelina in a tone that implied that she hoped that it meant war. But neither Miss South nor the other residents, nor the great world outside, knew whether peace or war was to follow the awful disaster. It was useless to forbid the girls reading the harrowing details. All, indeed, except Maggie and Inez seemed to take a special delight in perusing them, and in speculating about the families of the victims and the guilt of the Spaniards; for of course the Spaniards had done this thing. There were no two opinions on the subject, so far as the girls were concerned. Gretchen quickly became the heroine of the day when it was learned that she had a cousin who was a seaman on the "Maine," and when his name was read in the list of those who had escaped, her special friends, Concetta and Luisa, seemed to think that they, too, shared in the distinction, and they offered to do her share of the housework that she might have time to think it all over. Angelina was not altogether pleased that this honor had come to Gretchen.

"Julia," said Nora, whose day it was at the home, "I believe that she'd be willing to sacrifice John for the sake of being the sister of a victim," and in fact Angelina scanned the list of names, in the hope that she might find one that she might claim as a relative. But unluckily she could not fix on a single name that she could properly claim. When she read aloud the President's message to Sigsbee, her voice trembled with emotion:

"The President directs me to express for himself and the people of the United States his profound sympathy for the officers and crew of the 'Maine,' and desires that no expense be spared in providing for the survivors, and the care of the dead.

"John D. Long, Secretary.

"Sigsbee, U. S. S. 'Maine.'"

"But there isn't any 'Maine' now," said Maggie, as Angelina read the last words, and then was the young girl moved to a word of genuine eloquence. "There will always be a 'Maine;' it will always live in the hearts of the American people!" and Julia, who happened to approach the group just at this moment, said "Bravo! bravo! Angelina, you are a true patriot."