Elizabeth, Betsy, and Bess—Schoolmates

BOOKS BY AMY E. BLANCHARD

REVOLUTIONARY SERIES

A GIRL OF ’76. A Story of the Early Period
of the War for Independence. 331 pages.

A REVOLUTIONARY MAID. A Story of the
Middle Period of the War for Independence.
321 pages.

A DAUGHTER OF FREEDOM. A Story of the
Latter Period of the War for Independence.
312 pages.

WAR OF 1812 SERIES

A HEROINE OF 1812. A Maryland Romance.
335 pages.

A LOYAL LASS. A Story of the Niagara Campaign
of 1814. 319 pages.

THE PIONEER SERIES

A GENTLE PIONEER. Being the Story of the
Early Days in the New West. 336 pages.

BONNY LESLEY OF THE BORDER. A Story.
331 pages.

A FRONTIER KNIGHT. A Story of the Early
Texan Border-Life. 339 pages.

These books are fully illustrated. Price, $1.25 net.

IN THE GIRLS’ DOLLAR BOOKSHELF

ELIZABETH, BETSY, AND BESS. A Story.
284 pages.

ELIZABETH, BETSY, AND BESS—SCHOOLMATES.
A Story. 308 pages. Illustrated by
colored Frontispiece. Price $1.00 net.

Elizabeth, Betsy, and Bess
—Schoolmates

By
AMY E. BLANCHARD

ILLUSTRATED BY
FRANK T. MERRILL

W. A. WILDE COMPANY
BOSTON CHICAGO

Copyrighted 1914,
By W. A. Wilde Company
All Rights Reserved

Elizabeth, Betsy and Bess—Schoolmates

TO
ELIZABETH EVARTS PERKINS
DEAR FOR THE SAKE OF HERSELF, HER MOTHER,
AND HER MOTHER’S MOTHER

A. E. B.

CONTENTS

ELIZABETH, BETSY AND BESS
SCHOOLMATES

CHAPTER I
Before a Holiday

MISS JEWETT had just rung the bell and the children trooped into the schoolroom, taking their places as quietly as exuberant youthful spirits would permit, the smallest boys and girls in the front row, the older ones further back. It was a cheerful room, and Elizabeth, by the side of her chum, Betsy, thought of the changes which had taken place there since Miss Jewett was installed as teacher. Where had been bare walls, except for a couple of uninteresting maps, now were attractive pictures which brought visions of all sorts of delightful historical places; shelves in front of the windows displayed gay, blossoming plants, while in an aquarium, standing in their midst, gold-fish darted about. In the centre of the black-board Miss Jewett had just drawn the picture of a man and woman in Puritan dress; a big yellow pumpkin ornamented one corner of the board, in another was a turkey, in the third an ear of corn and in the fourth a squirrel nibbling a nut. The pictures were drawn with colored chalks and there was not a child who did not look upon them with sparkling eyes.

“Thanksgiving,” the whisper went around. Miss Jewett nodded. “Yes, Thanksgiving, and when we come to our history lesson I will tell you how our first Thanksgiving Day originated and why we still keep it in remembrance.” Then Miss Jewett took up her violin and drew the bow across the strings. She paused a moment before she began to play. “We will sing a very old hymn this morning,” she said, “one that was written by a man named Kethe, away back in the sixteenth century, and it might well have been sung by the Pilgrim Fathers on that first Thanksgiving Day. It is very quaintly worded, I think. You may all look for it in your hymnals; it begins: ‘All people that on earth do dwell,’ and we shall sing it to the tune Old Hundred, for that seems most appropriate, as the tune is as old as the hymn.”

She started the first note and Elizabeth gave a quick sigh of pleasure. It was a constant surprise and delight to her to find how many things Miss Jewett could do: she could play the violin and sing sweetly, if not very powerfully; she could draw wonderful things on the board; she wore the daintiest and most becoming clothes and she made the lessons a pleasure instead of a task. Surely she was the most wonderful teacher in the world, and Elizabeth adored her. “Anything more like an angel than Miss Jewett could not possibly be,” she confided to Betsy at recess, “especially when she plays the violin.”

“But angels play on harps,” objected Bess Ferguson who had joined them.

“They don’t always,” returned Elizabeth, “for I’ve seen pictures of them with violins; Betsy’s uncle Rob has one among the photographs he brought from Europe.”

That settled it and Bess had no more to say; indeed, Elizabeth had a way of forcing unanswerable arguments upon this less quick-witted friend of hers, and it was seldom that she did not get the best of it. Just here Flo Harris came up and was greeted cordially; she was not often invited to join this trio, for it was an understood thing that Elizabeth with her first best friend, Betsy, and her second best, Bess, did not care for an addition to the group at lunch time. It was regarded as a privilege when another girl was admitted; Flo, however, had special claims upon this occasion, for this was her first appearance after some weeks of illness. She was still rather pale and thin, and the girls regarded her with something like admiring envy.

“Come right over here, Flo,” Elizabeth invited her. “We have a lovely lunch today. Betsy has some of those great big red grapes that grow in her aunt’s garden, Bess has some special cakes and I have a special jar of marmalade. You’re well enough to eat anything now, aren’t you?” she asked a little anxiously.

“Oh dear, yes,” returned Flo, accepting the attentions offered, “but I have been awfully ill; I wasn’t expected to live.”

The three girls gazed at her with new interest. The phrase, “not expected to live” had a weird fascination for them all, Elizabeth especially. She had never reached such a danger point, although she had gone through an ordeal during the summer when an accident threatened to rob her of her sight. “Well,” she said, “I was never quite that bad, although I did nearly have my eyes put out.”

“And once I was awfully ill with measles,” put in Bess.

“Yes, but you were never where they gave you up,” returned Flo in triumph. “There was one night when, my mother said, the doctor declared that he didn’t expect I would live till morning.” Again the alluring phrase.

Elizabeth offered another spoonful of marmalade, Betsy laid half a second bunch of grapes in Flo’s lap and Bess added her last cake, from which she had just taken one bite.

“You look so lovely and pale,” said Elizabeth admiringly. “I would give anything to be pale; it is so interesting. I think when I die I would like to languish away,” she added sentimentally, “although I wouldn’t like to have a worm feed on my damask cheek.”

“Who had that?” inquired Flo with interest.

“Why, don’t you know the poetry that says a worm in the bud fed on her damask cheek?”

At this a merry little chuckle sounded from just above them and Miss Jewett’s bright face looked out from the window; “Elizabeth, you funny girl,” she said, “you don’t get that quotation right; it is: ‘And let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, feed on her damask cheek.’”

“I always thought it was a worm, a real live worm,” replied Elizabeth, quite taken aback. “I don’t believe I understand it yet, Miss Jewett.”

“Neither do I,” spoke up Flo.

“Why, it means this: that the young woman concealed her love and the effort to do so showed its effect; concealment took her vitality, the rose from her cheek, and made her pale—just as a worm in the bud of a rose destroys it.”

“Oh!” The girls saw the point. “I am rather glad it is that way,” decided Elizabeth, “for I cannot bear any kind of worm, and Betsy is always teasing by putting caterpillars on me; I dislike them more than spiders. Miss Jewett, did you know that Flo wasn’t expected to live?”

“Yes, I heard the sad news at the time. We are very thankful to have her back again, aren’t we? I hope she will get some roses into her pale cheeks.”

“I think it is nice to be pale,” remarked Elizabeth honestly.

“Oh dear me, what a notion,” exclaimed Miss Jewett. “It is much nicer to be rosy and healthy and strong and active.”

Elizabeth looked doubtful. She was generally very ready to adopt Miss Jewett’s opinions, but she could not give up this treasured idea at once though she did not say so; instead she asked solemnly, “Miss Jewett, were you ever at the point of death?”

Miss Jewett smiled. “I believe so, when I was a child.”

Elizabeth sighed regretfully. “I never was.”

“You think it is something to boast of?” said Miss Jewett. “Why?”

Elizabeth cast about in her mind for a true reason, but she could not settle upon a satisfactory one. “I don’t know exactly,” she answered at last, “but we girls always do. I suppose it is just like having the biggest or the finest or the rarest of anything; we feel proud of it because it goes ahead of what the rest have.”

Miss Jewett laughed. “That is not a bad explanation, Elizabeth. You use your mind very well, though one doesn’t always want to be the biggest in all directions.”

“No,” returned Elizabeth with conviction, “I shouldn’t want to be the biggest liar or thief, for instance.”

They all laughed, Miss Jewett included. “You’d better come in now,” she said. “We want to have that Thanksgiving story, you remember.”

“But that won’t even be a fib,” retorted Elizabeth merrily.

“No, we can depend upon its being solid fact,” returned her teacher.

Having disposed of the last remnant of marmalade, the final grape and the remainder of the cake, the girls shook the crumbs from their laps and went inside to hear the story of the first Thanksgiving, and then to go forth, somewhat earlier than usual, for their holiday. On the way home there was great talk of the next day’s jollification. Miss Jewett and her aunt, Miss Dunbar, were to dine at Betsy Tyson’s, and the afternoon Betsy and Elizabeth were to spend together at the home of the latter. This was determined upon after Betsy explained that she would be left alone otherwise. “There will be no one at home,” she told her friends, “for uncle Rob and Hal are going to the football game with Miss Jewett and your sister Kathie, Elizabeth.”

“What will your aunt Emily do?” queried Elizabeth.

“She and Miss Dunbar are going to take tea with Mrs. Lynde.”

“And I have to stay at home,” complained Bess. “Grandma said she couldn’t think of my going away from home on Thanksgiving.”

“It will be rather stupid, won’t it?” said Elizabeth compassionately.

“Yes, it will,” returned Bess in an aggrieved voice. “I wish you and Betsy would come over and spend the afternoon with me.”

“Oh, but—” Elizabeth began and looked at Betsy. There was never much fun in visiting at Mrs. Lynde’s; everything was so spick and span, so very orderly. Mrs. Lynde did not like any noise and would not permit anything out of place. The girls never had as good a time anywhere as at Elizabeth’s home, the least pretentious among them all. For this holiday Betsy and Elizabeth had planned a specially entertaining afternoon and were not ready to give it up.

“I promised Elizabeth I would spend the afternoon with her,” said Betsy doubtfully.

“Couldn’t you possibly come to my house, Bess?” asked Elizabeth. Although Bess would not be any great addition to the proposed play, Elizabeth was quite willing to include her.

Bess shook her head. “No, grandma and mamma both said I must stay with them.”

“Oh dear! Well then they won’t want us,” decided Elizabeth, “for on a holiday like Thanksgiving we wouldn’t think of going unless they particularly invited us, would we, Betsy?” Elizabeth was rather pleased with herself at having found a way out of the difficulty.

“But if I ask them they will invite you,” persisted Bess.

“It wouldn’t be the same,” Elizabeth was positive. “They probably will go to drive and will want you with them; there wouldn’t be room for us and so you see we’d only be in the way.” Elizabeth spoke forcibly, the slower Bess finding no answering argument.

“You’ll have lovely things to eat,” Elizabeth went on, trying to console Bess, “and you’ll wear that beautiful new frock, of course. We might run in for a teentsy-weentsy minute to see you in it, after church, you know. We could do that, couldn’t we?” She turned to Betsy to receive her assenting nod, and Bess, pleased at the prospect of displaying her finery, gave up further urging.

“Walk up to the next corner with me, Betsy,” said Elizabeth to her first best as they left Bess at her own gate, and Betsy agreed.

“I never saw anyone like you, Elizabeth,” said the latter admiringly. “You always know just what to say to Bess to make her satisfied. We really didn’t exactly want her, did we? Yet she wasn’t a bit offended.”

“I didn’t mind her coming to our house,” declared Elizabeth; “it was only that I didn’t want to go to hers. It would be as dry as pine needles to sit around in that stiff way, as they do at her house. We couldn’t jump about or run or make the least noise, for Bess would have to be careful of her new frock, and we’d have to talk in whispers and do some crazy fancy work or something. That reminds me, Betsy, I have a lovely idea for Christmas. If you will come over some rainy Saturday we can flabricate something nice.”

“What?” asked Betsy.

“Why, some little sachets, not sachets exactly, either—scent bags. I thought of them long ago, and I gathered all the sweet-smelling leaves and things I could from the garden to put in the bags: lemon verbenas, rose leaves, bergamot, rose geranium, lavender, and oh,—lots. I’ll give you some. My only trouble is to find bits of silk or ribbon to make the bags of; Kathie confisticates everything of that kind.”

“I’ll tell you what we can do,” returned Betsy; “we can swap. I’ll furnish the pieces and you can furnish the filling. Aunt Emily is very nice about letting me have pieces; she likes to encourage me in doing fancy work,” Betsy laughed. “I could have gathered sweet things from our garden, too,” she went on, “but I didn’t think of it and it is too late now, so the best I can do is to supply the outsides while you supply the insides.”

“Oh, that’s lovely of you, Betsy,” responded Elizabeth appreciatively. “Of course it is too late to get garden things now, for the frost has nipped everything, and besides they have to be dried. Won’t it be something nice to look forward to for the next rainy day? We’ll go up into my playroom and make the bags; it will be quite light by the window, you know, even if it is in the attic. I speak to make the prettiest for Miss Jewett.”

“Oh dear,” responded Betsy disappointedly, “I was just going to say that myself; you always do get ahead of me, Elizabeth.”

“Why, no, I don’t, but—I suppose it wouldn’t do for each of us to give her one, would it? Even if they were different. Well, I will tell you what; if I think of anything just as nice I’ll agree to your having the prettiest piece and to giving that bag to Miss Jewett.”

“And if you don’t think of anything, what then?”

“Then maybe you will.”

“Now, Elizabeth, you know I am not anything like as clever as you about having ideas for such things.”

“You flatter me, your serene highness. All right, then I can ask Kath; she knows of lots of things to make and she will show me how when I tell her the good cause. I’ll give up the bag if you want it so much.”

“I suppose I am a mean, selfish worm,” sighed Betsy, “but it does go to the spot to have anything as nice as that for Miss Jewett, and besides she is to be my aunt, you know, and I have the right to give her the best.”

Elizabeth inwardly resented this, but there was no denying the fact, to her mind, and she could answer only: “Woe is me, that she is not to be mine, but you know something else; we’ll have the same brother and sister after awhile.”

They stopped at the corner, Betsy declaring she could not go a step further; therefore, walking backwards, they called to one another till Elizabeth, stumbling against the protruding roots of a tree, thought best to face about, calling over her shoulder: “See you at church tomorrow.”

CHAPTER II
Prisoners

ELIZABETH and Betsy were left in possession. Even Electra had the afternoon and evening off on Thanksgiving Day. Elizabeth’s big brother, Dick, with his chum, Hal Tyson, Betsy’s brother, had gone to a football game, taking Kathie and one of her girl friends. Mr. and Mrs. Hollins had determined upon a drive, after the hearty Thanksgiving dinner, and had taken Babs with them to see some relatives five miles distant, while Bert had been allowed to go to the game, too.

“I don’t know about leaving you two little girls all alone,” said Mrs. Hollins doubtfully, as she was putting on her hat. “Don’t you think you’d better come with us? We can take the surrey just as well as the buggy, and then there will be plenty of room.”

“Oh, dearest love-mother, we don’t want to go,” replied Elizabeth. “We’d so much rather stay here and play by ourselves. We will not get into any mischief, I solemnly asseverate. We’re going to play up in my playroom and the attic and we will be right there when you come back. We’ve eaten so much dinner that we shall not want to descend to the nether regions for any food and we will be as safe as crickets under a big stone.”

“You ridiculous child, I hope you will be safe. I will see that the outside doors and windows are fastened and we will take the latch-key. If you promise to play in the attic and not to do anything with matches or fire, I think I can trust you.”

“We won’t have a single sentiment of fire or matches and we will be just as good as pie,—as the pumpkin pie we had for dinner. I’ll tell you what we’re going to play, mother. It is very much according to the day, a historical sort of entertainment: we’re going to play Mayflower and Plymouth Rock and Indians. I’ve thought it all out. The big chest is to be Plymouth Rock and the old rocking-chair the Mayflower. You won’t mind our hitching the chair along the floor a little so as to make it more like sailing. I haven’t decided whether I shall be John Alden or Myles Standish; maybe I can be both. Betsy is going to be Priscilla, and we are going to be very historical and thankful, so you see we shall not have any chance of getting into mischief.”

“Then if that is the case I can leave you. There are ginger-snaps in the stone jar in the pantry, if you get hungry.”

“Oh, but I don’t believe the Pilgrims had ginger-snaps, do you? Perhaps they had plum-duff. I don’t know what that is exactly, but it sounds Englishy and old-fashioned. But if our muscles need refreshment after our arduous journey we will seek the stone jar, mother.”

“Betsy will stay with you till someone comes, I suppose.”

“Oh yes, for Dick is coming home after the football game and of course Hal will come, too, and one of them can take Betsy home. Besides, Bert will be back before the rest because he has gone on his wheel to the game.”

“Very well, then I think I need not worry about you. I see your father coming with the buggy, so I must go.”

“Good-bye, then, dearest mother Alden. Kiss me farewell, for your son John is going on a long journey across seas to a new country. Ye good ship Mayflower bears him away.”

“Good-bye, son John,” returned Mrs. Hollins, falling into Elizabeth’s make-believe. “I hope your journey will be all you expect. We shall try to be back by dark,” and, responding to Babs’ vociferous call, Mrs. Hollins went out.

“Now then,” said Elizabeth, not waiting to see her parents off, “we will hie to the ship, Priscilla.”

They rushed off upstairs, a corner of which was given over to Elizabeth for a playroom. Here she kept her favorite books, her dolls, her treasures of various kinds. But the girls did not settle down in this usually favored place; instead they took possession of the middle of the attic, pulling a huge, old-timey rocking-chair to the point opposite a big chest. Betsy, with a handkerchief tied over head and a cheesecloth dust-cloth used as a kerchief for her shoulders, established herself in the chair, while Elizabeth hunted up a wide-brimmed felt hat of her brother Dick’s and a Norfolk jacket that she might be properly attired. By dint of mighty rockings they managed to hitch along the chair towards its destination, although it was slow work.

“Do not be cast down, Priscilla,” said the would-be John. “We shall reach our haven in good time. Methinks I see a faint upheaval yonder which has a degree of permeance not like the restless sea.” She shaded her eyes with one hand and peered forwards. “Aha!” she cried, “I am right. It is a mighty rock, and to it we will strive to make our way. Art glad, Priscilla?”

“Truly I am and very thankful,” responded Betsy. “I like not these buffeting waves.”

“Marry, neither do I!” replied Elizabeth. “It is a long and wearisome voyage we have made, but there is land at last.” She climbed to the seat of the chair and waved her hat vigorously, crying, “Land! Land!” But her violent demonstrations were too much for the clumsy craft, for it lurched backwards and the two voyagers were spilled out. They were not hurt, however, but scrambled up laughing and rubbing their elbows. “That was a mighty wave indeed,” cried Elizabeth. “A little more and we had been drowned, Priscilla. We must now wade ashore and reach the rock.” With much pretended effort they managed to do this, clambering to the top of the chest and falling upon their knees in thankfulness.

The next thing was to build themselves a house, which they did from some broken chairs and discarded umbrellas. But it was too tame a matter to sit there for very long, and Elizabeth rushed off to hunt game, returning breathless and reporting the meeting of a fierce savage. Leaving their house behind them, they escaped to the house of a neighbor, where, for no reason at all, they declared themselves safer, and where suddenly John Alden changed into Myles Standish, to go forth doughtily and fight the Indians. Priscilla was also transformed into a man, electing to be William Bradford.

However, they soon tired of battling with Indians and decided that something more sentimental would be to their liking. “I’ll tell you what,” said Elizabeth; “there’s an old spinning-wheel somewhere about; we can get that and you can be Priscilla and say, ‘Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?’ You can be sitting at the wheel and be singing the hymn we had at school yesterday, and I will come in. I think there is an old hymn-book in the store closet where mother packs away the winter clothes. It is locked, but the key is hanging right by the door.”

They dragged forth the old spinning-wheel, after Priscilla had resumed her maidenly dress, and then they went to hunt up the dilapidated hymn-book which Elizabeth remembered having seen on the shelf of the locked closet. It was a Yale lock, but easily opened, and in a few moments they were inside the closet, which was really like a little room and was lighted by a small window high in the side. Elizabeth rummaged around and at last found the book.

“Here it is,” she announced. “Now we will see if the same hymn is in it.”

They sat down together on a box and began looking over the book. “What a queer smell this room has,” said Betsy.

“It is the camphor balls,” Elizabeth told her. “Mother has been unpacking some of the clothes for winter and I came across a paper box of the balls while I was looking for the book. Here’s the hymn all right, Betsy. Now, come, let’s go back.”

But this was easier said than done, for, upon trying the door, they found it had swung to and was locked, the key being still on the outside.

“Now we’ve done it,” cried Elizabeth. “We are prisoners, Betsy, for there is no possible way of getting out.”

“What shall we do?” cried Betsy, looking distressed.

“We can’t do anything till the family come home. We shall just have to stay here and amuse ourselves the best we can; it won’t be so very long. They will miss us and will come up to look, then when we hear them we will bang on the door and call to them.”

“But it may not be for ever so long after they get back.”

“Oh yes, it will, for they will know we don’t want to stay up here in the dark. We can really play just as well in here even if it is smelly. We can pretend we are prisoners taken by the Indians, or that we are hiding from them and don’t dare to come out.”

Somewhat comforted, Betsy accepted the situation with a good grace, though they did not find playing prisoner a particularly exciting game and soon wearied of it. In the face of bare walls and not much space Elizabeth’s imagination failed her and they sat down rather crestfallen to wait rescuers.

They had been silent for about five minutes when suddenly Elizabeth jumped up, saying, “I know what we can do; we can play jacks with the moth balls.”

“That is an idea,” Betsy said in a pleased voice. “It will be much better than sitting still doing nothing.”

Elizabeth lifted the box of moth balls from the shelf. They cleared a space on the top of the box where they had been sitting, and, squatting down upon the floor, they began the game. The novelty of their playthings lasted till dark began to set in and they could no longer see to play. The little room was so dimly lighted that it was really not so late as it seemed, even on this November afternoon. They were not uncomfortable for there were parcels of blankets and such things wrapped in paper and piled up on the floor; these they leaned against, taking various positions as they became restless.

“It isn’t so very warm, is it?” said Betsy, after a long silence.

“No, but we can easily get out something to wrap ourselves up in. I think if we were to lie down we might be more comfortable. We can make a bed of some of these big packages; it won’t hurt, and I will get out a blanket to put over us.”

This was a new arrangement and they laughingly prepared to lie down, cuddling under a heavy blanket and feeling quite satisfied to wait events. It grew darker and darker. It was very still in the house and very still in the little room; only the sound of gentle breathing came from the pallet on the floor.

In course of time the various members of the family returned. First came Bert, who, finding that the door was locked, did not attempt to get in, but went off to Patsy McGonigle’s to see how he had fared upon Thanksgiving Day. Next came a merry party of young people. Dick had a latch-key and let in the crowd. They went into the parlor and began to sing college songs, then Neal Paine proposed that all go over to his house.

“I’m jolly hungry myself, after that long ride,” he said, “and we’ve a barrel of oysters sent up for Thanksgiving, so what’s the matter with going over, all of us, and having an oyster roast?”

“First-rate,” agreed Hal.

“So say we all of us,” Dick seconded him. So out they all rushed across the street, leaving the house to silence though not to utter darkness.

Not long after this the wheels of the buggy crunched up the driveway. Mrs. Hollins and Babs alighted and Mr. Hollins drove off to the barn. “By the looks of things I should say that Dick and the rest had returned,” remarked Mrs. Hollins as she entered the lighted room. “I wonder where the little girls are. Perhaps Elizabeth has walked home with Hal and Betsy,” and, leisurely taking off her coat and hat, she sat down to unfasten Babs’s wraps.

Presently Mr. Hollins came in. “Where are the youngsters?” he asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Hollins. “The boys have evidently been here. I haven’t been upstairs, but I imagine that Elizabeth has walked home with Betsy and Hal; perhaps they all went off together, though Elizabeth promised to be here when I returned. Suppose you call up and see if she is at the Tysons’s.”

Mr. Hollins went to the ’phone, returning in a few minutes with the report that there was no response to the call. “They’re all away, I suppose,” he said. “I noticed that the house was quite dark as we came by. Perhaps the girls have gone to Bess Ferguson’s. I’ll try there.” The reply to his query was that neither of the girls was there and had not been since early in the day.

“I will go upstairs and hunt around,” said Mrs. Hollins; “perhaps they are in the house after all.” Leaving Babs with her father, Mrs. Hollins mounted the stairs and searched through all the rooms on the next floor, then she took a lamp and went up into the attic. Here were signs of the late presence of Elizabeth and her friend, Betsy. The big chair still lay where it had been overturned, the spinning-wheel loomed up dimly before the window, a bow and arrow of Bert’s lay on the floor, garments were strewn around. “Elizabeth will have to come up tomorrow and set things to rights,” murmured Mrs. Hollins, as she looked around with a half smile. Then she called softly, “Elizabeth, Elizabeth!” But there was no answer. After waiting a moment Mrs. Hollins went slowly downstairs to rejoin her husband. “I can’t find them anywhere,” she told him. “I’ve been all over the house. Where do you suppose they can be?”

“Here comes Bert,” said Mr. Hollins, “perhaps he can give us some light on the subject.”

Bert came whistling up on the porch and in a moment came in. “Hallo,” he said, “you’ve got back, haven’t you? Gee! but it was a fine game.”

“Have you seen anything of your sister Elizabeth?” inquired his mother.

“Not a sign. When I got back the house was all locked up so I went over to see Patsy. The McGonigles had roast pork and sweet corn and potatoes, and they were just as thankful as anything.” Bert never lost an opportunity of bringing to light the virtues of the McGonigles.

“Never mind what the McGonigles had,” said Mr. Hollins; “what we are more interested in is the whereabouts of your sister.”

“I’ll bet she is hiding somewhere just to give us a scare,” declared Bert.

“Then you can go and find her,” suggested his father.

Upstairs and down tramped Bert, storming at last into the attic whose shadows and dark corners were rather disheartening to even an older person. Bert did not advance very far into the dim recesses, but, standing in the doorway, shouted stentoriously, “’Lizbeth! I say, ’Lizbeth, where are you?”

Then something happened. Mrs. Hollins appeared with a lamp. “I have just thought,” she murmured, and went straight to the door of the closet. She saw the key sticking in the lock, turned it and looked in to see an auburn head closely snuggled by the side of a dark brown one.

Bert peered around his mother’s shoulder. “Well, I’ll be switched if they’re not asleep,” he exclaimed.

Betsy sat up and rubbed her eyes. “It’s very smelly in here,” she remarked.

Bert went off into shouts of laughter which awakened his sister.

“You’ve come at last,” said Elizabeth, scrambling from her improvised couch. “We thought you never would come.”

“How long do you think I have been looking for you?” asked her mother, with a smile. “A full half hour. How did you happen to choose such a place for a nap?”

“We didn’t choose it,” answered Elizabeth. “It chose us. We came in here to get a hymn-book and the door had to go and close itself, so we were locked in; we’ve been here for ages.”

“Then you’d better come out as quickly as you can and get some fresh air. I don’t wonder you fell asleep in that stuffy place.”

The girls were only too glad to obey, and at Mrs. Hollins’s suggestion ran up and down the porch ten times to get their lungs full of fresh air; then they were ready for ginger-snaps and such things, their Pilgrim days being over.

CHAPTER III
The Piece Bag

“ELIZABETH, you must set things to rights in the attic,” said Mrs. Hollins the next day. “Everything is in confusion there, and you know I can’t allow that.”

“Oh yes, mother, I will do it,” Elizabeth assured her, “but you see we had to leave it so yesterday because we were imprisoned, incartcerated.”

Mrs. Hollins smiled. “You dearly like a redundancy of letters in your words, don’t you, daughter?”

“What is redundancy?” inquired Elizabeth, pleased at hearing a new word.

“It means more than enough.”

“I suppose Elizabeth thinks one cannot have too much of a good thing,” remarked Dick, looking up from his book. “The longer she can make the word the better. Where were you ‘incartcerated,’ Elizabeth?”

“In the packing closet with the moth balls,” replied his sister. “It was an awfully stuffy place.”

“I should think so, and it is a wonder you were not asphyxiated,” returned Dick. “There is a good long word for you, Libzie.”

“Say it again,” begged Elizabeth.

Dick repeated the word and Elizabeth slowly said it after him. “Ass-fix-he-ate-ed. It would make a lovely charade, Dick.”

Her brother put back his head and roared. “I’ll bet you can’t spell it. I’ll give you a nickel if you can.”

Elizabeth made several attempts but failed in each one, so Dick finally had to tell her, and she carefully wrote it down on a piece of paper that she might puzzle Betsy when she should come, though at the same time she maintained that she still thought it would make a good charade. She was so intent upon planning this out that she entirely forgot about the condition of the attic and, as it was a bright, clear morning, she decided that if she could gather an audience and press Betsy into service they could act charades out of doors.

However, she failed in her errand, because Betsy had gone to town with her aunt Emily and any sort of play which demanded much imagination was not worth attempting without Betsy. Bess claimed her, however, always being rather pleased when, as second best, she could demand the privileges of first best.

So all day the old rocking-chair lay on its back while Elizabeth played with Bess. When night came Mrs. Hollins reminded Elizabeth of her shortcomings.

“Elizabeth,” she said, “you did not do as I told you about putting things in order up in the attic. I went up there to get something and came near hurting myself when I stumbled over the chair. You must go up there the very first thing tomorrow and don’t come down till you have put things where they belong.”

Elizabeth was very contrite. “Oh dear, I am so forgetless,” she sighed. “Did you hurt yourself very badly, mother dear?”

“Oh no, not badly, although I might have done so, and you know my rule is that you must put back in its place anything taken away. I don’t in the least object to your amusing yourself in any innocent manner, and to your using anything that will help to make your play more pleasant, but I have not the time to run after you and pick up after disorderly little girls.”

Elizabeth accepted the reproof meekly. She knew that with but one servant her mother had more than enough to do, and she truly did not mean to make more work for her, but once an idea took possession of her it was to the exclusion of everything else.

She went to bed in a very humble frame of mind and decided before she went to sleep that she must do something to make her remember another time. Therefore, the next morning when Betsy appeared, it being a rainy day, Elizabeth was still up in the attic.

“You can go right up, Betsy,” Mrs. Hollins gave permission. “I dare say you will find Elizabeth in her playroom.”

Betsy ran up the stairs and called, but the voice which answered did not come from the playroom.

“Why, where are you?” inquired Betsy, peering around.

“Here!” The answer came from a dark corner.

Betsy made her way to the spot. “Why, what in the world are you doing sitting away off there?” asked Betsy.

From the depths of the old chair Elizabeth replied: “I am doing penance. I forgot all about putting this back where it belongs, and mother nearly broke her neck falling over it, so I have to do something to make myself remember. I thought if I sat here long enough I couldn’t possibly forget where the chair belonged.”

“How long have you been there?” asked Betsy, quite accustomed to Elizabeth’s methods of dealing out punishments to herself.

“Oh, a long time. I don’t know exactly. I have put away all the other things. It looks quite orderly—don’t you think so?”

“It looks very nice indeed,” replied Betsy. “I should have been here to help you, for it was as much for me as for you that the things were used.”

“No, it isn’t your attic and you were company,” answered Elizabeth, settling that question.

“Don’t you think you can come now?” asked Betsy. “I have some lovely pieces. Aunt Emily let me bring a piece bag, and it is a rainy day, you know.”

This quite decided Elizabeth to put an end to her punishment, and she came forth with alacrity, eager to see what Betsy had brought.

“Aunt Emily was really very good about it,” said Betsy, following her friend to the playroom. “She said you were very generous to let me use your idea for a scent bag and she liked my making it for Miss Jewett. She said to tell you that you were to have any pieces from this bag.”

“I think that is mighty kind of her,” said Elizabeth, well pleased at this reward of virtue.

“Have you any new ideas?” asked Betsy anxiously, still feeling that she was a little selfish to take advantage of Elizabeth’s ingenuity.

“I have two lovely ones,” replied Elizabeth; “at least they are not mine but they are things Kathie showed me, and if I have the materials she will show me how to make them.”

“Shall you make them both?” inquired Betsy.

“That depends. They are both so nice I don’t know which to choose.”

“Tell me about them.”

“One is for handkerchiefs. You cover two squares of pasteboard cut a little larger than a folded handkerchief and cover both sides, one with any pretty piece of silk and the other side with white, then you have a strap of elastic to hold them together when you put the handkerchiefs inside. It doesn’t muss the handkerchiefs, takes up no room and makes it very handy for you to see just what you want when you are looking for a handkerchief.”

“I should think that would be very nice,” declared Betsy. “Now what is the other one?”

“It is a case for threaded needles. You take a piece of ribbon about so long,”—Elizabeth measured with her two hands a distance of a little less than three quarters of a yard,—“and about so wide,”—she measured again about three and a half inches. “You sew one end over a piece of pasteboard the length of the longest needle you intend to have and you fasten in a strip of flannel not quite so long as the ribbon and a little narrower, then you thread needles with black silk and cotton and white silk and cotton; you run them in and out the flannel, fold the ribbon over and over, tie it together with a little narrow ribbon and when you are in a great hurry or when you are travelling you don’t have to stop to thread needles.”

“I think that is fine,” returned Betsy, who had listened attentively. “I believe I would like that better than the scent bag.”

Elizabeth made no reply. She really liked it better herself and had quite a feeling of triumph that she had found something so simple and yet so useful. But it would take quite a length of ribbon and she was not at all sure she could find a piece exactly suited. “Kathie says she has some flannel I can use,” she remarked after awhile, “if only I can get the ribbon. I suppose I could save up and buy it, but I haven’t a great deal of time to save in, for Christmas comes very soon after Thanksgiving, and the pennies don’t come in as fast as the days fly by. Besides, I need all I can get to buy what I most want to get for mother.”

Betsy was absorbed in peeping into the bag she held, and began to draw forth one piece after another. Elizabeth watched her with interest. “There,” she exclaimed, pouncing upon a bit of delicately flowered silk, “that would just do for the scent bag. Isn’t it pretty?” she added, holding it up. “Shall you use that?” she asked.

“If I don’t see anything I like better,” answered Betsy. “This might do for your handkerchief case,” she went on, as she laid two ends of silk in Elizabeth’s lap. They were not very pretty pieces, Elizabeth thought, and she looked at them doubtfully. Miss Jewett should have only the very loveliest, she considered. “Maybe we can find something else,” said Betsy, noticing Elizabeth’s expression.

“These are rather dark,” said Elizabeth, brightening.

Betsy began diving deeper into the bag. Presently she drew forth a fluttering end but quickly thrust it back again, giving a keen glance at Elizabeth as she did so and murmuring: “Oh, that wouldn’t do,” and she fumbled again among the pieces. Presently she brought forth from the collection a very pretty piece of delicate blue silk sprinkled with tiny bunches of flowers. “How would you like this?” she asked as she laid it in Elizabeth’s lap.

“Oh, that is perfectly lovely!” cried Elizabeth. “But wouldn’t it be big enough for your bag, Betsy?”

“Maybe, but I think I can find something else, or I can take the other, the first one, if you like this best.”

“Oh, I do like it best of anything, and I think you are very generous to let me have it. I am going to run down and show it to Kathie and get her to measure, though I am sure there will be loads to make it the right size.” She ran off, saying as she went, “I’ll be right back, Betsy.” She had been a little disappointed that Betsy had not emptied the contents of the bag that they might both look them over together, but she did not think of this now that she was so entirely satisfied with what had been given her.

No sooner was she out of sight than Betsy hastily drew out the end which she had thrust back and held it up, a very rich and beautiful length of ribbon. “It is the very prettiest yet,” murmured Betsy. She reached over and took Elizabeth’s little tape-measure from the work-basket which stood on the chair near by. She measured the ribbon; it was just three and a half inches wide and lacked a little of being three quarters of a yard in length. “It is exactly right,” said Betsy to herself. “I cannot let her have it. After all I ought to let her give the scent bag because it was her idea, and besides if I give her the silk for it and don’t take any of the dried leaves I will really be very generous.”

Still she did not feel exactly comfortable as she smoothed out the ribbon on her lap and finally, at the sound of Elizabeth’s approach, stuffed it down into the very bottom of the bag, nor did she feel any happier when Elizabeth said: “Kathie says you are a dear. She thinks this is lovely and it is big enough for either a scent bag or the handkerchief case. I really think you ought to have it, Betsy.”

But Betsy shook her head. “No, I don’t want it. You must take it.”

“Well, I am sure I am a thousand times obliged to you,” said Elizabeth. “See, I have brought up the little thread and needle case for you to see how easy it will be to make; anyone could do it.”

Betsy took the proffered article in her hand and examined it carefully. Yes, anyone could make it, that was quite true. She thought of the ribbon in the depths of the bag and tried to feel pleased. “Wouldn’t you really like to make a scent bag better than anything else for Miss Jewett?” she asked. “Tell me truly, Elizabeth, if you had your choice which of the three things would you rather give her? Tell me truly. Cross your heart.”

Elizabeth went through the ceremony of crossing her heart. “Well, if I had just the very handsomest piece of ribbon, I believe I would rather give her the thread and needle case than anything else, because she would probably use it oftener than the bag.”

“Not oftener than she would the handkerchief case. She would think of you every time she saw that, you know.”

“So she would. Well then, I should like to make both.”

“I don’t think that is fair,” said Betsy. “It isn’t fair for you to give her two presents when I have only one, unless my one were very, very handsome.”

“But you wanted the scent bag; you know you did, Betsy.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want it, did I? Besides, you know you haven’t the ribbon to make the needle and thread case even if you wanted to.”

“No, I know I haven’t, but we were talking of what we would like best to give, not what we really were able to. Have you decided upon what you will take for your scent bag?”

“No, and I don’t think I will decide today. Maybe aunt Emily will come across some more pieces. I wouldn’t begin on the handkerchief case yet, Elizabeth.”

“Why not? It is such a nice rainy day, and Kathie is at home to show me just how, and you know we said we would begin the first rainy day so as to get them done in time.”

Betsy looked uneasy. “I’m not going to begin mine,” she declared.

“Oh, please, Betsy.”

Betsy shook her head.

“I know just why you aren’t going to,” Elizabeth asserted; “it is because you have given me the nicest piece and the only one that will do, and you are too generous to say so. You have just got to take it back and I will use that dark one.”

Betsy backed away as Elizabeth tried to force the silk upon her. “I will not have it,” she maintained. “I am not an Indian giver; besides, aunt Emily said that you were to have anything in the bag you wanted.” Betsy had a sharp pang of conscience as she made this speech, remembering what was hidden in the depths of the bag on her arm. “I must really go, Elizabeth.”

“But it is early and I did think we would have such a good time.”

“I will come some other time.” Betsy hesitated before continuing: “I wish you would put off doing yours, too. There is no telling what we may get after another hunt.”

“But I couldn’t have anything better than this,” returned Elizabeth, giving the blue silk an admiring look, “not if I searched the world over.”

“You’d better wait,” repeated Betsy and then she went off, leaving Elizabeth feeling somewhat mystified and rather disappointed.

As soon as Betsy reached home she went to her room and drew forth the coveted bit of ribbon. Yes, it was even more beautiful than she thought. She had never seen anything of the kind that she admired as much. Suppose her aunt Emily had made a mistake in putting it in that special bag, or suppose she should say that she had missed it and wanted to use it herself. Even if she might have it her aunt would question as to her use of it.

This Miss Emily did when, a little later, Betsy went to her. “Could I have this, aunt Emily?” she asked, producing the piece of ribbon. “It was in the piece bag and you said we could have anything in it.”

“Then if I said so I must keep my word,” replied Miss Emily. “It is a very pretty piece of ribbon. What do you intend to do with it?”

Betsy paused before she answered: “Elizabeth showed me a very nice thread and needle case; I thought I would like to make one for Christmas.”

“Whom would you give it to? It is such a very handsome piece of ribbon you should not waste it on merely anyone.”

“I thought I would give it to Miss Jewett.”

“What about the scent bag? I thought you had decided upon that and that Elizabeth was to share her gathered sweets with you.”

Betsy was silent before she said: “That was Elizabeth’s own idea and I think she ought to be allowed to keep it.”

Miss Emily smiled approbation. “In that case, as a reward for your generosity in giving up the more personal and original gift, I must certainly allow you to have the ribbon.”

Betsy walked away feeling ashamed instead of happy at receiving approval for something which she knew she did not quite deserve. She laid the ribbon carefully away but she did not forget it.

Whether it was the commandment, “Thou shalt not covet,” whether it was a sermon upon the subject of petty deceits or whether it was her own tender conscience is not certain, but there was a reason somewhere which made Betsy very miserable all the next day, not that her excuse in keeping the ribbon was not a perfectly proper one, but because she had pretended to a different motive from the real one, and she knew she had received praise where no praise was due. She wished she had never seen the ribbon; she wished thread and needle cases had never been invented; she almost wished there were no Christmas.

CHAPTER IV
On Monday

BETSY, who was always most eager to greet Elizabeth on Monday mornings at school, did not feel very enthusiastic about it on this present occasion; Elizabeth was sure to hark back to the subject of Christmas gifts; it was like her to be interested in one thing to the exclusion of all others until the matter had been well threshed out, unless something much more exciting occurred to put it out of her mind, so Betsy, instead of hurrying off as usual to school, lagged behind, giving no answer to the call which Elizabeth and Bess gave as they passed by together, and arriving just at the very last stroke of the bell. Elizabeth looked up beamingly as she entered and gave Betsy’s hand an affectionate squeeze when her desk-mate took the seat by her side; but Betsy’s face wore such a solemn expression that Elizabeth looked at her inquiringly, receiving no response to her questioning glance.

When the hour for recess came Elizabeth’s first question was: “Aren’t you well, Betsy? Has anything happened?”

Betsy shook her head. “No, I feel cross; that is all.”

“Then here is something to sweeten your disposition,” returned Elizabeth laughingly. “I got up early and made some fudge with marshmallows in it. I brought this boxful to you; it is all for yourself, because you were so dear and generous about the silk pieces.”

Again! Betsy felt that she could not stand it much longer. “Bother the silk pieces,” she cried. “I wish you would stop talking about them.”

“Well, you are cross, sure enough,” said Elizabeth, really feeling hurt at this reception of her gift. “You’d better eat a piece of fudge and see if it won’t do you good.”

But Betsy left the fudge untouched and had very little to say during luncheon. When Bess rallied her upon her silence Elizabeth shook her head and whispered to Bess: “Don’t tease her; I don’t believe she feels well.”

That her first best friend did not resent her ill temper was the crowning stroke, and before school closed Betsy gave in. She slipped a little note into Elizabeth’s hand, addressing her in the style they adopted toward one another on such occasions, and asking that Elizabeth would meet her at their trysting place that afternoon. If she were not there Elizabeth was to look for a message left in the usual secret place.

Nothing pleased Elizabeth more than such messages. She was usually the one to take the initiative and to bid Betsy to the trysting place; it had been some time since either of them had made an excuse for such a meeting and it was therefore the keener prospect. Elizabeth did not delay in reaching the spot, but found no Betsy. She hastened to the big stone, looked under it and found a small package wrapped in heavy paper and securely sealed. Wondering what it could contain, Elizabeth broke the seals and found inside the heavy paper another wrapping of soft white paper which she unfastened—to find inside a length of beautiful ribbon and a note; the note read:

Dearest Frederica,—This ribbon is for you. I have a confession to make about it. I was meanly going to keep it for myself. It was in the bag I brought to your house and I found it and did not tell you nor show it to you because I was a pig and didn’t want you to have it. You thought I was generous when I was a mean, mean, selfish, disgusting creature. Now I shall not be happy till you take it for I cannot stand your thinking me generous when I was not. If you forgive me run up the flag and I will come and fall at your feet, crying, “Peccavi,” and throwing myself on your mercy. If you do not forgive me I shall be heart-broken.

Your sinful and contrite,
Phillipa.

Elizabeth read the note over several times before she quite took in its meaning, then she hurried to a hollow tree, drew forth a small tin box and took out a white flag. This she fastened to a long pole hidden in the bushes and, lifting it, waved it slowly back and forth. This was what the two girls called running up the flag.

Betsy was on the watch, and as soon as she caught sight of the waving banner she hurried down the garden path, out the side gate, and in a few minutes was in Elizabeth’s presence. She wore a black shawl draped about her small person and a short veil fell over her face. She could have taken no surer way of appealing to Elizabeth than by such dress. Arriving at the spot where Elizabeth waited, Betsy dropped upon her knees and stretched out her arms in an attitude of despairing entreaty.

“Do not kneel to unworthy me, fair lady!” began Elizabeth. “Rise and come to my heart. Who am I that you should kneel to me?”

For answer, Betsy, still on her knees, moved nearer and humbly kissed Elizabeth’s hand. “Your gentle heart forgives a suffering culprit?” she murmured.

“There is no question of forgiveness between the Lady Phillipa and her adoring Frederica,” answered Elizabeth. Then Betsy fell on her neck and the two rapturously embraced. After which Elizabeth held off her friend to look at her admiringly. “What a fine costume,” she commented. “How did you ever think of it?”

“I found the old black shawl up in the attic, and the veil is one that aunt Emily had thrown away. I cut off the holey part,” Betsy told her.

“It makes a perfect penitilential dress,” declared Elizabeth. “But, Betsy, I am not going to take that ribbon. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. After your giving me that lovely blue I would like to know who would be the pig if I accepted both. Besides, you must have wanted it awfully yourself. Honest now, didn’t you?”

Driven to a corner, Betsy had to acknowledge facts. “Of course, or I wouldn’t have been so mean about it.”

“I don’t call it mean. You have a perfect right to it, a much better right than I have.”

“It isn’t that I haven’t the right, I suppose,” replied Betsy gravely; “it is because I deceived you and aunt Emily and allowed you to think I was generous when I wasn’t. I wanted the ribbon to make the thread and needle case much more than I did anything to make a scent bag.”

“Well, but don’t you remember that you said it would be no fair if I gave two presents and you only one, unless yours should be much handsomer. Of course we have to say that this is much handsomer, so if you like it best why not let me make a scent bag out of the blue flowery piece, a handkerchief case out of something else, and you take this?”

“Would you really truly just as lief?” said Betsy, still finding her ardent desire for the ribbon unquenched.

“Of course I would. I couldn’t possibly bring myself to gobble up the two very prettiest pieces in the whole lot, and if I have one and you the other that will make it just right, don’t you see?”

“Oh, Elizabeth, you are a dear, yet still I don’t feel quite right about it.”

“You are supersensitive,” said Elizabeth, pleased at being able to air a word which she had heard her sister use that morning.

Betsy was a little awed by it, as she always was by any addition to Elizabeth’s vocabulary. Elizabeth always used new, important-sounding words with such glibness and in such an assured manner, though many times she did not get them just right. “Aunt Emily likes the idea of the scent bag,” said Betsy, a little uncertain yet.

“Then, I’ll tell you what,” said Elizabeth, ready with an answering argument. “I promised you some of my dried stuff in exchange for silk pieces, didn’t I?”

Betsy was obliged to acknowledge this was true.

“Well, then, I wouldn’t be keeping my part of the bargain unless I did it, so you take some and make a scent bag for your aunt Em. I have another idea; if you don’t like to use the pieces she is acquainted with you can get Kathie to change with you; she has some real pretty ones, so Miss Emily will have something quite a novelty to her.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, what a very nice plan,” said Betsy, now thoroughly convinced. “I do think you can think out the nicest things. I should like to do that.”

“I almost hope next Saturday will be rainy, don’t you?” said Elizabeth as, with arms around one another, they walked towards the garden gate.

“I almost do,” agreed Betsy, “though I usually despise rainy days. Come in and let us go up to my room and look over the bag together; you must have another choice, you know, and I will choose something to swap with Kathie; you are sure she will be willing to, Elizabeth.”

“Of course she will. It will be much more interesting to have a variety.”

Betsy was satisfied with this assurance, and thus all clouds rolled away.

It was too dark for Elizabeth to linger long, but each made her choice from the stuffs which Betsy shook out upon her bed, and then Elizabeth, with hers safely tucked in her coat pocket, started up the long street towards the brown house at the end of it.

There was a comforting odor of supper when Elizabeth entered, and she made straight for the kitchen that she might discover what Electra was cooking.

“Now, what are you after?” inquired Electra, as she quickly shut the oven door.

“I wanted to know what it was that smelled so good,” returned Elizabeth.

“I’ll be bound for you,” returned Electra. “It is filoes for meddlers, if you must know.”

This was always Electra’s answer when she was making something which she meant as a surprise, and Elizabeth’s curiosity was aroused. She sniffed the air, saying: “If I guess what it is will you tell me?”

Electra smiled grimly. “I’ll give you three guesses, and if you don’t guess right you can just clear out.”

“It has a sort of cakey smell, and yet it doesn’t smell exactly like gingerbread,” said Elizabeth contemplatively. “I suppose it isn’t ginger muffins.”

“If that’s a guess,” returned Electra, “I’m free to say it ain’t.”

“I didn’t think it was,” returned Elizabeth, “so I am not going to call it a guess.”

“Then what was it?”

“Oh, just a—a sort of side remark.”

Electra laughed. “Hurry up, or I’ll shoo you out without any guesses.”

“Then I’ll guess rusk, hot rusks.”

“Wrong.”