  Toward the latter part of June the McGuire family migrated to Denniston for the summer. The beautiful country place, on the outskirts of the little town of Greenborough, was looking its prettiest as they arrived one lovely afternoon and took possession. “In some ways I’m glad to be back here,” said Betty, as they sat on the veranda after supper, “and in some ways I’m not.” “That’s the way with ’most everything,” commented Jack, philosophically; “there are always some good sides and some bad sides to whatever we do. I love Denniston, but there’s more to do in Boston.” “And more people,” said Betty. “Yes,” agreed Jack; “I’ve always noticed there are more people in a large city than in a small village.” Betty threw a hammock pillow at him, and went on: “I mean more people that I like to be with. I shall miss Dorothy and Jeanette awfully down here.” “You might invite them to visit you,” suggested her mother. “I would; but it’s rather dull here. There’s nothing special for them to do, you see; they usually go to watering-places in the summer, and I doubt if they’d want to come here.” “Oh, pshaw, Betty!” said Jack. “They’d like to come, just to see you. And Denniston Hall is a lovely place. A flock of girls ought to be able to make fun for themselves here.” “That’s so,” said Betty; “anyhow, I’ll ask them, and if they don’t want to come, they can decline. I’ll ask Constance too, and perhaps Lena—that is, if you are willing, Mother.” “Do,” said her mother. “Make it a little house-party. With picnics and drives you can make it pleasant for them, I’m sure.” Just then Agnes Graham and her brother Stub came strolling up the driveway, and heartily welcomed the Denniston people back to their summer home. “You’re just in time,” said Agnes, as the young people grouped themselves in the wicker chairs on the veranda or in the swinging settee; “have you heard about the Library Benefit?” “No,” said Betty; “what is it?” “Oh, somebody’s going to give a whole lot of money for a town library, if the town will raise another whole lot of money itself. And so everybody in Greenborough is planning to do something to help. And we thought, that is, we hoped, you’d join with the Dorcas Club, and help us.” “I’d like to,” said Betty, “but tell me more about it.” “Well, the truth is, Betty, the girls of the Dorcas Club haven’t really made any definite plans, and they want you to suggest something—only they’re afraid to ask you.” “Afraid to ask me!” exclaimed Betty. “Why?” “Oh, they think you’re so haughty and stuck-up since you’ve lived in Boston that they’re afraid you won’t want to work with us.” “Agnes Graham, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Have you ever known me to act a bit haughty?” “No, I haven’t. But the other girls don’t know you as well as I do, and they say that.” “Pooh! May Fordham and Tilly Fenn know me quite as well as you do; do they say I’m haughty?” “No, May and Tilly don’t—at least, I’ve never heard them.” “Well, who does, then? You may as well tell me.” “Oh, let’s drop the subject!” said Stub, who hated a fuss. “What do you girls want to gossip for?” “Betty’s right,” put in Jack; “if people say she’s haughty, when she isn’t, she ought to know who says it.” “Oh, it’s nobody in particular,” said Agnes, alarmed at the excitement she had caused. “If you’re nice to them, Betty, they’ll stop saying it.” “If she’s nice to them!” exclaimed Jack, indignantly. “Betty’s always nice to everybody, Agnes Graham!” “I can stand up for myself,” said Betty, laughing at Jack’s emphatic speech. “Go on, Agnes, and tell me what they want me to do.” “Well, what they want is for you to let them have a sort of a garden-party here at Denniston, and charge admission, you know, and let all the club take part.” Betty considered. “I had thought of having a garden-party myself,” she said; “a sort of home-coming to Denniston, you know. I don’t see why we couldn’t combine the two, and so make some money for your Library Fund.” “Oh, that would be fine!” said Agnes. “That’s what they want,—to have the affair here, you know,—but they thought you wouldn’t be willing.” “And I won’t be willing unless you tell me who it is that says things about me.” “No, I won’t do that, Betty; it isn’t fair.” “Well, perhaps it isn’t. Never mind; I shall soon find it out for myself. Now let’s plan the garden-party. When shall we have it?” “Let’s have it on Fourth of July,” suggested Jack. “Then we can combine patriotism and charity and fun and everything.” Mrs. McGuire approved the plan, and agreed to help in any way she could. So the very next day Betty went to a meeting of the Dorcas Club, and was made a member of it. The girls all seemed glad to welcome Betty, and were delighted at the prospect of a garden-party at Denniston on the Fourth of July. The club was a good-sized one, numbering about thirty girls in all, and they at once began to appoint committees, and so divide the work to be done. “We’ll have everything red, white, and blue,” said May Fordham, “and flags everywhere. Oh, it will be beautiful!” Susie Hale was president of the club, and it was only a short time before Betty discovered that it was Susie who was not entirely in sympathy with the plan proposed. Betty was amused rather than annoyed at Susie’s attitude, for of course Susie had no real reason to dislike Betty, or to consider her proud or haughty. It was really a sort of envy or jealousy that Susie felt, and this seemed to manifest itself in sly innuendoes or mean little acts, for which there is always opportunity in a girls’ club. At the second meeting Betty was made chairman of the general committee, and as this was practically giving her entire charge of the whole affair, it made Susie’s position as president of the club a secondary office. However, as the FÊte was to be held at Betty’s home, it was only right that she should be the principal in the management of it, and most of the girls were quite content to have it so. Betty had invited four girls from Boston, and Dorothy, Jeanette, Constance, and Lena arrived a few days before the Fourth, quite ready to take part in the festivities. The Van Courts, too, who were one of the principal families of Greenborough, had agreed to lend all the assistance they could, and so the garden-party bade fair to be a great success. It was called an “Independence Day Reception,” and the tickets were prettily printed in red and blue on white cards, and had tiny flags in the corner. They read thus: COLUMBIA AND UNCLE SAM Remembering Constance’s disappointment in not being able to take her part at the school commencement, Betty resolved to make it up to her on this occasion. So, though the club girls insisted that Betty herself should take the part of Columbia, she positively refused to do so, and proposed that Constance Harper should personate the Goddess of Liberty. This arrangement suited Susie Hale, who didn’t want Betty to have the admiration and applause that would, of course, be given to Columbia as hostess of the entertainment. Mr. Richard Van Court consented to take the part of Uncle Sam, and thus the principal figures were arranged. The girls of the club were to wear whatever costumes they chose. A grand march was to be made first, in which different countries were to be represented. Betty chose Ireland, and had a lovely green costume made for the occasion. The boys of Greenborough were invited to participate also, and the characters of John Bull, a French marquis, a Spanish troubadour, a Swiss peasant, an Italian, a Chinaman, and other nationalities were chosen by some of the boys and girls. Others were to be in attendance at the various booths, or to act as waiters in the refreshment tent. When the Fourth of July arrived, all of the Denniston household were astir at daybreak, for there was much to be done that could not be done until the day of the fair. By midday, however, the place was nearly ready. Pat had worked steadily, and so had all the other servants, as well as the family and the guests. The beautiful grounds of Denniston were gay with decorations. Flags waved everywhere; bunting was draped, and Japanese lanterns swung from every available point. Big white transparencies, which would be illuminated in the evening, bore the national dates, or announced the goods for sale at the various booths. The house, too, was decked with flags and lanterns, and the spacious veranda was filled with chairs, where guests might linger to listen to the music. The band-stand was near by, and a fine orchestra had been engaged to play patriotic airs. Booths were all about the grounds. The largest was the main refreshment tent, where dainty little tables were set forth, with Japanese paper table-cloths and napkins all bearing our own national emblems. The waitresses here were thirteen girls who represented the thirteen original States. They wore white dresses and tricolor sashes and caps, with the name of their States in gilt letters. Another booth held all sorts of small articles for sale—fancy-work, from sofa-pillows to needle-books, all made of red, white, and blue silks; photograph frames made of silk flags; dolls dressed in red, white, and blue; scrap-books made of linen of the same colors, and filled with patriotic pictures and verses. Even such prosaic things as dusters and sweeping-caps were of the three colors and found a ready sale. Another booth had flags, fire-works, and Fourth of July badges for sale. The lemonade, in accordance with time-honored tradition, was served by “Rebecca at the Well.” The well had been prettily built by a carpenter in imitation of “The Old Oaken Bucket,” and as Rebecca wore the American colors, the dramatic unities were somewhat lost, but nobody minded, as the lemonade was ice-cold and very good. An Indian wigwam was a gay feature. Jack had this in charge, and had superintended the building of it himself. A tribe of ferocious-looking Indian braves, much befeathered and painted, sold Indian curios, baskets, and beads. The tennis-courts, bowling-alleys, and croquet-grounds were in order, and patrons could indulge in these games by payment of a small fee. Inside the house, too, entertainment was provided. Various indoor games were offered, and there was also a reading-room, with magazines and books for all. In another room was shown an “Historic Loan Collection.” Many of the residents of Greenborough had relics of Revolutionary days, which they loaned for this occasion. As there were many really interesting and valuable specimens, the visitors were quite willing to pay the extra fee required to see them, and the room was well-filled with patrons much of the time. Opposite this room, in another room, was a “Burlesque Loan Collection,” and this attracted quite as much attention. Stub Graham had this in charge, and he deserved credit for the clever and humorous jokes he devised. Catalogues had been prepared, and as an inducement to buy them, a large placard outside the door announced that each purchaser of a catalogue would receive, free of charge, a steel-engraving of George Washington. When these premiums proved to be two-cent postage-stamps, and canceled ones at that, much merriment ensued. Among the so-called Revolutionary relics were such jests as these: “Early Home of George Washington,” represented by an old-fashioned cradle. “Vision of Washington’s Old Age:” a pair of spectacles. “Washington’s Reflections” was a small portrait of Washington arranged so that it was reflected in a triplicate mirror. “The Most Brilliant Lights of the Washington Era” were a few lighted candles. “The Lone Picket” was a single fence-picket. “The Tax on Tea” showed a few carpet-tacks on some tea. “A Little Indian” was a small portion of Indian meal. “An Old-Time Fancy Ball” was a child’s gay-colored worsted ball, much torn. “Washington at One Hundred Years of Age” was a bird’s-eye map of the city of Washington. “Away down on the Suwanee River” was a map of Georgia showing plainly the Suwanee River, on which was pasted a tiny bit of down. “The Last of the Army” was simply the letter Y. “A Member of Washington’s Cabinet” was an old brass handle from a mahogany cabinet. These and many other such quips made up an exhibition that amused people quite as much as the display of real relics edified them. The preparation of all these features meant a great deal of hard work, but it was the sort of work made light by many hands, and so it was enjoyed by all who engaged in it. And so, by midday on the Fourth of July, everything was in readiness, and the willing workers went to their homes, to return later, ready to reap the results of their labors. The grand march was to take place at three o’clock, and Columbia and Uncle Sam were to review it from their stand on the veranda. This was to be followed by the singing of the “Star-Spangled Banner,” accompanied by the orchestra. It had been arranged that Betty should sing the verses as a solo, and that all the others, and indeed all the audience, should join in the chorus. Betty had not cared specially about singing, but had good-naturedly agreed to do so when the music committee asked her to. Her voice had improved by reason of her singing lessons in Boston, and after practising the national anthem with her mother, she felt that she could manage its high notes successfully. It seemed a little incongruous for a girl in a green costume and carrying the harp of Erin to sing the American song, but Betty was of New England parentage as well as Irish, and she was glad to show her double patriotism. Constance was greatly pleased at her rÔle of Columbia, and her costume was beautiful. Very becoming, as well, was the striped red and white skirt, and the blue bodice spangled with stars. A liberty-cap, and a large well-made shield on which to lean, added to the picturesque effect. Mr. Dick Van Court was a humorous figure in his “Uncle Sam” suit. He looked just as the Uncle Sam of the cartoons always looks, and as he was a tall, thin young man, the character suited him well. A white beaver hat and the long, sparse locks of hair and white goatee were all in evidence, so that Mr. Dick’s costume was pronounced a success by all the visitors. About two o’clock Betty went to her room to dress. She had been busy every minute of the day, had scarcely taken time to eat her luncheon, but now everything was in readiness, and she had only to dress and take her place in the grand march at three o’clock. Slipping on a kimono, she threw herself down on a couch for a moment’s rest before dressing. It was perhaps half an hour later when Constance presented herself at the door of Betty’s room, ready for inspection of her pretty costume. “May I come in?” she called, as she tapped at Betty’s closed door. Getting no reply, she tapped again, but after two or three unanswered calls she concluded Betty had gone down-stairs, and so she went down herself. She didn’t see Betty, but Mr. Van Court was there, in the full glory of his “regimentals,” and the two, as it was not quite time to take their position, strolled about the veranda, looking out upon the grounds. “It’s just like fairy-land,” said Constance, “and to-night, when the lanterns are lighted, it will be still more so. Oh, here comes the band.” The orchestra, in resplendent uniforms, took their places on the band-stand, and began their preliminary tuning of instruments. Then the girls and boys began to arrive, and each costume was greeted with admiring applause. “WHERE’S BETTY?” SAID JACK, WRAPPED IN HIS INDIAN BLANKET “WHERE’S BETTY?” SAID JACK, WRAPPED IN HIS INDIAN BLANKET “Where’s Betty?” said Dorothy, as she came down, dressed as a dear little Swiss peasant. “I don’t know,” answered Constance; “she must be out in the grounds somewhere. She wasn’t in her room when I came down.” “Well, it’s time she appeared,” said Dorothy. “It’s ten minutes of three now.” “Where’s Betty?” said Jack, as, wrapped in his Indian blanket, he came suddenly up to the girls, looking somewhat worried. “I don’t know,” they replied at the same time. “She must be around somewhere.” “Maybe she is,” said Jack, “but she isn’t dressed for the grand march yet. I’ve just been to her room, and her green dress is all spread out on the bed, and she’s nowhere to be found. Mother doesn’t know where she is.” “Why, how strange!” said Constance. “Betty’s never late, and it was about two when we both went up-stairs to dress. Where can she be?” There didn’t seem any real reason for alarm, but it was certainly strange that Betty should disappear so mysteriously. As Constance said, Betty was never late. She was always ready at the appointed time, and it seemed as if something must have happened to her. “I can’t find Betty anywhere,” said Mrs. McGuire, as she joined the disturbed-looking group. “It’s so strange, for I know she had nothing more to attend to. She stopped at my door about two o’clock, and said everything was ready and she was going to dress.” It was beginning to look serious now, and Dorothy went back to Betty’s room to make search. As Jack had said, her pretty green dress was spread out in readiness. The little green slippers stood near by, and the green cap and gilt harp lay on the couch. Surely Betty had not begun to dress. She must have been called away by some one suddenly. Her kimono was flung across a chair as if hurriedly thrown there, and Dorothy looked in the dress-cupboard to see what Betty might be wearing. But there were many suits and dresses hanging there, and Dorothy couldn’t tell which, if any, pretty summer costume was missing. It was very mysterious, and she went slowly down-stairs again, wondering what they should do. “She’s been kidnapped,” Mrs. McGuire was saying; “I’ve always feared it!” “Nonsense!” said Mrs. Van Court, an elderly lady, who was Mr. Dick’s mother. “Of course she hasn’t been kidnapped. I think she has fallen in the pond.” Jack laughed at this. “Oh, no, Mrs. Van Court,” he said; “Betty is too big a girl to tumble into the water. I think some one on some committee wanted her to look after some booth or something, and she’s about the place somewhere.” “That’s all very well,” said Dick Van Court, “but if I know Betty, she’d attend to the matter and be back in time for the march at three o’clock.” “It’s after three now,” said Dorothy. “Whatever can we do?” Nobody knew just what to do. It didn’t seem possible that anything unfortunate had occurred, and yet what else could be keeping Betty away, wherever she was? Meanwhile what had become of Betty? Well, it was just this: While she was in her own room, just about to dress in her green suit, a note was brought to her by one of the servants. The note read thus:
Jennie Hale was Susie’s younger sister, and Betty saw at once that she had written this note without Susie’s knowledge. But for Susie, the president of the club, to stay away from the garden-party would be a catastrophe indeed! Betty would be censured for making trouble, and Susie’s friends would say all sorts of things. It was hard on Betty. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter past two. If she went right over to Susie’s she might fix it up, and get back in time to dress. She flung off her kimono, and quickly donned a linen suit, selecting the one she could get into most easily. Then she ran down-stairs, and, without a hat or gloves, jumped into the pony-cart, to which Dixie had been harnessed all day, in case of errands, and drove rapidly down the road toward Susie’s. It happened that no one noticed her going, but Betty did not think of this, so engrossed was she in the matter in hand. She dashed up to Susie’s door and rang the bell. Mrs. Hale herself opened the door, and from the cold, hard expression on her face, Betty felt that she was unwelcome. “I’ve come to see Susie, Mrs. Hale,” she said pleasantly. “Isn’t she ready for the party?” “No, she isn’t!” snapped Mrs. Hale. “She isn’t going to your old party, so you can sing the solos yourself.” Then Betty understood. Susie had wanted to sing the solos! Betty remembered now that Susie was the soprano of the village choir, and she probably resented Betty’s being asked to sing the solos instead of herself. “Oh, my gracious!” exclaimed Betty, annoyed at this foolishness, and yet relieved that it could still be set right, “she can sing the solos, of course! I’d much rather she would! Tell her so, won’t you, and ask her to hurry and come.” Mrs. Hale looked mollified, but she said: “She can’t come now. She’s gone to her grandma’s to spend the afternoon.” “Oh, dear! what a goose she is! Why couldn’t she tell me sooner what she wanted? Where is her grandmother’s?” Betty was looking at her watch and getting back into the cart, and gathering up the lines, preparatory to going after the truant. “It’s pretty late,” said Mrs. Hale, glancing at the clock. “She’ll have to come back here to dress, you know.” “Never mind that!” said Betty, a little impatiently, for she was upset over it all. “Where is her grandmother’s?” “Oh, out on the Pine Hill road. The third house after you pass the mill.” Betty groaned, for the place designated was a good two miles away, and Dixie was somewhat tired. But she touched him gently with the whip, and said: “Dear old Dixie, you’ll help me out, won’t you?” And then they went spinning away toward the Pine Hill road. Susie, from the window, saw Betty coming, and went out to meet her. She didn’t look very pleasant, but Betty had no time to waste in coaxing just then. “Susie Hale,” she said, “get right in this cart. Never mind your hat; just get in this very minute!” Susie was fairly frightened at Betty’s tones, and though she was unwilling, she couldn’t help doing as she was told. Silent and a little bewildered, she climbed in beside Betty, and turning quickly, they were soon flying back over the road Betty had come. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Betty began, for she was of no mind to spare Susie’s feelings now. “You, the president of the club, to cut up such a childish caper! You can sing the solos, of course; I don’t care a mite! But you should have told me you wanted to sing them, in the first place.” “Who told you I wanted to?” said Susie, weakly, now thoroughly ashamed of herself. “Your mother did, and I’m glad she did, for I never should have guessed what foolish thing was the matter with you. I don’t think anybody that would act like you have is fit to be president of a club!” Betty’s righteous indignation seemed to show Susie the despicableness of her own conduct, and she began to cry. THEY WENT SPINNING AWAY TOWARD THE PINE HILL ROAD THEY WENT SPINNING AWAY TOWARD THE PINE HILL ROAD “I’m sorry,” she said; “truly I am. Can you ever forgive me?” “I can,” said Betty, “if you’ll do just as I tell you. First, stop crying. Second, jump out of this cart when we get to your house, and get into your costume like lightning! Third, come over to Denniston and take your place in the march and sing the solos, and act pleasantly and nicely about it. I’ll drive home after I leave you, and I’ll send the cart back for you. And you must be ready! Do you hear? You must be ready!” Betty spoke almost savagely, and Susie still looked scared, as she said: “I don’t want to sing your solos now.” “But you will sing them,” said Betty. “You must sing them, and do your very best, too. You sing as well as I do, and to do as I tell you is the only way you can make up for the trouble you’ve stirred up. Now, here you are at home. Fly and dress. Don’t waste a minute. The cart will be back for you in a quarter of an hour!” Susie sprang out of the cart and ran into the house, and Betty drove rapidly away to Denniston. As she tore up the driveway among the decorated booths and lantern-hung trees, the funny side of it struck her, and smiling broadly, she reached the veranda, where a bewildered group awaited her. “Where have you been?” cried Constance. “What’s the matter?” “I’ve been on an errand of mercy,” said Betty, smiling still; “and nothing’s the matter. The grand march must be delayed a little, but I’ll be ready in a jiffy. Come on, Dorothy, and help me dress. Pat, please take Dixie and go over to Mrs. Hale’s and bring Miss Susie back with you.” And so the grand march was delayed only about half an hour. Susie arrived duly, and sang the solos very prettily. Afterward, when the whole story came out, much indignation was expressed that Betty should have been so bothered, but Betty herself didn’t mind, for it had the result of making Susie her staunch friend forever after. |
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