A REAL CINDERELLA

BOOKS BY NINA RHOADES

MARION’S VACATION. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25
DOROTHY BROWN. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.50
VICTORINE’S BOOK. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25
THE GIRL FROM ARIZONA. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth.
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FOR YOUNGER READERS

“The Brick House Books”

The sight of the brick house on the cover makes girl readers happy at once.—Indianapolis News.

Illustrated. Large 12mo. Cloth. $1.00 each

ONLY DOLLIE
THE LITTLE GIRL NEXT DOOR
WINIFRED’S NEIGHBORS
THE CHILDREN ON THE TOP FLOOR
HOW BARBARA KEPT HER PROMISE
LITTLE MISS ROSAMOND
PRISCILLA OF THE DOLL SHOP
BRAVE LITTLE PEGGY
THE OTHER SYLVIA
MAISIE’S MERRY CHRISTMAS
LITTLE QUEEN ESTHER
MAKING MARY LIZZIE HAPPY

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
BOSTON

She did not know that she was a Cinderella.—Page [11].

A
REAL CINDERELLA

BY
NINA RHOADES

ILLUSTRATED BY ELIZABETH WITHINGTON

BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

Published, August, 1915.

Copyright, 1915, By Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.

All rights reserved

A Real Cinderella

Norwood Press
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
NORWOOD, MASS.,
U. S. A.

CONTENTS

A REAL CINDERELLA

CHAPTER I
CINDERELLA AT HOME

SHE did not know that she was a Cinderella, as she knelt on the floor putting on Miss Ada Marsh’s satin slippers. She had never even thought of such a possibility, and if any one had mentioned it to her she would have opened her big brown eyes very wide, and felt inclined to regard the suggestion as a rather foolish joke. In her own humble opinion she was not a person of the very least importance, being only little Gretel Schiller, whom nobody seemed to care very much about, and who lived with Mrs. Marsh, because there didn’t seem to be any other place for her to live. It seemed to her quite natural that she should make herself useful in the family, considering—as Mrs. Marsh frequently reminded her—that her half-brother, who lived in China, paid very inadequately for her support. But this evening her heart was beating fast and she was regarding Miss Ada Marsh with more interest than usual for was not that young lady actually going to fairy-land?

The slippers were small, and Miss Ada’s feet were large, so that the task of getting them on was a more difficult one than might have been at first supposed.

“Aren’t they—aren’t they just a little tight?” gasped Gretel, when several unsuccessful attempts had failed to produce the desired result.

“Not a bit,” responded Ada, with decision. “Just push the heel in more. There, that’s better. They do pinch a little, but that’s only because they’re new. They’ll be perfectly comfortable as soon as I’ve stretched them.” And Ada rose, and limped painfully across the room to the bureau.

“There, I believe I’m ready now, except my gloves. You can button them for me, and then just run and see if Mamma needs any help. It’s ten minutes to eight, and they always begin those long German operas promptly.”

“Oh, you mustn’t be late. It would be terrible to miss any of it,” said Gretel, anxiously. She was drawing a long white kid glove up over Miss Marsh’s plump arm.

Ada shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

“I shouldn’t mind missing a little,” she said. “All the Wagner operas are so long and so heavy. I wish Mr. Pendleton had asked us to go to the theater instead. There’s the door-bell; it must be Mr. Pendleton. My goodness! these slippers do need stretching. I’m thankful the opera house is just across the street; do hurry and finish Mamma. That Dora is so stupid about hooking her up. We mustn’t keep Mr. Pendleton waiting.”

Gretel hurried away wondering. It seemed very strange that any one could talk about going to fairy-land as Ada did, but then she was only eleven, and there were a great many things in the world that she did not understand. As she was crossing the narrow hall of the apartment to Mrs. Marsh’s room, Dora, the maid-of-all-work, opened the front door, and a young man in a dress-suit stepped in, and greeted the little girl good-naturedly.

“Good evening, little Miss Gretchen,” he said, with a smile. “Are your cousins ready? Your name is Gretchen, isn’t it?”

“My name is Margareta Schiller,” said Gretel, drawing herself up with the little air of dignity that always amused grown-up people. “They call me Gretel, not Gretchen. Ada’s nearly ready, and I’m going to see if I can help Mrs. Marsh with the hooks; but they’re not my cousins.”

“Not your cousins, eh? Why, I thought—” But Mr. Pendleton did not say what he thought, for at that moment Mrs. Marsh’s door opened, and that lady appeared, carrying her evening wrap over her arm.

“Ah, Mr. Pendleton, just in time,” she said, smiling, and speaking in what Gretel always called “her company voice.” “Gretel, darling, run and tell Ada, Mr. Pendleton is here. We must not lose a moment; it would be too sad to miss that beautiful overture.”

As Gretel turned away to do as she was told, Mr. Pendleton followed her rather curiously with his eyes.

“What a pretty child,” he remarked in a low voice to Mrs. Marsh. “I supposed she was a relative of yours, but she says she is not.”

“No, she is not a relative, but it was a most natural mistake for any one to make. It is rather complicated to explain. My dear husband was a cousin of Gretel’s mother’s first husband. She is an orphan, poor little girl, and her only relative—a half-brother—has been living in Hong-Kong for several years. I give her a home, and Ada and I do all in our power to make her happy, but in our straitened circumstances it is scarcely possible for us to be as generous as we should like.”

Mrs. Marsh sighed, and Mr. Pendleton looked sympathetic, and murmured something about being sure the little girl had a very happy home, but just then Gretel reappeared, followed by Ada, who was still struggling with the last button of her glove.

“Good night, Gretel dear,” said Mrs. Marsh, sweetly, as she stepped into the elevator. “Don’t sit up too long reading fairy stories, but go to bed early, like a good girl.”

“Ada wants me to sit up till she comes home,” began Gretel, but on receiving a warning glance from Miss Marsh, she grew suddenly pink and did not finish her sentence.

“Good night, Miss Margareta,” said Mr. Pendleton, pleasantly, as he followed the others into the elevator. “Your time will come, too, some day, and we shall have you going to the opera before we know it.”

Then the elevator door closed, and Gretel was left standing alone in the hall. But unlike the Cinderella of fairy-tale fame, she did not sit down among the ashes to cry. On the contrary, she smiled quite brightly, as she closed the door of the Marshes’ apartment, and hurried away to the parlor, the windows of which looked down on Broadway, and over at the great opera house just across the street.

Gretel was still smiling when she pushed aside the window-curtains, and flattened her face against the pane. To watch the people going into fairy-land was one of her favorite amusements.

“I wonder whether I really ever shall go,” she said to herself a little wistfully. “I don’t quite see how I can, for of course nobody will ever take me, and it costs so much money to buy a ticket, even for the standing-up place. But, oh, if I should—it would be something to be happy about forever!”

It was very interesting to watch the long line of carriages and motor-cars depositing their occupants at the doors of fairy-land. Gretel watched them eagerly, but for the first time a little doubt had crept into her mind.

“I used to think they must all be so happy,” she said, reflectively, “but Ada didn’t seem to care much, and I don’t believe Mrs. Marsh did, either, though she pretended to. Father said a person must have a soul to love music, and I don’t believe Mrs. Marsh or Ada have souls—or at least not the kind he meant.”

Just then some one came into the room and turned up the light. It was Dora, the maid-of-all-work. For the first moment she did not see Gretel, who was hidden by the curtains of the window, and going over to the center table, she lifted the lid of a candy box, and was just about to help herself to a caramel when she caught sight of the little girl, and flew back hastily, with a muttered ejaculation of annoyance. But Gretel was too much absorbed to notice what the maid was doing.

“Come and watch them go in, Dora,” she said, eagerly. “There are more carriages and automobiles than ever to-night, I think. That’s because it’s ‘Lohengrin.’ Father loved ‘Lohengrin’ best of all the operas; he used to play it for me. I know the ‘Swan Song,’ and ‘Elsa’s Dream’ and the wedding march. I can play little bits of them myself. Did you ever go to fairy-land, Dora?”

“Fairy-land!” Dora repeated, laughing. “What a funny question! Of course I didn’t. There isn’t any such place really; it’s just in stories.”

“I didn’t mean to call it that,” explained Gretel, blushing. “I meant to say the opera. Father and I used to call it fairy-land because he loved it so, and I always call it that to myself. Father took me there once, and it was so beautiful. I’m sure the fairy-land they tell about in books couldn’t be any more beautiful. We sat away up in the top gallery, so it didn’t cost so very much. It was Father’s birthday, and he thought he would give us both a treat, but he was sorry afterwards, because a friend of his came the next day to ask to borrow some money, and he hadn’t any to give him. Father was so kind; he was always giving his money away to people. Mrs. Marsh says that was why there wasn’t any more money left for me when he died, but I’m glad he was like that; all his friends loved him so much.”

“Has your father been dead long?” Dora asked, with a glance at the child’s shabby black dress.

“He died a year ago this winter, just after Christmas. He was very ill on Christmas, but he would get up and light the Christmas tree. You see, Father was German, and in Germany every one has a Christmas tree. We always had one, even when there wasn’t much to put on it. I didn’t know how ill Father was, and I cried because he wouldn’t sit up and tell me stories. You see, we lived all alone in the studio, and there wasn’t anybody grown-up to take care of Father, and make him stay in bed when he was ill. But the day after Christmas he was so much worse that he couldn’t get out of bed at all and then Fritz Lipheim came and brought a doctor.”

“Who was Fritz Lipheim?” inquired Dora, who was beginning to be interested, and had seated herself comfortably on the sofa.

“He was a German, too,” said Gretel; “almost all Father’s friends were German. Fritz played the violin beautifully, but he wasn’t nearly as clever as Father.”

“What did your father do?” Dora wanted to know.

Gretel’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.

“Why, don’t you know?” she demanded incredulously. “I thought everybody knew about Father. He was Hermann Schiller the great pianist. I don’t believe anybody in the world ever played the piano like Father. He used to play at concerts, and crowds of people came to hear him. He might have been rich, only all his friends were so poor he had to keep giving them money. Everybody loved him. My mother loved him so much that she gave up her beautiful home, and all the money her first husband had left her, just to marry him and take care of him. She wouldn’t let him give away all his money, but she died when I was only four, and after that there wasn’t any one to take care of Father but me.”

“And what relation are you to Mrs. Marsh?” inquired Dora, who had been in the family only a few weeks.

“I’m not any relation at all to her. Mr. Marsh was a cousin of my mother’s first husband, Mr. Douane, but I never knew her till after my father died. You see, when the doctor told Father he was going to die, he was dreadfully worried, because he didn’t know what was going to become of me. He asked Fritz Lipheim to telegraph to my half-brother in China. My brother was very kind. He telegraphed back that Father wasn’t to worry, and afterwards he arranged with Mrs. Marsh to have me live with her. I have to be very grateful, Mrs. Marsh says, because if he hadn’t been willing to support me, I would have had to go to an orphan asylum. The Lipheims would have taken care of me, only they are very poor, and sometimes they don’t have enough money to pay the rent, so when Mrs. Marsh came and said I was to live with her, they were very much relieved. That was the day after Father’s funeral, and I was so very unhappy I didn’t care where I went.”

“And was Mrs. Marsh good to you?” Dora inquired rather skeptically.

“Oh, yes; she and Ada were both very kind that day. Ada gave me chocolates, and Mrs. Marsh explained how good my brother was, and how fortunate it was that I didn’t have to go to an asylum.”

“I don’t think that was much,” remarked Dora. “A nice sort of man your brother would have been if he had let you be sent to an asylum. Is he very poor?”

“Oh, no, he isn’t poor at all. When Mother married Father all the money her first husband had left her went to her son. I heard Mrs. Marsh tell a lady all about it. Then after Mother died my brother went to live with his grandfather in Virginia, and when his grandfather died he left him all his money, too. He is a great deal older than I; he was fourteen when Mother married Father. He used to come to see us sometimes when I was little, and brought Father and me beautiful presents, but I don’t remember him very well, because he went to China when I was only six. But of course I’m very grateful to him.”

“Well, I can’t see anything to be so everlastingly grateful about,” objected Dora. “But say, don’t you want to play me a tune? I love to hear you play.”

Gretel sprang to her feet with sparkling eyes.

“Do you really want to hear me play?” she demanded, incredulously. “I didn’t suppose anybody cared about it. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten most of the things Father taught me, and Mrs. Marsh won’t let me touch the piano when she is at home. She says the noise makes her nervous.”

“It’s too bad,” said Dora, sympathetically; “you do play so lovely, and if you had lessons, why, my goodness, you might get to be a great musician like your papa. I don’t suppose Mrs. Marsh would let you take lessons. If she would I know an awful nice young man who’s a real high-class music teacher. He plays the piano at a moving-picture theater, and he’s been giving my sister Lillie lessons. I don’t believe he’d charge very high.”

Gretel’s face clouded for a moment, and she shook her head sadly.

“Mrs. Marsh won’t let me,” she said, with a sigh. “She says my brother only sends a very little money. That’s why I try to do things for Ada, to help pay my board.”

Dora gave vent to her feelings by an indignant sniff.

“I suppose that’s why you don’t go to school,” she said.

“Oh, no; my brother sends the money for my education, but Mrs. Marsh didn’t happen to know of any good school, so her sister Miss Talcott, who used to teach in a school, said she would give me lessons every afternoon. I used to go to her apartment every day till January, but then a friend invited her to go to California, so I don’t have any lessons now. Miss Talcott is very nice and I liked having lessons with her, but she has a great many engagements and quite often she had to be out all the afternoon. I didn’t mind much, because she used to let me stay and play on her piano, and I loved that.”

“Well, come along and give us a tune now,” said Dora, good-naturedly, and Gretel from whose face the momentary cloud had vanished, left her seat in the window, and hastened to open the piano.

It was true that Gretel had forgotten much of the music her father had taught her. It was more than a year since the musical education from which poor Hermann Schiller had hoped such great things, had come to a sudden standstill. But Gretel still played remarkably well for a child of her age, and as her fingers wandered lovingly over the keys of Mrs. Marsh’s rather cracked piano, a strange, rapt look came into her face, and for the moment everything else in the world was forgotten. Dora, secure in the knowledge that the family could not return for several hours, curled herself up comfortably on the parlor sofa. But Dora, though fond of music of a certain kind, was not quite up to Chopin and Mendelssohn, and as Gretel played on and on, a sensation of comfortable drowsiness began to steal over her, and ere long her eyes had closed, and she was fast asleep.

Serenely unconscious of this fact Gretel played on, now a bit of one half-forgotten melody, now another, and as she played she forgot her present surroundings—forgot that she was no longer the child pianist, to whom her father’s friends had listened with astonishment and pride—but only a poor little Cinderella left alone in her shabby black frock, while Mrs. Marsh and her daughter went to fairy-land. She seemed to see again the big, half-furnished studio, that had once been home, and Hermann Schiller and his German friends, smoking their pipes as they listened to her playing, always ready with a burst of applause when her father called out in his kind cheery voice, “Enough for to-night, Liebchen—time to give one of the others a turn.” It all seemed so real that for one moment she glanced up, half expecting to see the familiar scene, and the row of kindly, interested faces, but it was only Mrs. Marsh’s shabby little parlor, with Dora fast asleep on the sofa. Suddenly a great wave of homesickness swept over the little girl—the music stopped with a crash and dropping her face on the piano keys, Gretel began to cry.

At the sudden pause in the music Dora opened her eyes, and sat up with a start. The next moment she had sprung to her feet.

“Whatever are you crying about?” she demanded in astonishment. “I thought you liked to play.”

“I—I don’t know,” sobbed Gretel. “I think it must be the music. I love it so, and—and I never hear any now. I’m forgetting everything Father taught me, and he would be so unhappy if he knew.”

“There, there, I wouldn’t cry about it if I was you,” soothed Dora, laying a kind hand on one of the child’s heaving shoulders. “It’s too bad, and I’m real sorry for you, but maybe we can manage for you to hear some music if you’re so crazy about it. My sister Lillie has a lovely voice, and she’d be real glad to come and sing for you some time, I know. My little brother Peter plays the piano, too, though he’s never had a lesson in his life. Music just seems to come to him natural, and he makes up things as he goes along. Father’s going to try and get him into vaudeville.”

Gretel dried her eyes; she was beginning to be interested.

“I should love to hear him,” she said, “and your sister, too. Do you think Mrs. Marsh would let me?”

Dora looked a little doubtful.

“Well, I don’t know,” she admitted. “She’s got awful fussy notions about girls having company, even their own relations. But I’ll tell you what we might do. Mrs. Marsh and Miss Ada are both going out to dinner to-morrow night and I might get the kids to come round and play for you while they’re out. They’d be real proud to have the chance to show off.”

“It would be very pleasant indeed,” agreed Gretel, “only—only do you think we ought to have them if Mrs. Marsh objects?”

Dora reddened indignantly.

“If Mrs. Marsh wants to keep a decent girl, she’s got to let her have a little liberty,” she declared defiantly. “If anybody can show me where the harm is in my having my little sister and brother to spend the evening with me, I’d like to have them do it. Nobody’s going to do any harm, and a person’s got to have a little amusement once in a while. I’ve been in this house nearly six weeks, and not a living soul have I had to see me since I came.”

“I’m quite sure Father wouldn’t have minded,” said Gretel; “he always wanted people to be happy, but Mrs. Marsh isn’t the least like Father.”

“I should say she wasn’t. Why, what pleasure do you ever have yourself, you poor little thing? It’s nothing but run errands and wait on that lazy Miss Ada from morning till night. It makes me sick, that’s what it does. But you’re going to have a little fun this time, and don’t you forget it. I’m going right off this minute to send a postal to Lillie, to tell her and Peter to come round here and play and sing to you to-morrow evening.”

It was nearly midnight when Mrs. Marsh and her daughter reached home. Mrs. Marsh was tired and sleepy, and she was not speaking in her “company voice” as she let herself in with her latch key, and switched on the electric light.

“Really, Ada, I am surprised at you. You might at least have let Mr. Pendleton think you enjoyed it.”

“I was bored to death, and I suppose I couldn’t help showing it,” returned her daughter, with a yawn. “I never pretended to care for music, and I don’t see why he didn’t take us to the theater. There are half a dozen plays I’m dying to see. I hope that child hasn’t gone to bed, and forgotten my chocolate.”

“Really, Ada,” remonstrated her mother, “you ought not to keep Gretel up so late. It isn’t good for her, and I expressly told her to go to bed early.”

“Nonsense; it doesn’t hurt her a bit. Besides, she loves it. All children adore sitting up after they are supposed to be in bed.”

Before Mrs. Marsh could say any more, a door at the back of the apartment opened, and a little figure appeared, carrying a cup of hot chocolate on a tray. Gretel’s cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were shining; she did not look in the least sleepy.

“It’s all ready,” she announced cheerfully. “I heard the man calling the carriages, so I knew ‘Lohengrin’ was finished, and I went and made it right away. It’s nice and hot.”

Ada gave a satisfied nod.

“Take it to my room,” she said; “you can stay and brush my hair while I drink it.”

“She must do no such thing,” objected Mrs. Marsh, who was looking both worried and annoyed. “Gretel, didn’t you hear me tell you to go to bed early?”

Gretel glanced from Mrs. Marsh to her daughter, and her grave little face was troubled.

“I know you did,” she said, slowly, “but Ada told me to stay up and make the chocolate. I did go to sleep on the sofa after Dora went to bed, but I set the alarm-clock for half-past eleven, so as to be sure to wake in time. I’m sorry if it was wrong, Mrs. Marsh, but it’s very hard to know which I ought to mind, you or Ada.”

Gretel had no intention of being impertinent; she was merely stating a puzzling fact, which she frequently found very troublesome. But Mrs. Marsh reddened angrily.

“That is not the proper way for a little girl to speak,” she began, but her daughter cut her short.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t begin a lecture at this time of night, Mamma. We are all much too tired to argue. Come with me, Gretel.”

And Mrs. Marsh, who was a weak woman, and who was, moreover, considerably afraid of her tall, domineering daughter, made no further objections, but retired in silence to her own room.

“How did you enjoy yourself all the evening?” Ada inquired, good-naturedly, as she sipped her chocolate, while Gretel brushed out her long hair. “I hope you weren’t lonely.”

“Oh, no,” said Gretel, cheerfully; “I had a very pleasant time. First I watched the people going into fairy—I mean the opera, and then Dora came and talked to me, and I played on the piano. Mrs. Marsh doesn’t mind my playing when she’s out. I ought to be very grateful to Mrs. Marsh, oughtn’t I?”

Ada laughed.

“You funny little thing,” she said; “I never heard a child ask such questions. I suppose you ought to be grateful to Mamma, but what made you think of it?”

“I—I don’t quite know,” faltered Gretel, blushing. “I was only wondering about something Dora said. Oughtn’t it to give people pleasure to be grateful?”

“Of course it ought, but Dora had better mind her own business, and not put ideas into your head. You mustn’t spend your time gossiping with her, Gretel; she’s nothing but an ignorant servant. There, I’ve finished my chocolate, and I don’t believe my hair needs much brushing to-night. Run off to bed; it really is terribly late for you to be up.”

Gretel obeyed, but when she had bidden Ada good night, and was taking the empty cup back to the kitchen, she whispered softly to herself:

“I wonder what ‘gossip’ means? I hope I don’t do it if it’s something not nice, but I do like Dora very much, and I’m very glad I’m going to know Lillie and Peter too.”

CHAPTER II
MUSIC AND CREAM-PUFFS

GRETEL’S first sensation on waking the next morning was that something pleasant was going to happen. She could not remember for the first few moments just what it was to be, but then it all came back to her; her conversation with Dora; her crying fit over the piano, and Dora’s promise to bring her sister and brother to play and sing for her. She was conscious of a little thrill of anticipation as she sprang out of bed and began putting on her stockings. She had lived with Mrs. Marsh for more than a year, but this was the first time there had ever been a question of her having visitors of her very own. Mrs. Marsh and her daughter had plenty of visitors, of course, and some of them had been kind to the little girl, but that was quite a different thing from having people coming expressly to see her. In the old days at the studio they were always having visitors, and she had had almost more friends than she could count, but since her father’s death all the old friends had seemed to fade away too. They never came to Mrs. Marsh’s, not even kind Fritz Lipheim or his mother, with whom she had often stayed for weeks at a time while Hermann Schiller was away on a concert tour. Old Mrs. Lipheim had been very good to the child, and had taught her how to sew on her father’s buttons and mend his socks. She was sure the Lipheims would have liked to come to see her if they had not feared Mrs. Marsh would object, but Mrs. Marsh had been so very stiff and unsociable on the day when she had come to take her away from the studio, and had not even suggested that Gretel should see Mrs. Lipheim again, although the little girl had clung to her old friend, crying as if her heart would break. Gretel was very grateful to Mrs. Marsh, but there were times when she could not help thinking how much pleasanter it would have been if her brother had arranged to have her live with the Lipheims instead of with his cousins.

It was nearly eight o’clock, but Gretel’s room was still very dark. Indeed, it was never very light at any hour of the day, for its only window opened on an air-shaft. It was a very small room, and before Gretel came had always been occupied by the maid-of-all-work, but the apartment was not large, and Mrs. Marsh had declared it to be the only room she could possibly spare, so the servant had been relegated to the maid’s quarters at the top of the house. But small and dark as it was, Gretel loved her room. To begin with, it was the only place in the world that was all her own, and then it contained all her treasures. There was her father’s photograph in a gilt frame, that Fritz Lipheim had given her as a parting gift; and his old German Bible, out of which he used to read to her and show her pictures on Sunday afternoons. There was also her old rag doll, Jemima. She was too old to play with dolls, now, but it was still very comforting to cuddle Jemima in her arms at night, when she happened to be feeling particularly lonely, or when Mrs. Marsh or Ada had been unusually cross. Then there were her father’s letters tied together with a red ribbon. There were a good many of them, as there was one for every day that her father had ever been away from her. Some of the later ones were in German, for Hermann Schiller had taught his little daughter to read and write in his own language, and as he and his friends usually spoke in German when they were together, it was almost as familiar to Gretel as English. But nobody ever spoke in German at the Marsh’s, and she sometimes feared she might grow to forget her father’s language, as she was forgetting the music he had taught her so carefully. Lastly, there were her books, not many, and all decidedly the worse for wear, but dearly loved, notwithstanding. There were “Poems Every Child Should Know”—Dickens, “Child’s History of England”—a few old story-books, and—most cherished of all—Grimm’s and Andersen’s “Fairy Tales,” which she had read over and over so many times that she almost knew them by heart. There was not much space for books in the little room, so they lived on the floor under the bed, and Jemima slept in the bottom bureau drawer with Gretel’s night-gowns and petticoats. But notwithstanding its many drawbacks, that little room was the pleasantest place Gretel knew in those days, and it was there that all her happiest hours were passed.

Mrs. Marsh was alone at the breakfast table when Gretel entered the dining-room. She was reading the morning’s mail, and merely glanced up from a letter long enough to give the child an indifferent nod. But Gretel had been taught by her father that one should always wish people a good morning, so before taking her seat at the table, she remarked politely:

“Good morning, Mrs. Marsh; I hope you had a good night.”

Mrs. Marsh did not take the trouble to answer, but Gretel never omitted the little formula, “because,” as she told herself, “Father told me always to say it, so it must be right.” She slipped quietly into her place, and began on the plate of oatmeal and glass of milk, which always formed her morning meal.

She had not taken many spoonfuls, however, when Mrs. Marsh finished her letter, and began to pour her coffee. Dora, having placed the breakfast on the table, had gone away to attend to other household duties. Then Gretel, who was fond of talking, felt emboldened to make another attempt at conversation, unpromising as such an attempt might seem.

“It looks a little like rain, doesn’t it? Do you think it will rain, Mrs. Marsh?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” returned Mrs. Marsh absently. “I wonder what is keeping Ada? Just run and ask her how soon she will be ready, Gretel, before I pour her coffee.”

Gretel promptly departed, returning in a few moments with the announcement that Ada was only just awake, and would like her breakfast in bed.

“Then you had better take it right in to her before it gets cold,” Ada’s mother advised, and leaving her own breakfast to cool, Gretel proceeded to prepare a tempting little tray to be carried to Miss Marsh’s bedside.

But tempting as the meal looked, it did not satisfy the fastidious Ada. The toast was too hard, and the coffee had to be sent back for more cream. Couldn’t Gretel make her a few hot slices of toast, and boil a fresh egg, “not more than three minutes?” Of course Gretel could and did, and by the time Ada was comfortably settled with her tray, Mrs. Marsh had finished her breakfast, and Gretel’s oatmeal was quite cold. She was taking the plate to the kitchen, to warm it, when Mrs. Marsh encountered her, and asked rather sharply: “Where are you going now?”

“I’m going to warm my porridge,” Gretel explained.

Mrs. Marsh frowned.

“Nonsense,” she said sharply; “little girls shouldn’t be so fussy about their food. Sit down and eat your breakfast at once; you’ve dawdled over it quite long enough already.”

“I wasn’t dawdling,” began Gretel; “I was boiling an egg for Ada.” But Mrs. Marsh was already half out of the room, and did not hear, so, with a sigh of resignation, Gretel sat down to her cold breakfast.

Mrs. Marsh went out to a meeting that morning, but Ada said she had taken cold the night before, and declared her intention of staying in bed till luncheon time.

“If I got up I know I should be worse,” she told Gretel, “and then I might have to stay at home this evening.”

“You’d better be very careful,” said Gretel in a tone of sudden apprehension. “You wouldn’t like to have to stay at home this evening, would you?”

“I should hate it,” Ada declared emphatically. “The Scotts always give such delicious dinners, and Ethel Scott has promised to put me next a most delightful man.”

Gretel was conscious of a sensation of relief.

“Would you like some hot lemonade?” she inquired eagerly. “Mrs. Lipheim once gave me some hot lemonade when I had a cold, and it was very nice.”

Ada said she did not care for lemonade, but added that if Gretel really wanted to make herself useful, she might sew some buttons on her boots.

So, in spite of the fact that there were no lessons to prepare, Gretel spent a busy morning, for after the buttons were sewed on, Ada suggested that the child might arrange her bureau drawers, which were “in an awful jumble,” and that task took so long, that by the time it was finished Mrs. Marsh had returned from her meeting and it was nearly one o’clock.

It had begun to rain soon after breakfast, and by noon had settled into a steady downpour. Mrs. Marsh came in wet and cross, and bewailing the fact that she would be obliged to go out again in the afternoon.

“I shouldn’t think of going under ordinary circumstances,” she declared, “but I really feel it is my duty to go to Mrs. Williams’ tea. I dare say ever so many people will stay away in this storm, but that isn’t my way of doing things. People always appreciate the friends who take the trouble to come to their teas in bad weather.”

Gretel was a little afraid lest the storm should prevent Lillie and Peter from coming that evening, but Dora reassured her on that subject.

“They’ll come if it rains cats and dogs,” she maintained. “They wouldn’t miss the chance of playing and singing for the world. And you won’t wonder when you hear Lillie,” she added, with sisterly pride. “I declare, when she sings ‘Break the News to Mother,’ or ‘Just Before the Battle,’ it just brings the tears into my eyes.”

“I don’t think I ever heard either of those songs,” said Gretel. “Are they very beautiful?” To which Dora’s only reply was a confident, “Just wait till you hear them.”

Gretel was in her room reading “Snow-White and the Seven Dwarfs” for about the fiftieth time, when Ada’s voice once more summoned her hand-maiden to her side. She had risen in time for luncheon, and was now lying on the parlor sofa reading a novel, and she greeted Gretel with the smile that always meant she intended asking a particular favor.

“Gretel dear,” she began sweetly, “would you like to do something just awfully nice for me?”

Gretel looked pleased. When Ada spoke in that tone she almost loved her.

“I’ll do anything you want me to,” she said, promptly.

Ada glanced rather uneasily out of the window, at the fast falling rain.

“Well,” she said, “you see, I’ve finished my book, and I haven’t an earthly thing to do this whole afternoon. If it were not for my cold I would just run round to the library for another book, but with this sore throat I really don’t quite dare. So I was wondering if you would mind going for me. It’s only four blocks, you know, and it wouldn’t take you any time.”

“I haven’t any waterproof, but I don’t believe the rain will hurt my dress,” said Gretel, with a dubious glance at the old black skirt, which certainly did not look as though rain or anything else could do it much injury.

Ada smiled sweetly.

“You are a dear obliging little girl,” she said. “You can wear my waterproof, and if you bring me back a nice interesting book I’ll—I’ll give you a present.”

“How perfectly lovely!” cried Gretel, her eyes sparkling. “I’ll be right back.” And she darted away to look for her rubbers and umbrella.

When she returned some three minutes later, she found Ada hastily scribbling the titles of some books on a piece of paper.

“Just ask for one of these,” she directed, handing the paper to Gretel. “Any one they happen to have in will do. Now run along like a good child, and hurry back as fast as you can.”

Gretel gave a cheerful nod, slipped the paper in her pocket, and departed, quite forgetting the fact that Miss Marsh had not repeated her offer of lending her a raincoat. In less than twenty minutes she was back again, dripping but triumphant.

“The very first book I asked for was in,” she announced. “Wasn’t it lucky? I’m afraid the cover is rather wet, it’s raining so very hard, but I kept it as dry as I could.”

Ada looked very much pleased.

“You really ought to have taken my raincoat,” she remarked, regretfully; “you look like a drowned rat. Go and dry yourself by the kitchen fire, and you needn’t mention to Mamma that you have been out.”

Ada had already opened her novel, but Gretel still lingered.

“Is it a nice interesting book?” she inquired rather timidly.

Ada laughed good-naturedly.

“You sharp little thing,” she said; “you are not going to let me out of my bargain, are you? I’ve got your present right here; guess what it is?”

“I can’t guess,” said Gretel, her eyes beginning to sparkle once more. “I haven’t had a present since Father died, except the dress you and Mrs. Marsh gave me for Christmas. Is it something to wear?”

“No, it isn’t,” laughed Ada; “it’s something to spend.” And she held out to the astonished Gretel a bright ten-cent piece.

If Gretel was disappointed she managed to conceal the fact quite satisfactorily, and having thanked Miss Marsh for her unusual generosity, she sped away to the kitchen, where she burst in upon Dora, who was peeling potatoes for dinner.

“Dora,” began the little girl eagerly, “I’ve got something very important to consult you about.”

“Well, you’d better get that wet skirt off before you do anything else,” objected Dora. “How that fat, lazy thing could send you out in this storm without a waterproof beats me.”

“Oh, she was very kind,” protested Gretel. “She thanked me so nicely, and she gave me ten cents for a present. That’s what I want to consult you about. You see whenever Father had company he always gave them something to eat. Sometimes he couldn’t afford to have much, but he said if it was only a cup of coffee it was better than nothing, for it showed you wanted to be hospitable. I can’t buy much with only ten cents, but I should like to have some little thing to offer Lillie and Peter this evening, and I thought perhaps you could tell me something they would like that wouldn’t cost more than that.”

“Well, now, that’s real kind of you, I’m sure,” declared Dora. “Not that the kids would expect anything. They’re both crazy for ice-cream, but you couldn’t get enough for two for ten cents. I’ll tell you what you might get, though. Lillie just adores cream-puffs and she doesn’t get them often, they’re so expensive; five cents apiece. You could just get one for each of them for ten cents.”

Gretel looked much relieved.

“That will be just the thing,” she said; “I hope Peter likes cream-puffs too.”

Dora said she was sure he did, and with a promise to “hurry right back,” Gretel once more fared forth into the storm; this time to call at the baker’s shop on the next corner.

Gretel’s heart was beating high with anticipation as she assisted Ada with her toilet that evening. Her only cause for anxiety had been removed now that two fat cream-puffs had been deposited in Dora’s charge, and she was all eagerness to welcome the expected guests. Mrs. Marsh and her daughter did not leave for their dinner party until nearly eight, but Gretel had had an early tea in the kitchen.

“I hope you got thoroughly dry after your wetting this afternoon,” Ada remarked, with belated anxiety, as she drew on her gloves.

“Oh, yes,” said Gretel, cheerfully; “Dora made me sit by the kitchen fire till my skirt was quite dry. There was a hole in one of my rubbers, and a good deal of water got inside, but it didn’t do me any harm.”

“I’m sorry,” murmured Ada, absently. “I think I have an extra pair I can lend you the next time you go out in the rain. I suppose you will amuse yourself drumming on the piano this evening as usual.”

Gretel smiled, but did not answer, and just then Dora announced that the cab Mrs. Marsh had ordered was at the door, and the two ladies hurried away to their dinner party.

“Remember, Gretel, you are not to sit up late again to-night,” were Mrs. Marsh’s parting words. “Little girls must go early to bed if they want to grow up well and strong.” She glanced rather anxiously at Gretel’s pale thin little face as she spoke. It had begun to dawn upon her of late that the child was not looking particularly strong.

Gretel promised that she would not sit up late, adding innocently that she did not suppose Ada would need any chocolate, as she was going to a dinner party, at which remark Mrs. Marsh frowned and looked annoyed.

As soon as the closing of the elevator door assured Gretel that Mrs. Marsh and her daughter were really gone, she flew off to the kitchen.

“Have they come?” she demanded breathlessly. “Ada took so long dressing I was dreadfully afraid they might get here before she was ready.”

“No, they haven’t come yet,” said Dora, glancing up from the Evening World which she had borrowed from the elevator-boy, “but they’ll be here soon now. I told them not to come before eight.”

“You are sure they got your postal, aren’t you?” inquired Gretel, anxiously.

“Oh, they got that all right,” responded Dora, with so much conviction that Gretel felt very much relieved.

“I think,” she said, gravely, “that the best way will be to have the music first and the refreshments afterwards. That’s the way Father always did. He said people never liked to play or sing right after eating.”

“Oh, you needn’t bother about that,” said Dora. “Lillie’d sing just as good on a full stomach as on an empty one. She’s an awful eater, anyway, and so’s Peter. I never saw two kids that can stuff the way those two can. But, look here, hadn’t you better keep one of those cream-puffs for yourself? You didn’t have very much in the way of supper.”

Gretel shook her head resolutely.

“I wouldn’t eat one for the world,” she protested. “Mrs. Marsh says it isn’t good for people to eat too much, and Father and I were often rather hungry the day after he had had company to supper. We never minded, though, and Father said he would so much rather be hungry than not be hospitable. Oh, there’s the bell! It must be Lillie and Peter.”

It was Lillie and Peter. Dora went to open the door, and when she returned she was accompanied by two guests; a girl of thirteen, in a green plaid dress, and wearing two long pigtails hanging down her back, and a boy of eleven, with very red hair, and so many freckles, that Gretel regarded him with a kind of fascinated horror. She was sure he was the very plainest boy she had ever seen in her life.

“Here they are,” announced Dora, proudly, as she ushered in the visitors; “this is my sister Miss Lillie Grubb, and this is my brother Peter Grubb. Miss Gretel Schiller.”

Both the visitors looked rather embarrassed, and Peter’s freckled face grew very red indeed, but Gretel, with native politeness, came forward and held out her hand.

“I’m so glad you could both come,” she said in her sweet, cordial little voice; “it was very good of you. You can’t think how anxious I am to hear you play and sing. I haven’t heard any music in such a long time.”

“I’m sure we were very pleased to accept your invitation,” returned Lillie, in her most grown-up manner, and she shook Gretel’s hand very much as though it had been a pump-handle. Peter said nothing, but stuck both hands into his pockets, and grew redder than ever.

“Dora says you sing beautifully,” Gretel went on, “and your brother plays. My father was a great pianist; perhaps you have heard of him; his name was Hermann Schiller.”

“N—no, I don’t think so,” Lillie admitted, reluctantly. “I’ve heard of Dan W. Quinn and George J. Gaskin, but they were both singers. Did your father play for the phonograph company?”

“Oh, no, Father didn’t care much for phonographs; he played in concerts and wrote beautiful music. Perhaps your brother plays some of his things.”

Lillie looked very much surprised.

“I thought everybody loved phonographs,” she said; “we have one that Father bought second-hand, and we keep it going all the time we’re in the house. We’ve got some dandy records. Peter makes up most of his own pieces; you see, he’s never had a lesson in his life. Where’s your piano?”

“In the parlor,” said Gretel. “Take off your things, and we’ll go right in. I’m so anxious to have the music begin.”

She turned to Peter with a friendly smile, but that young man was absorbed in removing his rubbers, and did not respond. Lillie, however, appeared to be quite equal to the occasion, for she remarked politely:

“You must play for us, too; Dora says you play the piano something grand.”

“Oh, no, I don’t,” protested Gretel, blushing. “I used to play much better than I do now; I’m afraid I’ve forgotten a great deal. I shall be glad to play for you, though, if you would really like to have me.” And then, as the visitors had finished removing their out-door garments, she led the way to the parlor.

The first object to attract Peter’s attention was the candy box on the parlor table, and he opened his lips for the first time, and remarked in a rather high-pitched voice:

“Gee! you’ve got something good in that box, I bet.”

Gretel was very much embarrassed.

“I’m afraid we can’t have any of it,” she explained. “I’m very sorry, but you see, it doesn’t belong to me. A gentleman sent it to Miss Marsh, and I don’t believe she would like to have us touch it. We’re going to have some—some refreshments by and by.”

Peter—who had already lifted the lid from the candy box—looked rather crestfallen, but Lillie again came to the front.

“Never mind him,” she remarked, airily; “Peter’s an awful greedy boy.”

“Shut up,” retorted her brother. “I ain’t one bit greedier than you are.”

Lillie flushed indignantly, but before she could reply, Dora—who had lingered behind to hang the children’s wet raincoats up to dry—appeared upon the scene, and hastened to interpose.

“Now stop fighting this minute, the two of you,” she commanded. “You didn’t come here to fight. Sit right down at that piano, Lillie, and show Miss Gretel how you can sing.”

Thus admonished, Lillie took her place on the piano stool, and the other three seated themselves in a solemn row on the sofa.

“What shall I begin with?” inquired Lillie. “I know such a lot of songs; I never have any idea what to sing first.”

“Sing ‘Poppa, Tell Me Where is Momma,’” suggested Dora. “That’s a beautiful song, and so touching; I know Miss Gretel will love it.”

Peter muttered something about “that stuff being no good,” but nobody paid any attention to him, and after striking a few preliminary chords Lillie began to sing:

“‘Poppa, tell me where is Momma?’

Said a little child one day;

‘Tell me why I cannot see her—

Tell me why she went away.’”

Gretel gave one little horrified gasp, and clasped her hands tightly. For the first moment she was so disappointed that she could scarcely keep back her rising tears. Was this the music to which she had been looking forward so eagerly all day? By a great effort she controlled the sudden desire to put her fingers in her ears, to shut out those dreadful, unharmonious sounds, but politeness soon overcame other feelings, and by the time Lillie had finished her song and turned from the piano for the expected applause, she was able to give a faint smile, and murmur something about “it’s being very pretty.”

“Now sing ‘Hello, Central. Give Me Heaven!’” commanded Dora, who was looking both proud and triumphant, and without a second’s hesitation, Lillie plunged into another sentimental ballad, if possible even more mournful than “Poppa, Tell Me Where is Momma!”

The hour that followed was one of the most uncomfortable Gretel had ever spent. It seemed as if Lillie’s stock of songs was endless. The moment one came to an end her proud sister requested another, and the more she sang the more she appeared to be enjoying herself. Peter looked very much bored, but dared not express his feelings in Dora’s presence, and was forced to content himself with chewing a large piece of gum, which he had produced from his pocket and occasionally giving vent to his emotions by kicking the legs of the sofa viciously. Gretel was just beginning to wonder whether Lillie intended to go on for the rest of the evening, when a diversion was caused by a ring at the door-bell, which caused a momentary excitement.

“I’ll go and see who it is,” said Dora. “Just keep still till I come back, Lillie. If it’s callers they mustn’t hear anything. They might tell Mrs. Marsh.”

Dora hurried away, and profound silence reigned in the parlor during her absence. Peter stuck his tongue out at Lillie, by way of giving vent to his long pent-up rage, but she was so much absorbed in trying to recall the third verse of “Just as the Sun Went Down,” to notice him. In a few moments Dora returned.

“It’s all right,” she announced cheerfully; “it was only a girl I know, who lives down on the second floor. She wants me to go to her room for a minute to fit a waist on her. I won’t be long, and mind you behave yourselves while I’m gone.”

“Of course we’ll behave,” protested Lillie, indignantly; “what do you think we are, anyway?”

“Oh, you’re all right, I guess, but I’m not so sure about Peter. You’ll be a good boy, won’t you, Peter?”

“Yep,” promised Peter, and Dora departed, after repeating the assurance that she would not be long.

No sooner had the outer door of the apartment closed behind Dora than her younger brother was on his feet. A look of daring and defiance had suddenly replaced the rather vacant expression of his countenance. In two rapid strides he reached the piano, and seized his sister firmly, but not gently, by one of her long braids.

“Come off of there,” he commanded in a tone of authority. “Quit your squalling, and give somebody else a chance to show off.”

“Leave me alone, Peter,” urged Lillie, coaxingly; “I haven’t finished yet. I’ve just remembered the third verse.”

“No, you don’t,” returned Peter, with decision. “You’ve sung seventeen songs already; now it’s my turn.”

“Oh, do let Peter play for us,” put in Gretel, eagerly. “Dora says he plays so well, and I do love the piano so much.”

Lillie looked as if she would have liked to refuse, but she had been warned by her mother to “remember her manners,” and, moreover the grip on her braid assured her that Peter meant business, so, with a sigh of resignation, she vacated her seat on the piano stool, remarking as she did so:

“Oh, all right, of course, if you want to hear him, but he really can’t play worth a cent.”

“Can’t I, though?” shouted Peter defiantly. “Who says I can’t? Ain’t Father trying to get me into vaudeville to do my stunts? Just listen, and I’ll show you the noise it makes when a drunken man falls down-stairs.”

Gretel’s eyes were round with astonishment, but Lillie only shrugged her shoulders indifferently, and walking over to the other side of the room, proceeded to make herself acquainted with the contents of Mrs. Marsh’s workbasket. Peter seated himself on the piano stool, struck a few thundering chords and began what was considered by his family and friends his “very best stunt.”

What followed was so awful that Gretel could never think of it afterwards without a shudder. She bore it in silence for fully five minutes, while Peter endeavored to represent the different sounds supposed to be made by the unfortunate drunken man in his efforts to escape from a saloon, until the final catastrophe, when, having reached the top of a flight of stairs, he, in Peter’s own words, “took a header,” and plunged headlong from top to bottom. This Peter represented by a rapidly running scale from one end of the piano to the other, ending with a terrific crash, which brought Gretel to her feet with a cry of horror.

“Stop, oh, please, please stop,” she implored, seizing Peter’s uplifted arm just as it was about to descend upon the keys with another deafening crash; “it’s—it’s so dreadful!”

Peter’s arm dropped to his side, and he regarded his little hostess in amazement.

“You—you don’t like it?” he stammered incredulously.

“No, oh, no,” gasped Gretel. “Please don’t do it again; I’m afraid you’ll break the piano.”

Peter was offended. Never before had his “very best stunt” been received in such a manner.

“I won’t play any more,” he said, sulkily. “I don’t know what you want, anyway.”

“I told her she wouldn’t like it,” scoffed Lillie. “She likes real music, the same as I do. You’d better let me finish ‘Just as the Sun Went Down.’”

But Peter had no intention of yielding the point so easily.

“You’ve sung enough,” he maintained doggedly. “It’s her turn to play now; let’s see what she can do.”

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t care about my music,” said Gretel, blushing. “Don’t you think perhaps it would be a good idea to have the refreshments now?”

“All right,” said Peter, his face brightening.

Lillie said nothing, but cast more than one regretful glance in the direction of the piano as Gretel led the way to the dining-room.

“Now, will you please sit here while I get things ready?” said Gretel, drawing up two chairs to the dining table. She was feeling decidedly relieved at having gotten her visitors safely away from the piano.

“What have you got?” demanded Peter, the last vestige of whose shyness had melted away the moment his sister Dora left the room.

“Something very nice,” said Gretel, smiling; “at least I hope you’ll think them nice. Dora said Lillie was very fond of them.”

Both visitors looked interested. Lillie seated herself at the table, and folded her hands primly in her lap. But Peter was not so easily satisfied.

“Let’s go and see what it is,” he proposed to his sister, as Gretel left the room.

“Of course not,” said Lillie, indignantly. “Ain’t we company? Company never goes into the kitchen in places like this.”

“Bosh!” retorted Peter. “She ain’t nothing but a kid, like us. I’m going, anyway.”

And, deaf to his sister’s expostulations, he followed Gretel into the kitchen.

Having secured the precious cream-puffs from the ice chest, and placed them on a plate covered with a napkin, Gretel was in the act of procuring another plate and a couple of forks, when, startled by a slight sound behind her, she turned to find Peter once more at her elbow.

“I say!” exclaimed that youth in a tone of rapture, “it’s cream-puffs, the best ever; but ain’t there more than two?”

“No,” said Gretel, regretfully, “I—I couldn’t manage to get but two, but I thought it would be all right. They’re quite large, and you can each have one. I don’t care about any myself.”

Peter regarded the two fat cream-puffs with longing eyes.

“That pig, Lill, would grab ’em both if she got her hands on ’em,” he remarked reflectively. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do; we’ll eat ’em up here, and she won’t know. She’s got such grand manners she won’t come into the kitchen.”

“Oh, no, that wouldn’t be at all nice,” protested Gretel, half laughing in spite of her horror at Peter’s suggestion. “You can each have one; I truly don’t want any myself.”

But the demon of mischief had entered into Peter Grubb. Before Gretel had the least idea of his intention, he had sprung forward, snatched both cream-puffs from the plate, and was brandishing one in each hand.

“Catch me if you can,” he shouted, and the next moment he had darted out of the kitchen, and was running at full speed down the long entry.

Attracted by the sound of triumph in her brother’s voice, Lillie forgot manners and everything else, sprang from her seat, and rushed out into the hall.

“What’s he up to?” she demanded breathlessly.

“He’s taken the cream-puffs and run off with them,” explained Gretel, almost in tears at such an exhibition of rudeness as she had never before known. She was still carrying the empty plate, in the vain hope of reclaiming “the refreshments.”

“Cream-puffs!” shrieked Lillie; “my fa-vo-rites!” And she rushed off in pursuit of Peter, who had taken refuge in Mrs. Marsh’s bedroom, and was already cramming a cream-puff into his mouth, with lightning speed.

Then followed a scene the like of which had never before taken place in Mrs. Marsh’s well-ordered apartment. In the scrimmage rugs were rolled up, chairs overturned, and portières and curtains roughly torn aside. Lillie’s temper was up, and she fought for her rights like a true little street Arab she was. She was two years older than her brother, and considerably stronger, but Peter was as agile as a monkey, and moreover, he had the advantage of having been the first to secure the prey. In the first moment of the fight Gretel had made a futile effort to separate the combatants, but it was quite useless and she could do nothing but stand idly by, wringing her hands in helpless despair.

“You’ll hurt each other; oh, you will, I’m sure!” she wailed, as Lillie, having at last captured her brother, fell upon him, and began pommeling him furiously, while children and cream-puffs rolled over and over on the floor in a confused heap.

“Catch me if you can!”—Page [59].

There was so much noise that nobody heard the opening of the outer door, and it was only when Dora, with a howl of rage, swept down upon the combatants, that her younger sister and brother were even aware of her presence.

“You two little limbs of Satan!” cried the irate elder sister; “is this the way you behave when I leave you alone for ten minutes? Get up off that floor this instant. Mercy sakes alive, what a mess! How in the world am I ever to get it cleaned up before Mrs. Marsh comes home?”

How indeed? For even as Dora spoke a key was being turned in the front door, and in another moment it had opened and closed again. Gretel, being nearest the door, was the first to note the danger, and with a desperate effort to save the situation, she sprang forward to meet Mrs. Marsh and her daughter.

“We—we didn’t expect you home so early,” she faltered. “I hope you won’t mind very much, but—”

“I had a bad headache and excused myself as soon as we left the dinner-table,” interrupted Mrs. Marsh. “How is it that you are not in bed? I thought I told you to go to bed early.”

“I’m very sorry,” began Gretel, but got no further, for at that moment Mrs. Marsh caught sight of something else—something so astounding as to drive every other thought from her mind.

“What does this mean? Who are these people?” she demanded in a voice of such awful sternness that even Peter quailed. He and Lillie had scrambled to their feet, their faces and garments thickly plastered with the contents of the luckless cream-puffs.

“Oh, Mrs. Marsh, please don’t be angry,” pleaded the trembling Gretel. “They’re only Lillie and Peter, Dora’s sister and brother, and they came to play and sing for me. I bought some cream-puffs for refreshments, and—”

“That’s enough. I have heard all that is necessary. Dora, send those children home at once, and then come back here and clear up this disgusting mess. You know my rules about visitors, but I will say no more to you until the morning. Go to your room at once, Gretel, and don’t let me hear another word from you to-night.”

“But, Mrs. Marsh, please don’t blame Dora; it was all my fault. She only asked them to come for my sake, because I said I was so fond of music.” Gretel clasped her hands imploringly, and the tears were streaming down her cheeks, but Mrs. Marsh was obdurate.

“Not another word,” she commanded, waving her hand majestically in the direction of Gretel’s room. “My head is aching frightfully, and I must go to bed at once, but in the morning I shall have more to say on this subject. As for Dora, she knows my rules, and what she has to expect. I believe her month will be up the end of this week.”

CHAPTER III
A TICKET TO FAIRY-LAND

“I  WANT to have a little talk with you, Gretel.”

Gretel looked up with a start from the pile of stockings she was darning. Mrs. Marsh, solemn and majestic as usual, was blocking the doorway of her little room, and there was an ominous sound in her voice which caused Gretel’s heart to beat uncomfortably fast.

“Won’t you come in?” she said, timidly, rising to offer her visitor the only chair the room contained, but Mrs. Marsh waved her back impatiently.

“Go on with your work,” she commanded. “I don’t care to sit down; I can say all I have to say in a few words. I am very sorry to be obliged to find fault with you, Gretel, but I feel that I must speak to you about your behavior of the past two weeks. Ada has spoken of it several times, but I have postponed mentioning it to you, hoping things might improve. You have not been at all like yourself since the night those disgusting children were here.”