Clarice Packard was indeed in rather a sad plight before they reached the Glen. Part of the road was sandy, and her high heels sank into the sand and made it hard walking for her, while her companions, in their broad-soled "sneakers," trod lightly and sturdily. Then, too, she had from time to time a stitch in her side, which forced her to sit down and rest for some minutes. Mary, looking at her tiny, wasp-like waist, thought it was no wonder. "Her belt is too tight," she whispered to Sue. "Of course she can't walk. Tell her to let it out two or three holes, and she will be all right."

"Oh, hush, Mary," whispered Sue. "It isn't that at all; it's only that she is so delicate. I ought never to have brought her all this way. She has been telling me about the fainting-fits she has sometimes. Oh, what should we do if she had one now!"

"Pour some water over her," said downright Mary. "But don't worry, Sue; we are nearly there, and it really cannot hurt her to walk one short mile, you know."

"Do you think not, Mary? But I am afraid you don't understand her. You see, she is so delicate, and you are as strong as a cart-horse. Clarice said so. And I suppose I am pretty strong, too."

"I'm much obliged to her," said Mary. "Come, Sue, let's push along; she will be all right when we once get there and she has rested a little."

The Glen was indeed a pleasant place. A clear stream ran along between high, rocky banks, with a green space on one side, partly shaded by two or three broad oak-trees. Under one of these trees was a bank of moss, as soft and green as if it had been piled by the fairies for their queen. Indeed, this was one of Sue's and Mary's theories, the other being that this special oak was none other than Robin Hood's own greenwood tree, transplanted by magic from the depths of Sherwood Forest. The former theory appealed more to Sue now, as she led the weary Clarice to the bank, and made her sit down in the most comfortable place.

"There, dear," she cried; "isn't this lovely? You shall rest here, Clarice, and we will play fairies, and you shall be Titania. You don't mind, do you, Mary, if Clarice is Titania this time? She is so slender, you see, and light; and besides, she is too tired to be anything else."

Mary nodded, with a smile; she could not trust herself to speak. She had been Titania ever since they first read "Lamb's Tales"; but it was no matter, and she had promised her mother to do her very best to bring Clarice out, and learn the better side of her.

"Isn't it lovely, Clarice?" she asked, repeating Sue's question as she took her place on the mossy bank.

"Alegant!" was the languid reply; "perfectly alegant. Isn't it damp, though? Doesn't it come off green on your clothes?"

Mary reassured her on this point. She examined her challis anxiously, and sank back again, apparently relieved. She looked round her. Sue and Lily had vanished for the moment. The trees met over their heads. There was no sound save the tinkling of the brook and the faint rustle of the leaves overhead.

"It's real lonesome, isn't it?" said Clarice.

"Yes," said Mary; "that's part of the beauty of it. There is never any one here, and we can do just as we like, with no fear of any one coming. I think in the woods it's pleasant to be alone, don't you?"

"Alegant!" said Clarice; "perfectly alegant! Are there any more people coming, did you say?"

"Only my brothers; they are coming later."

Clarice brightened, and sat up, arranging her trinkets. "Are they in college?" she asked, with more interest than she had shown in anything that day.

"Oh, no!" said Mary, laughing. "They are—"

But at this moment Sue came running up with an armful of ferns and oak-leaves, Lily following with another load. "I had to go a long way before I found any that were low enough to reach!" cried Sue, panting after her run. "I mustn't shin to-day, 'cause these are new stockings, and last time I tore them all to pieces."

"Tore these all to pieces?" asked Mary, laughing.

"Be still, Mary; I won't be quirked at. Now let's all make garlands. No, not you, Clarice; you must just rest. Do you feel better? Do you think you'll be all right in a little while? Now you shall be Titania and give us orders and things; and then, when we have finished the wreaths, we'll sing you to sleep. I am Oberon, you know, generally; but I'll be one of the common fairies now; and Lily—yes, Lily, you can be Puck. Now, can you say some of it, Clarice?"

"Some of what?" asked Clarice, with an uncomprehending look.

"Why, 'Midsummer-Night's Dream.' We always play that here, except when we play Robin Hood. Perhaps you would rather play Robin, Clarice; perhaps you don't care for 'Midsummer-Night's Dream.' Oh, I hope you do, though. We are so fond of it, Mary and I!"

"I don't know what you mean," said Clarice, rather peevishly. "Oh, Shakspere's play? I never read it. I didn't take literature at school. Puppa thought I was too delicate to study much."

Sue looked blank for a moment. Not to know "Midsummer-Night's Dream"—that did seem very strange!

But Clarice opened her eyes at her and smiled and sighed. "My eyes have never been strong!" she murmured plaintively.

Sue's arms were round her in an instant. "You poor darling!" she cried. "Isn't that hard, Mary? isn't it cruel? To think of not having strong eyes! Clarice, I will come and read to you every day; I should just love to do it. We'll begin to-morrow morning. Oh, how splendid that will be! What shall we read first? You have read 'Westward Ho!' of course, and all Mrs. Ewing, and 'Prince Prigio,' and 'The Gentle Heritage,' and the Alices, and all the Waverleys?"

No; Clarice had read none of these. She had read "Wilful Pansy, the Bride of an Hour," she said, last; and she had just begun "My Petite Pet" before she came here. It was perfectly sweet, and so was another by the same author, only she couldn't remember the name.

"Aren't we going to play something?" asked Lily, plaintively. Lily could never understand why big girls spent so much good time in talking.

"Oh, yes!" cried Sue. "We must play, to get up an appetite for dinner; I've got one already, but I'll get another. What would you like to play, Clarice?"

"I don't care," said Clarice. "Anything you like."

"Oh, but do care, please!" cried Sue, imploringly; "because this is your picnic, really. We got it up for you; and we want you to have everything just as you like it; don't we, Mary?"

Mary assented civilly, and pressed Clarice to choose a game.

"Oh, but I really don't care in the least!" said Clarice. "I don't know much about games; my set of girls don't play them; but I'll play anything you like, dear!" She opened her eyes and smiled again, and again Sue embraced her ardently.

"You dear, sweet, unselfish thing!" she cried. "I think you are an angel; isn't she, Mary? Perhaps we needn't play anything, after all. What would you like to do, Clarice?"

But Clarice would not hear of this—would not choose anything, but would graciously play any game they decided on. A game of "Plunder" was started, but somehow it did not go well. Plunder is a lively game, and must be played with ardor. After two or three runs, Clarice put her hand to her side and gasped for breath.

"Only a stitch!" she murmured; and she sank down on the mossy bank, while the others gathered round her with anxious faces.

"It will go off in a minute. I'm afraid I am not strong enough to play this any more, girls. Rough games never suit me."

Mary flushed and looked at Sue; but Sue's gaze was fixed on Clarice, all contrition. "My dear! I am so sorry! You see, we've never been delicate, and we don't know how; we don't even know what it's like. Lie down, dear, and rest again! Oh, Mary, I feel as if we were murderers. See how white she is! Do you think she is going to die?"

This was more than Mary could stand. "I think you would be better, Clarice," she said bluntly, "if you loosened your dress a little. Sha'n't I let out your belt for you?"

But Clarice cried out, and declared her dress was too loose already. "I never wear anything tight," she said—"never! See, I can put my whole hand up under my belt." And so she could, when she drew her breath in. "No," she said; "it is my heart, I fear. I suppose I shall never be strong like some people. But don't mind me! Go on playing, and I will watch you."

But three were not enough for Plunder; and besides, the heart for playing seemed to be gone out of them all, except Lily, who pouted and hung her head, and thought this a very poor kind of picnic indeed. Clarice lay on the bank and fanned herself, looking utterly bored, as indeed she was. Sue regarded her with wide, remorseful eyes, and wondered what she ought to do. In desperation, Mary proposed lunch.

"I am getting hungry!" she said. "Aren't you, girls? It will take a little time to get the things out and trim the table; let's begin now."

All agreed with alacrity, and there was some animation as the baskets were unpacked and their contents spread on the "table," which was green and smooth, and had no legs. The platters were made of oak-leaves neatly plaited together. The chicken-pie was set out, the cakes and turnovers beside it, with doughnuts and sandwiches at convenient intervals. Sue tumbled the bananas and the cocoanut out of her blouse, and piled them in an artistic pyramid, tucking in fern-fronds and oak-leaves.

"There!" she said, surveying the effect with her head on one side. "That is pretty, isn't it, Mary—I mean Clarice?"

Mary pressed her lips together and squeezed Lily's hand hard. Clarice said it was "perfectly alegant," and then asked again if the gentlemen were coming.

"Gentlemen!" said Sue. "Oh, how funny you are, Clarice! Mary, isn't she funny? The idea of calling the boys gentlemen!"

"I hope they are!" was on the tip of Mary's tongue; but she refrained, and only said it was time they were here. As if in answer to her words, a joyous whoop was heard, and a scuttling among the branches. Next moment Tom and Teddy burst into the open, out of breath, as usual, tumbling over each other and over their words in their eagerness.

"Hallo! Hallo, Quicksilver! Are we late?"

"I say! we stopped to get some apples. Did you remember apples? I knew you wouldn't, so we—"

"And we found a woodchuck—"

"Oh, I say, Mary, you should have seen him! He sat up in the door of his hole, and—"

"Salt! you forgot the salt, Ballast, and Mammy sent it. Saccarappa! it's all spilled into my pocket. Do you mind a few crumbs?"

"Boys! boys!" said Mary, who had been trying in vain to make herself heard, "do be quiet! I want to introduce you to Miss Packard. Clarice, these are my brothers, Tom and Teddy."

The boys had no hats to take off,—they wore hats on Sunday, though!—but they bowed with the short, decisive duck of fourteen (indeed, Tom was fifteen, but he did not look it), and tried to compose their features. "Do!" they murmured; then, at a severe look from Mary, they came forward, and each extended a grimy paw and shook Clarice's gloved hand solemnly, leaving marks on it. The ceremony over, they breathed again, and dropped on the grass.

"Isn't this jolly?" they cried. "Ready for grub? We are half starved."

Clarice's look was almost tragic as she turned upon Sue. "Are these the boys you meant?" she asked in a whisper that was fully audible. "These—little—ragamuffins?"

Fortunately, Mary was talking to Teddy, and did not hear. Sue did, and for the first time her admiration for Clarice received a shock. She raised her head and looked full at Clarice, her hazel eyes full of fire. "I don't understand you," she said. "These are my friends; I invited them because you asked me to."

Clarice's eyes fell; she colored, and muttered something, Sue did not hear what; then she put her hand to her side and drew a short, gasping breath.

In an instant Sue's anger was gone. "Boys!" she cried hastily. "Tom, bring some water, quick! She's going to faint."

Clarice was now leaning back with closed eyes. "Never mind me," she murmured softly; "go on and enjoy yourselves. I shall be—better—soon, I dare say."

Splash! came a shower of water in her face. Tom, in eager haste, had stumbled over Sue's foot, and his whole dipperful of water was spilled over the fainting maiden. She sprang to her feet with amazing agility.

"You stupid, stupid boy!" she cried, stamping her foot, her eyes blazing with fury. "You did it on purpose; you know you did! Get away this minute!"

Then, while all looked on in silent amaze, she burst into tears, and declared she would go home that instant. She would not stay there to be made a fool of by odious, rude, vulgar boys.

There was dead silence for a moment. Then Tom said, slowly and solemnly (no one could be so solemn as Tom when he tried): "I beg your pardon, Miss Packard; I am very sorry. I will go away if you wish it, but I hope you will stay."

Sue wanted to hug Tom, but refrained. (She had decided a little while ago that she was getting too big to hug the boys any more.) "Tom, you are a darling," she whispered in his ear—"a perfect dear duck! And you can use the telephone all you like to-morrow. Clarice," she added aloud, "he has apologized; Tom has apologized, and that is all he can do, isn't it? You are all right now, aren't you?"

Clarice hesitated. Her dignity was on the one hand, her dinner on the other; she was hungry, and she yielded.

"If he didn't really mean to," she began ungraciously; but Mary cut her short with what the boys called her full-stop manner.

"I think there has been quite enough of this foolishness," she said curtly. "Sue, will you pass the sandwiches? Have some chicken-pie, Clarice!"

A sage has said that food stops sorrow, and so it proved in this case. The chicken-pie was good, and all the children felt wonderfully better after the second help all round. Tongues were loosed, and chattered merrily. The boys related with many chuckles their chase of the woodchuck, and how he finally escaped them, and they heard him laughing as he scuttled off.

"Well, he was laughing—woodchuck laughter; you ought just to have heard him, Mary."

Sue made them all laugh by telling of her encounter with Katy and the milk-pan. Even Clarice warmed up after her second glass of shrub, and told them of the picnics they had at Saratoga, where she had been last year.

"That was why I was so surprised at this kind of picnic, dear," she said to Sue, with a patronizing air. "It's so different, you see. The last one I went to, there were—oh, there must have been sixty people at the very least. It was perfectly alegant! There were two four-in-hands, and lots of drags and tandems. I went in a dog-cart with Fred. You know—the one I told you about." She nodded mysteriously and simpered, and Sue flushed with delighted consequence.

"What did you take?" asked Lily, her mouth full of chicken.

"Oh, a caterer furnished the refreshments," said Clarice, airily. "There was everything you can think of: salads, and ice-cream, and boned turkey, and all those things. Perfectly fine, it was! Everybody ate till they couldn't hardly move; it was alegant!"

"Didn't you do anything but just gob—I mean eat?" asked Mary.

"Oh, there was a band of music, of course; and we walked about some, and looked at the dresses. They were perfectly alegant! I wore a changeable taffeta, blue and red, and a red hat with blue birds in it. Everybody said it was just as cute! The reporter for the 'Morning Howl' was there, and he said it was the handsomest costume at the picnic. He was a perfect gentleman, and everything I had on was in the paper next day."

"This is soul-stirring," said Tom (who did sometimes show that he was fifteen, though not often), "but didn't I hear something about toasts?"

Clarice looked vexed, but Mary took up the word eagerly. "Yes, to be sure, Tom; it is quite time for toasts. Fill the glasses again, Teddy! Clarice, you are the guest of honor; will you give the first toast?"

Clarice shook her head, and muttered something about not caring for games.

"Then I will!" cried Sue; and she stood up, her eyes sparkling.

"I drink to Clarice!" she said. "I hope she will grow strong, and never have any heart again,—I mean any pain in it,—and that she will stay here a long, long time, till she grows up!"

Teddy choked over his glass, but the others said "Clarice!" rather soberly, and clinked their glasses together. Clarice, called upon for a speech in response to the toast, simpered, and said that Sue was too perfectly sweet for anything, but could think of nothing more. Then Tom was called upon. He rose slowly, and lifted his glass.

Mary gave him a warning glance, but Sue was enchanted. "Oh, Tom, how dear of you to make it in poetry!" she cried, flushing with pleasure. "Wait; wait just a minute, and I'll make my speech."

She stood silent, holding up her glass, in which the sunbeams sparkled, turning the liquid to molten rubies; then she said rather shyly:

This was received with great applause.

Mary's turn came next; but before she could speak, Clarice had sprung to her feet with a wild shriek. "A snake!" she cried; "a snake! I saw it! It ran close by my foot. Oh, I shall faint!"

Teddy clapped his hand to his pocket, and looked shamefaced.

"I thought I had buttoned him in safe," he said. "I'm awfully sorry. The other one is in there all right; it was only the little one that got out."

But this was too much for Clarice. She declared that she must go home that instant; and after an outcry from Sue no one opposed her. The baskets were collected, the crumbs scattered for the birds, and the party started for home. Mary and her brothers led the way with Lily, Sue and Clarice following slowly behind with arms intertwined. Sue's face was a study of puzzled regret, self-reproach, and affection.

"Mary," said Tom.

"Hush, Tom!" said Mary, with a glance over her shoulder. "Don't say anything till we get home."

"I'm not going to say anything. But what famous book—the name of it, I mean—expresses what has been the matter with this picnic?"

"Oh, I don't know, Tom. 'Much Ado about Nothing'?"

"No," said Tom. "It's 'Ben Hur'!"