Mary! Mary Hart! I want to speak to you. Are you alone?"

"Yes," said Mary, looking up from her mending. "I am just finishing Teddy's stockings; he does tear them so. Come in, Sue."

"Hush! No; I want you to come out, Mary. It's something very important. Don't say a word to any one, but come down to the arbor this minute. I must see you alone. Oh, I am so excited!"

The arbor was at the farther end of the Harts' garden—a pleasant, mossy place with seats, and a great vine climbing over it. Mary put away her basket methodically, and joined Sue, whom she found twittering with excitement.

"Oh, Mary, what do you think? But first you must promise not to tell a living soul. Honest and true, black and blue! Promise, Mary, or my lips are sealed forever!"

"I promise," said Mary, without thinking.

Sue's tremendous secrets were not generally very alarming.

Sue drew a long breath, looked around her, said "Hush!" two or three times, and began:

"Isn't it perfectly splendid, Mary? The circus is coming to Chester on the 24th, and Clarice and I are going. It is going to be the greatest show in the world; the paper says so; and I've seen the pictures, and they are simply glorious. Isn't it fine? Clarice has asked me to spend the day with her at the hotel, and Mother says I may; and Clarice is going to treat me. Mary, she is the most generous girl that ever lived in this world. You don't half appreciate her, but she is."

"Who is going to take you to the circus?" asked practical Mary. "Mr. Packard?"

"Hush! No. That is the exciting part of it. We are going alone, just by ourselves."

"Sue! You cannot! Go up to Chester alone—just you two girls?"

"Why not? Clarice is much older than I, you know, Mary. Clarice is fifteen, and she says it is perfectly absurd for us to be such babies as we are. She says that in New York girls of our age wear dresses almost full length, and put up their hair, and—and all kinds of things. She says it's just because we live down East here that we are so countrified. And she knows all about going to places, and she has lots of money, and—and so—oh, Mary, isn't it exciting?"

"What does your mother say?" asked Mary, slowly. "Is she willing, Sue?"

"I am not going to tell her!" said Sue.

Her tone was defiant, but she colored high, and did not look at Mary as she spoke.

"You are not—going—to tell your mother?" repeated Mary, in dismay. "Oh, Sue!"

"Now, hush, hush, Mary Hart, and listen to me! Clarice says what's the use? She says it would only worry Mother, and I ought not to worry her when she is so delicate. She says she thinks it is a great mistake for girls to keep running to their mothers about everything when they are as big as we are. She never does, she says—well, it's her aunt, but that makes no difference, she says; and she is fifteen, you know. Besides, my mother is very different from yours; you know she is, Mary. I suppose I should want to tell things to your mother if she was mine. But you know perfectly well how Mamma is; she never seems to care, and it only bothers her and makes her head ache."

"Sue, how can you talk so? Your mother is ill so much of the time, of course she can't—can't be like my Mammy, I suppose."

Mary faltered a little as she said this. She had often wished that Mrs. Penrose would take more interest in Sue's daily life, but she felt that this was very improper talk.

"I don't think you ought to talk so, Sue!" she said stoutly. "I am sure you ought not. I think Clarice Packard has a very bad influence over you, and I wish she had never come here."

"Clarice says you are jealous, Mary, and that you try to make trouble between her and me. I don't believe that; but you have no imagination, and you cannot appreciate Clarice. If you knew what she has done for me—how she has opened my eyes."

Sue's vivid face deepened into tragedy. "Mary, I believe I will tell you, after all. I didn't mean to,—Clarice warned me not to,—but I will. Mary, there is a mystery in my life. Hush! don't speak—don't say a word! I am a foundling!"

If Mary had been less amazed and distressed, she must have laughed aloud. Sue, in her brown holland frock, her pretty hair curling round her face, her eyes shining with excitement, was the very image of her mother. As it was, Mary could only gasp, and gaze round-eyed.

"I am! I am sure of it!" Sue hurried on. "It explains everything, Mary: Mamma's not caring more, and my feeling the way I do, and everything. Clarice says she is sure it must be so. She knows a girl, the most beautiful girl she ever saw, and she never knew it till she grew up, because they were so fond of her; but she was left on their door-step in a wicker basket lined with pink satin, and a note pinned to her clothes saying that her parents were English noblemen, but they never would acknowledge her because she wasn't a boy. And so! And you know I have always felt that there was something wrong, Mary Hart, and that I was not like other children; you know I have!"

"I know you have often talked very foolishly," said Mary, "but I never heard you say anything wicked before. Sue, this is downright wicked, and ridiculous and absurd besides. I never heard such nonsense in my life, and I don't want to hear any more of it."

Both girls had risen to their feet, and stood facing each other. Mary was flushed with distress and vexation; but Sue had turned very pale.

"Very well!" she said, after a pause. "I see Clarice is right. You have a mean, jealous spirit, Mary. I thought I could tell the—the great thing of my life, to my most intimate friend,—for you have been my most intimate friend,—and you would understand; but you don't. You never have understood me; Clarice has said so from the beginning, and now I know she is right. At least, I have one friend who can feel for me. Good-by, Mary—forever!"

"Oh, Sue!" cried Mary, wanting to laugh and cry together. But Sue was gone, dashing through the garden at tempest speed, and flinging the gate to behind her with a crash.

Mary went into the house, and cried till she could not see. But there were no tears for Sue. She ran up to her room, and locked the door. Then, after looking carefully around, she drew out from under the bed an old brown leather writing-desk, produced a key that hung by a ribbon round her neck, unlocked the desk, and took out a faded red morocco blank-book. It had once been an account-book, and had belonged to her grandfather; the great thing about it was that it had a lock and key! Opening it, Sue found a blank page, and flinging herself over the table, began to write furiously:

"Mary and I have parted—parted forever. She was my dearest upon earth, but I know her no more. Her name is Hart, but she has none, or at least it is of marble. I am very unhappy, a poor foundling, with but one friend in the world. I sit alone in my gloomy garet." (The sun was pouring in at the window, but Sue did not see it.) "My tears blot the page as I write." (She tried to squeeze out a tear, failed, and hurried on.) "My affecktions are blited, but I am proud, and they shall see that I don't care one bit how mean they are. I am of noble blood, I feel it corsing in my viens, and I shouldn't wonder a bit if I were a princess. And if I die young, Mary Hart can come and shed tears on my moniment and be sorry she acted so."

Meantime, in the room below, little Lily was saying: "Mamma, I wish I had some one to play with. Couldn't you get me another sister, about my age? Sue says she is too old to play with me!" And Mrs. Penrose was sighing, and wondering again why her elder child was not the comfort to her that Mary Hart was to her mother.

The days that followed were sad ones for Mary. The intimacy between her and Sue had been so close that they had never felt the need of other friends; and, indeed, in their small neighborhood it happened that there were no pleasant girls of their own age. It had not seemed possible that anything could ever come between her and Sue. They loved to say that they were two halves, and only together made a whole. Now it was bitter to see Sue pass by on the other side of the home street with averted eyes and head held high. Mary tried to greet her as usual; for had they not said a hundred times how silly it was for girls to quarrel, and what spectacles they made of themselves behaving like babies?

But it was of no use. The breach was complete; and Sue refused to speak to Mary, or even to recognize her, and had only the most frigid little nod for her brothers. Many a time did Mary curl up for comfort in her mother's lap, and rest her head on her shoulder, and tell her how it hurt, and ask what she should do, and how she should live without her friend. She never failed to find comfort; and always, after a good little talk, there was something that Mrs. Hart particularly wanted done, and that Mary could help her so much with; and Mary found that there is no balm like work for a sore heart.

One day Mrs. Hart said: "Mary, how would you like to ask little Lily to come and spend the afternoon with you? Mrs. Penrose is really very far from well, and Sue seems to be entirely absorbed. It would be a kind thing to do, daughter."

So Lily came; and in making her happy Mary forgot the sore spot in her own heart. From that day the two were a good deal together. Beside Sue's glancing brightness Lily had seemed rather a dull child; or perhaps it was merely that Mary had no thought to give her, and felt with Sue that children were in the way when one wanted to talk seriously. But in Mary's companionship the child expanded like a flower. She was so happy, so easily pleased. It was delightful to see her face light up at sight of Mary. And Mary determined that, come what might, she and Lily would always be friends. "And, Lily," she would whisper, "if—no! when we get our Sue back again, won't she be surprised to see how much you have learned, and how many of our plays you know? And there will be three of us then, Lily."

And Lily would smile and dimple, and look almost a little like Sue—almost!

The boys, too, were a great comfort in those days. Never had Tom been so considerate, so thoughtful. Hardly a day passed but he would want Mary to play or walk or fish with him. She had never, it seemed, seen so much of Tom before, though he had always been the dearest boy in the world—except Teddy.

"Oh!" she cried one day, when Tom, after an hour's patient search, found the silver thimble that she had carelessly dropped in the orchard—"oh, it is good to have a brother Tom. I don't see what girls do who have none."

"It's pretty nice to have a sister Mary," said Tom, shyly; he was always shy when there was any question of feeling. "Do you know, Ballast—do you know, I've never had so much sister Mary as I've been having lately. Of course it's a great shame about Sue, and I miss her no end, and all that—but it's nice to have such a lot of you, dear."

Sister and brother exchanged a silent hug that meant a good deal, and Mary inwardly resolved that, come what might, Tom should always hereafter have all the sister Mary he wanted.

"And it's simply no end for Lily," Tom added. "Lily has never had a fair chance, you know, Mary."

"Lily is a very nice little girl," said Teddy, with kind condescension. "There's a great deal more in Lily than people think. Mary, if you are going over there, you might take her these horse-chestnuts. She likes the milky ones, before they turn brown."

"Take them yourself, Master Teddy!" said Mary, laughing. "You know it's what you want to do. Bring her over, and we'll go and play in the orchard, all four of us. We'll play 'Wolf,' if you like."

"Oh, no!" cried Teddy. "Let's play 'Indian'; let's play 'The Last of the Mo's.' We haven't played that for ever and ever so long."

"Lily doesn't know 'The Last of the Mohicans,'" said Mary. "She has never read it. I'll read it to her, I think. We might begin the next rainy day, boys, and all read together."

"Hooray!" said both boys.

"I can be making my new net," said Tom.

"And I can work on my boat," said Teddy.

"And I have about six dozen things to make for Christmas!" said Mary, laughing. "Who is to do the reading, I should like to know?"

"Oh, Mammy will read it to us."

"All right! Hurrah for Mammy! Of course she will."

"But that is no reason why we should not play 'The Last of the Mo's' now," resumed Tom. "We can tell Lily enough, as we go along, to show her what it's like, and of course she wouldn't take an important part, anyway—just a squaw or an odd brave. Cut along, Teddy, and bring the kid over."

Lily came hurrying back with Teddy; and the four stood for a moment together by the front door, laughing and chatting, and giving out the parts for the game. They had never played it before without Sue. Mary would rather not have played it now, but that seemed no reason why the boys should not have their favorite game, and no doubt Tom could play Uncas very well—though, of course, not as well, even if he was a boy.

Tom was just striking an attitude and brandishing an imaginary tomahawk, when, on the opposite side of the street, Sue came along, arm in arm, as usual, with Clarice Packard. The Hart children looked in dismay. Was this their Sue? Something was wrong with her hair. It was rolled up high over her forehead, and bobbed up into a short cue behind. Something was wrong with her feet; at least, so it seemed from the way she walked, mincing on her toes. And she had a spotted veil on, and she carried a parasol. Was this their Quicksilver Sue? Could it be?

As they passed, Clarice looked across the way and bowed a triumphant little bow; then tittered rudely, and whispered something in her companion's ear. Sue held her head high, and was walking past looking straight before her, as she always did now, when suddenly it seemed as if some feeling took hold upon her, stronger than her own will. She turned her head involuntarily, and looked at the group standing on the familiar door-step. A wave of color swept over her face; the tears rushed into her eyes. For a moment she seemed to waver, almost to sway toward them; then resolutely she turned her head away again, and walked on.

"Mary," said Tom, "do you know what?"

"No, Tom. I don't know this particular 'what.' I know—what you saw just now." And poor Mary looked as if the heart for play was clean gone out of her.

"Well, I'll tell you. Our Sue has had just about enough of her new treasure. I'll bet my new fishing-line that she would give all her best boots to come and play 'Last of the Mo's' with us in the orchard."