Oh, the joy that cometh in the morning after a night of weeping!

Billie had always prided herself on her optimism, but that night in Miss Felicia Rivers’ lodging house had quenched it for a time. The two girls cried and laughed by turns in telling the story of their sufferings to their friends, who were almost as bedraggled and forlorn as they were themselves. Miss Campbell and her two remaining charges had not touched the bed that terrible night. They had been in active communication with the police department and the American Embassy since eight o’clock the evening before.

“We can afford to laugh now that all’s said and done,” exclaimed Nancy; “but if I had been compelled to wear those rags five minutes longer, I am certain I should have jumped off London Bridge.”

“Of course you would, you dressy little person,” said Billie. “I didn’t care for the feel of them myself, and I don’t mind how soon I get a bath and a shampoo now I’ve got rid of them; but it was almost interesting, being disguised as a beggar. If I had had half a chance, I should have held out my hand for pennies, just to see how profitable the begging business is.”

“Well, you’ve given us a dreadful time, my dear,” sighed Miss Helen Campbell; “but I’ve only myself to blame. I am a poor guardian, I am afraid, driving off that way and leaving you two inexperienced children alone.”

“No, dearest cousin, it was your cabman’s fault. He went too fast for us to follow him.”

“I think it was our cabman’s fault,” said Nancy, “for not listening to the address.”

“It was my fault, really, for not getting the address,” cried Billie.

But who shall say where the blame lay in an incident so strange and unaccountable? Perhaps it lay on the shoulders of Providence herself who had made Billie and Nancy her unconscious tools in the great game of fate. By that night of loneliness and terror, their destinies had become linked with the destinies of other persons, and without knowing it, they had learned a powerful secret.

“We are minus two cloth skirts, two polo coats, two hats, a watch, two pins and a locket; one coral silk tie and one blue silk tie,” announced Nancy, counting off their stolen possessions on her fingers.

“Is Miss Felicia Rivers to be arrested?” demanded Mary Price.

“Likewise Mr. Thomas Dinwiddie, Dealer in Old Clothes?” put in Elinor Butler.

“They should be in jail this minute, the villains!” cried Miss Campbell.

“But,” began Nancy, “we promised——”

“We promised?” repeated the others.

“Yes. To Marie-Jeanne. Don’t ask what her reasons were, because we don’t know. But she made us promise that if she helped us we would not set the police on Miss Felicia Rivers.”

“Poor child! Poor young girl!” exclaimed Miss Campbell. “There is surely something back of it all. Her mother is a strange woman, but of course you must keep your word.”

Just then the telephone bell rang.

“That’s the Police Department now,” she continued. “I will answer it myself. Hello! Yes! This is Miss Campbell. Yes, they are safe with me now. They went to the wrong lodging house. It was all a mistake. No, a friend met them by chance and saved them. No complaints. Thank you for your courtesy.”

And so it happened that Miss Felicia Rivers and her friend, Thomas Dinwiddie, Dealer in Old Clothes, were not visited by justice at that time for their sins past or present.

The abode of Miss Letitia Lake was not called a lodging house at all, but by the much more high-sounding and finer title of “Westminster Chambers.” It had a perfect right to its name, for it was quite near to Westminster Abbey, whose twin towers might be seen from the windows of the upper chambers. It was a dignified, stately old house, once the home of a gentleman of title they were told, and was built of red brick, turned pink with age. A mantle of ivy clung to its walls, the growth of a century, perhaps, and the windows of the Campbell apartment looked out on an old garden already green with the touch of spring. There were three bedrooms of vast size furnished with fine old mahogany and faded hangings of another century, and a charming sitting room with long French windows opening upon little balconies over the street. The furniture in this room was modern; deep wicker chairs with bright chintz cushions were clustered around a fire of soft coals. Chintz curtains were at the windows and a dark red rug on the floor. The ceilings were very high, and the window recesses so deep that the girls wondered if the house had not been built to withstand shot and shell with those thick, solid walls.

It was in this room that the five kimonoed and slippered travelers assembled after hot baths of a refreshing and reanimating character.

The daintiest little red-cheeked maid brought in a tray much larger than she was, and deposited it on the center-table. The quaint old Canton china, the linen as white as snow, the fragrance of the most delicious tea ever tasted,—this soothed their senses; while toast, hot-buttered, just off the toaster, eggs hiding under a napkin, breakfast bacon, crisp and fragrant, and orange marmalade in a jar with a Scotch plaid pattern,—this was the breakfast which these five ladies, weary to the point of being a little light in the head, now proceeded to make away with to the last crumb.

Then they drew up to the fire and toasted their toes on the brass fender.

“There is plenty of time. The whole summer is before us,” said Miss Campbell sleepily. “We have weeks and weeks in which to see Westminster Abbey and London Tower and Windsor Palace and all the other sights. We shall take a good long rest to-day. I still feel myself rolling and pitching on that horrid old ship. After you have had your sleep and feel quite rested and strong again, you may put on your best evening dresses and——”

The little lady paused and blinked her eyes mysteriously.

“And what, dearest Cousin?” cried Billie.

“Oh, do tell us, Miss Campbell,” exclaimed the others.

“Tell you what, my dears?”

“Why are we to put on our best evening dresses?”

“Don’t you like to dress up?” she asked mischievously.

“Of course,” exclaimed Nancy.

“Cousin Helen, you’re a naughty little tease,” cried Billie. “You have been keeping a secret from us all this long time.”

Miss Campbell’s peach-blossom face became inscrutable and her deep blue eyes widened innocently.

“Is there going to be a surprise?” asked little Mary in her sweet high voice.

“Is that what the note was that came not long ago?” demanded Elinor.

“I knew you had something on your mind,” put in Billie. “I can always tell.”

“It must be a perfectly delightful secret,” observed Nancy, “because we are to wear our best clothes.”

“But what is it?” they demanded, dancing around the charming little woman in an ecstasy of curiosity.

“If I told you, my dears, you wouldn’t get a wink of sleep for excitement.”

“But we are just as excited from not knowing,” cried Billie.

“Perhaps it’s tickets to the opera,” guessed Elinor, her thoughts always on music.

“It must be a dinner party,” said Nancy.

“Or a theater party.”

“We are not going to meet the Queen?” asked Mary innocently.

This was too much for the gravity of the other girls and for Miss Campbell, too, who loved a good laugh, and the room was filled with merriment.

“No, dear, we’re not going to meet the Queen, at least not yet,” said Miss Campbell, kissing Mary’s quiet, gentle face.

“Is it to be a party?”

“Of course. Else why wear your very best frocks?”

“But a big party?”

“No, a small one.”

“Is it to be here?”

“I shall not say,” said Miss Campbell firmly. “I shall not say another word.”

“Then we are really not to know?” they cried desperately.

“No, you are to sleep for a long time, and do as I say. I have given my promise and I shall say no more.”

And off sped Billie’s tantalizing relation to her own room, the silk draperies of her negligee sweeping after her in lavender billows.

“I’ll only tell you this much,” she added, when she reached the door. “It’s the very nicest surprise you could possibly imagine, and there is not one person here who will be disappointed. Now, off to your beds, every one of you.”

She closed the door softly, leaving the four Motor Maids in a state of excited perplexity which no amount of discussion and conjecture could satisfy.

At length, feeling a great need for sleep, they obediently retired to their rooms and their beds.

The sun had broken through the mist and was shining brightly when Billie and Nancy awoke. There were spring noises in the street, the sound of distant music and the call of a flower vendor who was selling pots of rose geraniums and pansies. Billie opened her window and looked down into the garden below. How sweet the air was and how fresh and lovely the whole world! Already yesterday’s experience had faded into a strange, unreal dream.

“Listen,” whispered Nancy, “there is music in the room below.”

Through the open window there floated to them the sound of piano playing; first a few introductory chords on the piano and then, to a running, delicious accompaniment, a lovely soprano voice began singing. They climbed back into the great four-post bed and curled up under the covers, and presently the words of the song were inextricably mixed with their dreams. This was the song that floated up to them:

“Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown.

Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,

And the musk of the roses blown.

“There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion flower at the gate.

She is coming, my love, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate.

The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near’;

The white rose weeps, ‘She is late’;

The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear’;

And the lily whispers, ‘I wait’.”