Janey and the Social Revolution

OTHER, it is the funniest thing: I can't seem to believe that I'm going to see Elsa. Here I've been waiting all this week for Friday to come, and now's it's come, it doesn't seem as if it was really here. And, mother, sometimes I can't recolleck just how Elsa looks—I mean I can't presackly recolleck. Sometimes I can her face so plain and then again I can't remember her at all.”

The small young person who emitted these remarks bounced up and down on the velvet seat of the car to emphasize them. She was a very small person, indeed, and very young. She sat beside a tall, slender woman, black-clad and rather elegant, who was her mother. In her lap the small young person clutched a shabby, cheap “Alice in Wonderland” which bulged with enclosures of alien matter, a splendid new Lamb's “Tales from Shakespeare” which also bulged, and a pamphlet, much soiled and dog-eared, entitled “A Thousand Riddles.” On the turned-over seat in front of her rested a small, well-ventilated wooden box, in which a Maltese cat, unmistakably given over to meditations, both morose and melancholy, alternately napped and mewed.

“You've dropped Lamb,” the young person's mother said, suddenly. “Janey, if you ever do such a thing again as to hide three books away while I'm packing, I'll leave them in Boston. It's perfectly ridiculous, their not being safe in the trunk. Who ever heard of a trunk being lost?”

“But, mother, I had another reason. I wanted to have them ready to read to Elsa, because I have some bee-yu-tiful games to play out of them. And if I'd lost the riddle-book—oh, mother, will you please let me ask you some riddles now? You needn't guess them. Only pretend. I could ask the whole thousand between here and Scarsett.”

“Certainly not, Janey. If there's anything I hate it's guessing riddles. How Jim ever came to send you such an absurd book I can't see. Now you've dropped 'Alice in Wonderland.'”

“Well, mother, you'll have to admit they're both partickly slippery books,” her daughter explained, patiently, rescuing her treasures.

The small young person's name was Jane Elizabeth Blair, and, as has been indicated, she was nicknamed Janey. It must be admitted here at the beginning that she was not pretty.

The least and the most that can be said of her is that she was just little girl. Indeed, she might have posed for a picture of girldom, but little girl so deliciously normal, so piquantly average, so strikingly usual that ended by being sui generis. Looking at her for the first time, your mind immediately whisked back to some period of childhood. You saw another little girl, the counterpart of Janey. You saw her in pantalets and ankle ties; you saw her in silk jersey, kilt skirt and stocking cap; you saw her in ruffled nainsook “tires;” you saw her in a navy-blue sailor suit trimmed with flat white braid; you saw her in rompers or a middy blouse—it all depended on how far back or how near back your memory went.

Her figure was straight and slim. Her hair was straight and tow. In the midst of her little round face there bunched, higgledy-piggledy, a pair of blue eyes, quicksilver in their glances, yet full of a shy friendliness, an ardent curiosity, a nose which made havoc of her profile, a mouth so sensitive to the pull of her emotions that it would be hard to say what its prevailing expression was—all plentifully sprinkled or surrounded with freckles. Every bounce of her body proclaimed her the happiest little girl in the commonwealth of Massachusetts.

And, indeed, Janey was happy, for she was going to Scarsett. In the winter, Janey lived in Boston in a boarding-house. In the winter, Janey went to a sober city school. In the winter, Janey spent her out-of-doors hours walking primly with her mother or playing with the succession of queer little girls who surged transiently through their shiftless, faded neighborhood. All this began late in October, when Janey came back from Scarsett. All this ended early in the spring, when Janey returned to Scarsett.

For Scarsett had every attraction that was possible to offer a small female being. In the first place, there was Uncle Jim, who spent all his summers in Scarsett writing novels, and all his winters—this was his own phrase—“gold-bricking editors and publishers” in New York. In the second place, there was a glorious month and a half in the spring and a glorious month and a half in the fall in which Janey attended the Scarsett school. And then there was always Elsa. And as for Elsa—but perhaps I have said enough. Let Janey speak. She will always speak if encouraged. It is her mother who is chorus,

“Mother, do you suppose that Elsa will be down at Scarsett? Do you suppose she has grown very much? Do you think she'll think I've grown? You did have to let down one tuck, didn't you, mother? Maybe Elsa hasn't grown so much this year as she did last year. You see, if she hasn't grown so much and I've grown a lot, we'll be much nearer together. I wonder how God can keep it in His mind to stop everybody growing when the right time comes. Wouldn't it be funny if He forgot once and the person kept on growing until his head hit the sky? I do wish Henry James would stop mewing, don't you, mother? And Saturday, if Elsa has to take her music-lesson, you'll let Hazel Snow come over to spend the day with me, won't you, mother? And the next Saturday, if Elsa's busy, you'll let me go to Hazel's house? And I'll see the barn again, and the cows and the pigs. I love Hazel. Next to Elsa I love her better than any little girl I know. I do hope I'll have Miss Myrick in school. I perfickly love Miss Myrick. I'm going to make the prettiest May basket for Elsa this year. You'll help me, won't you, mother? Oh, do you really think Elsa's down yet, mother?”

Chorus answers “Yes” ten times without removing her eyes from her book.

In an absent, detached manner she continues: “Don't bounce so, Janey.”

“Just think, mother, there'll be a long, long time before anybody else comes to Scarsett and Elsa will play with me every day. Oh, I'm so happy!”

Mrs. Blair put down her book. “Oh, Janey, that reminds me. Cousin Marcia's going to spend the summer with us. She has sent the children to New Hampshire, all except little Caroline. She'll bring her to Scarsett. So you see, you won't be very lonely, for when Elsa's taking her music lessons, you'll always have Caroline.”

“Oh, that will be lovely!” Janey said. She bounced. “Caroline's a partickly cunning little girl, isn't she, mother?” Janey smiled with condescending approval of the tiny creature, lint-locked, roly-poly, whispering, who always trotted adoringly at her heels. Then a shadow dimmed this brightness. “I hope Elsa'll like her. Elsa most genally hates children. And if she hates Caroline, I hope Caroline won't butt in.”

“Don't say 'butt in,' Janey.”

“I don't see how Elsa can help liking Caroline. Caroline's such a darling. But if she should dislike her, you must not neglect your little cousin. Remember that Caroline is your guest. If you give up anybody, it must be Elsa. Don't bounce so, Janey! But I don't see why—”

Janey's hand went to her mother's wrist and clutched it tight. Thus, always, she palliated interruption. “May I say one thing, mother?” I could never give up Elsa. I just perfickly love and adore Elsa.” Janey's tone was final. “Mother, do you suppose I shall eyer have golden curls like Elsa?”

“No, Janey,” Mrs. Blair said firmly, returning to her book, “your hair will never be golden or curly. Don't ask me that question again, because I shall always have to say the same thing to you.”

“Then, mother,” Janey said, adapting herself with characteristic flexibility and fortitude, “will I ever have jet-black curls like Hazel?”

“No,” Mrs. Blair said impatiently, “your hair will always be the same color it is now, and nothing would ever make it curl. Don't bounce so!”

“Then, mother, the moment I grow up, I shall buy a bottle of that stuff Mrs. Jenkins had at the boarding-house—I remember the name perfickly—'Bleachine.' And I shall take care to put it on better than Mrs. Jenkins did, so that my hair won't all be brown at the roots. I watched her do it one day and I know just how.”

“Janey Blair, what are you talking about? When were you in that Jenkins woman's room? Don't, for goodness' sake, say anything about 'Bleachine' in Scarsett—and I a blonde. Janey, if you bounce again—”

“Mother, I shall not move for five minutes.” And move Janey did not. It helped her to remain quiet that she was thinking hard. Her mind had recurred to the problem, Elsa versus Caroline. The slight gloom still lay on her spirit. She was too young to formulate what she was thinking even if she had been conscious of it. But vaguely, she anticipated social trouble. Janey adored Elsa Morgan with her whole, huge, unselfish capacity for hero-worship. Elsa was three years older and at least five years taller than Janey. Janey would have been content to play with nobody but Elsa all summer long. But there were other girls in the group, all older and all much, bigger than Janey. There was Colette Kingdon, Cordy West, Lucy Locke, Hannah Merrill, Betsy Clark, and Pink Hollis who were permanent, summer citizens of Scarsett. And every season sent them half a dozen infantile novelties among the people who came to the Scarsett Arms. But Janey was the only little girl who was permitted to mingle with the elect of twelve-and-over. Janey was proud of this social distinction; prouder still that it was the games of her versatile invention that these bigger girls played from morning till night. Janey knew that they would never permit Caroline to tag their fun. If Caroline's presence even threatened her position— Then Janey suddenly recalled the game, the chef-d'œuvre of her whole winter's thought. She thrilled with pride. Nobody could afford to ignore the inventor of that! But, oh, if she could only grow three years in one! If, at least, her little slim body would only lengthen!

“Mother, do you think I'm going to be a dwarft?” she asked suddenly. In her panic, she exploded in a series of bounces.

“A dwarf! What a question! I never did see such a child. Janey, will you stop bounc—” She never finished.

“Oh, mother. Here we are! Here we are! There's the Partridges' lilac hedge. Please, help me on with my coat. I'll carry Henry James, We're most there, kitty. Oh, do hurry, mother! Suppose the train would go on because we weren't ready.”

“Janey, be quiet! Stop jumping up and down! Stop it, I say! I would rather travel with a grasshopper. Yes, you may take kitty. Oh, if I could only put you on a leash, Janey, or send you down by express! There, now you've dropped Lamb again. What in the world is all that stuff? Paper dolls! Why did you bring all those paper dolls? There must be a hundred. For Elsa? And Elsa with everything in the world that a child could want. Well, pick them up. Pick them up, I say! But don't ever—”

After the interminable wait which precedes all railroad stops at Scarsett, the train glided into the station. Mrs. Blair transferred Janey, Henry James and much hand-luggage to the stage. In a few moments they were rattling down the road.

Chorus speaks.

“Yes, I think it has been painted. No, I don't think they're here yet. Yes, the house looks as if it were closed. No, I don't know what kind of flowers they are. Yes, it is a queer-looking tree. No, I don't know why it does it. The tide goes out because—because it does. I don't know exactly why—something to do with the moon, I think. No, 1 don't know why the river doesn't sink in. No, it isn't. Yes, it does. I don't know I'm sure. Janey Blair, hold your tongue!”

Janey furtively seized a small moist pink tongue-tip and held it, hoping that her mother would notice her discomfort and be struck with remorse. The stage rattled across a bridge and up a drive which curved over the cliff to the front of a big, rectangular, colonial house. And then the small pink tongue suddenly resumed business.

“Uncle Jim!” Janey shrieked. “Uncle Jim!” She jumped out of the stage before it had quite stopped. Released by this acrobatic feat, Henry James cut a Maltese arc in the atmosphere and gained piazza sanctuary. Unheeding, Janey leaped straight at the throat of a big, middle-aged, twinkling-eyed gentleman who received her transports with a fair imitation of composure. A big English bulldog trundled through the open door and impartially embraced and slobbered the whole group.

“Hullo, Miriam,” ejaculated Uncle Jim, “My eye, but I'm glad to see you! Elizabeth Jane Blair, alias Janey, you are throttling me! Down, George Meredith! Miriam, I think you are looking pale. Elizabeth Jane Blair, Janey-for-Long, you young wildcat, you! Ouch! Kindly remember that I am not a ladder. George Meredith, I'll whale you in a moment.” Uncle Jim kissed his sister over the melange of niece and bulldog:

The party swept into the big living-room. A fire was crackling in the open fireplace. “Oh, I'm so happy, happy, happy, Uncle Jim!” Janey said, dancing from hall to living-room and back, a canine firecracker exploding at her heels. “I guess I'll hug you again.”

“Miriam, if you have any influence with your offspring, kindly request her to remove herself from my system,” Uncle Jim pleaded, holding Janey so tight that wild horses could not have pried them apart.

“I have as much influence as ever, which is none at all. She will certainly be the death of me with her animal spirits. But of course your own conscience must tell you who has spoiled her.”

Uncle Jim waived argument. “A telegram from Marcia!” he said. “She comes with Caroline to-morrow. The Morgans won't be here for a whole week.”

“Oh,” Janey wailed, “a whole week! I can not exiskt another week.”

With Elsa definitely seven days away, Janey found herself living for the moment which would deposit Caroline at her beck and call. Only childhood or young love could have made an eternity of the ensuing twenty-four hours. But at last Caroline came; a Caroline a whole year older and a whole year bigger, which meant very big indeed compared with the Janey of the same age; a Caroline as solid as if molded from melted lead; a Caroline whose face hung like a little brown pear out of a straight thatch of light-brown hair.

For a whole week the two little girls were inseparable. Janey, of course, spent much of the day in school, but from three o'clock, which saw her return, until half-past seven, which was bedtime, she and Caroline tasted the first sweets of country and spring freedom.

The Warriner house perched on a cliff so steep that you walked out the back of the second story on to the side of a hill. On the front of the great square chimney was the date 1779. An apple orchard made a background of green for its colonial white. In front, where the cliff flattened out to the road, was the tennis-court. All beyond had been permitted to revert to its original wildness. And what tangles of green ind blossoms were there, what violets and iris 1: the spring, what wild roses, daisies and buttercups in the summer, what sumach and golden-rod in the fall, what treasure of bird's-nests, of wild strawberries, blackberries and blueberries, it would take a Janey to enumerate. Perhaps more wonderful than this were the beautiful big rocks which lay everywhere, half concealed by bushes. Perhaps most wonderful of all was what Uncle Jim called “the mud-hole” and Janey called “the fairy-pond;” a spoonful of water on the lower corner of the place, fed by a threadlike spring. This pond, though near, was remote and romantic; it was surrounded by rose-bushes so high that the reflection of their blossoms lay on the water like painted pink stars.

Janey pointed out these places to Caroline. “Do you see that one? That's House Rock where we play house. That mound is Pook's Hill. See that biggest one of all? That's our Golden-rod Palace. The wonderfullest game in the wide, wide world's going to be played there. It's a secret now, Caroline dear. I haven't told a soul yet. And I shan't tell until the golden-rod's grown high, for it can't be played till then. But I'll tell you one thing, Caroline Benton, it's about a princess and a little boy named Curdie.”

At these wonder-places Caroline gazed, awed, dumb. Her eyes seemed to grow bigger and rounder as each new marvel was revealed to her.

Janey was almost happy. When Elsa came, she told herself, there would be no in the perfection of life. But deep down in her conscience—and a more bulldozing conscience never hectored little girl—Janey knew that she must be honest with Caroline. And so, “You know, Caroline,” she said again and again, “when Elsa Morgan comes, p'raps I won't be able to play with you so very often. You see, Elsa's my chum. Elsa doesn't love little girls so terrible much, and she and I play very grown-up games. Prob'ly she'll let you play sometimes, but not always. You won't mind, will you, dear, when you consider what a very little girl you are?”

“No, I won't mind,” Caroline whispered. To-morrow with Caroline was so firmly embedded in a far-distant future that virtually nothing existed for her but a rose-hued present. So Janey, realizing that the now was casting no fetters of obligation upon her, plunged deeper and deeper into it.

But the week of waiting went by, and on Friday the stage from the earliest train brought to the Morgan house a full harvest of Morgans, and what Uncle Jim called “Morganettes.” From this time, save as she ate and slept in it, her own home knew Janey no more. Little Caroline lived an uneventful life alone, picking at crumbs of Janey's presence where once she had feasted from the full loaf. But if she complained, only her dolls or George Meredith or Henry James heard it.

“Oh, Janey,” Elsa said, “you have n't grown a bit, have you? My, aren't you the tiny thing!”

And “Oh, Elsa,” Janey said, the rapture of reunion healing even this sting, “how pretty you are!”

Elsa was pretty. Her little pointed face, pond-lily white except where a drift of pink made apple-blossom bloom in her cheeks, emerged from a torrent of flying golden hair. Her big blue eyes, in the midst of this pinky white and gold, flashed spots of blue like a very clear, glassy ice. All this color, although assisted by the dew of childhood, concealed only to children a certain hard inexpressibility of feature, a certain meagerness of curve. In fact, had Elsa been shorn of her golden mane, she would have looked like a sheep.

Elsa stopped before the glass and she and Janey admired the picture there. Elsa even permitted herself that self-gratulation which she could indulge only in the presence of Janey. “I am pretty,” she said, composedly. Then, “Do you think I'm the prettiest girl in Scarsett, Janey?”

“Oh, yes,” Janey said, deep-voiced with conviction.

“Prettier than Colette Kingdon?” Elsa looked at herself hard. Evidently it was a serious moment. Evidently recent happenings had shaken her from a long-established conviction.

“Oh, much,” reassured Janey. Then something caught her up. Janey loved her whole world. And, with her, loving persons meant thinking them pretty. She did love Colette. Mentally she balanced with Elsa's Colette's claim to pulchritude. Colette had a profile like statues. Colette had a skin permanently burned a bronzy, brown-red. Colette had gray eyes as clear as lakes. Colette's hair rippled and waved. But—but—but it had to be acknowledged, Colette's hair was brown, and Elsa had the hair inexorably ascribed by tradition and illustration to princesses in fairy tales. Argument was futile.

“Colette is sweet,” Janey said. “She's dear—she's darling. I love her. But nobody is so pretty as you, Elsa. Nobody has such hair.”

This recalled Elsa's wandering thoughts. She shook her hair loose from the brown ribbon which confined it. It flooded down her back, tangible sunshine. Janey gloated over it.

“What are you taking it down for?” she asked. “It is bee-yu-tiful that way.”

“I guess I'll fix it differently,” Elsa said, carelessly. “I'm tired of it like this. I've had it that way long enough.” She pulled a blue ribbon from her pocket and tied it over her left ear. Also she changed her boots for a pair of gray suede slippers ornamented with iridescent beads. They went oddly with her sailor suit. “Aunt Molly promised me she'd give me all her cast-off slippers,” Elsa explained. “She's just sent me three pairs. They fit me perfectly.”

“Caroline's with me, Elsa,” Janey made tremulous proclamation. “She's going to stay all summer. But she's promised me she won't butt in. Come over and play this afternoon, will you?”

“All right, if you walk over to the post-office at five with me. Mother won't let me go alone. Who do you suppose is down here?”

“Not Betsy Clark?”

“Oh, no. That stuck-up thing! I should hope not. No, Edward Hollis. You know he was here for a little time last year. He's going to spend the summer. He went to the same dancing-school with me last winter. Colette Kingdon's crazy about him. She's always trying to get him to dance with her, but he danced with me oftener.” Elsa stole another glance at the mirror. What she saw there evidently reassured her. “She tried to make him promise to dance every Virginia reel with her this summer.”

Something vaguely portentous swooped down on the gaiety of Janey's supreme hour. Dancing! Virginia reel! Both these terms seemed to thrust a horrid iconoclasm into her relations with Elsa. And when it came to Edward Hollis! When it came to the boy sex—if there was anything Janey despised it was a boy. In her conception of the universe, boys were only lesser girls, maimed beings from whose make-up the real essence of playability had been entirely left out. Of course, nature had her exceptions�—or accidents. Janey had met boys who were almost civilized. Kim Morgan, for instance, who, besides being pleasantly companionable, bore the proud distinction of being brother to Elsa. But when it came to Edward Hollis—utterly codeless in regard to pendant pigtails, to kittens, to little girls' toys, he lived a shameless masculine existence on what Janey considered to be the very outskirts of human decency. Janey changed the subject.

“I've thought of some lovely new games, Elsa. Oh, I can hardly wait to play them all. Please don't keep me waiting this afternoon.

Elsa did not keep her waiting. She appeared at the Warriner house promptly at three, a pair of pink bows in place of the blue one, a pair of yellow Turkish slippers in place of the gray suede ones.

Janey began to pour herself out at once. She was at her inventive best with Elsa. It was as if Elsa's beautiful physique brought out a budding artistic instinct. Elsa was the piano on which she improvised, the canvas on which she drew, the paper on which she wrote.

“We're going to play 'Romeo and Juliet,' Elsa. You'll be Juliet and I'll be Romeo. You have to sit on a balcony, all dressed up, like in this picture.”

“All dressed up” was enough for Elsa. She submitted with condescending graciousness to Janey's ministrations. With half a pair of lace curtains for a gown, a white portière cord for a girdle, a worsted lamp-mat for a cap, Janey produced a very tolerable imitation of the Juliet costume in the illustration. Caroline followed the proceedings, goggle-eyed with delight and in the tense, dense silence to which Janey had warned her. But when Elsa discovered that all she had to do was to sit on a turned-round sofa and listen while Janey read an incomprehensible jargon to her, she rebelled.

“I tell you what let's do,” she suggested, after a swift glance at the clock. “Let's have a wedding. I'll be the bride.”

One half of the lace curtain made a wonderful wedding veil. The other half furnished the train. Elsa unloosed her hair and, departing a moment from bridal precedent, put on it a brass lamp-shade, which gave a crown-like effect. She walked up and down before her ravished audience, one eye on them, the other on the clock. She turned sharp corners or sat down suddenly in a way that brought her train swirling in a long spiral about her feet. She said that that was the way they did it on the stage. Suddenly, in the midst of a profound courtesy, she jumped up. “It's five o'clock, Janey. Here, help me off with these duds. I've got to be over at the post-office by twenty minutes past. No, Caroline, you can't go.”

By a curious coincidence, Edward Hollis entered the post-office just as they did. “Hullo, Elsa,” he said, poking his visor-cap off his round black head. “Hullo, Edward,” Elsa answered. They passed. A little further down the road, singularly enough, they met Edward again.

“Hullo, Elsa,” he said, “how's Frank?” “How should I know?” Elsa responded. They passed. A little further on, miraculously, it seemed to Janey, they met a third time.

“Hullo, Elsa, heard from—” Edward began. “How's Colette?” Elsa interrupted. They passed.

“To-morrow, maybe, I'll tell you about a game that will last till—” Janey was beginning. But something intuitive warned her that she had no listener. She looked up at her companion. Elsa's face had turned backward to Edward. So, a little beyond, Edward's face had turned backward to Elsa. Elsa's chin was up; Janey could see the white curve of her neck. Elsa's eye-lids drooped; Janey could see just a gleam of blue between golden fringes of lash. A little strange smile played about Elsa's lips. Janey's vocabulary did not include the word “coquettish,” but had it been there she would have fitted it at once to that expression.

Again, Janey did not know “jealousy” by name, but a big, hot, gulping wave leaped up within her, beat all through her body. She clutched Elsa's hand tight. Elsa gave a quick toss of her head and turned about. “What are you saying, Janey?” she inquired languidly.

“About the most beautiful game,” Janey prattled on, “that we're going to play when the golden-rod grows high—” The wave had died down. Elsa was listening. But Janey continued to hold her hand very tight.

For a week, Janey and Elsa followed the program of that day. All the afternoon until five, they would play together indoors. Elsa developed unexpected caprices. She did not like this game because it was too babyish, that one because it was too silly, the other because it was slow. More and more their dramas went away from fairies and mermaids, from Robin Hood and his Merry Men, from the Knights of the Round Table. More and more they considered teas and receptions and coming-out dances and and box parties at the theater. At five o'clock the two children took a walk to the post-office. Edward Hollis was always there and the times he managed to pass them seemed to grow in frequency.

One day his sleeve-button caught in Elsa's frock. It took some time to disentangle it. When that feat was accomplished, he turned and walked with them.

—Heard from Colette yet?

—Colette! What would I hear from her for?

—You know why, I guess, Edward Hollis.

—I suppose you get a letter every day from Frank Hall.

—The idea! I've heard from him only twice.

—And picture post-cards. I bet he sends you one every day.

—My Uncle Jim sends me a picture post-card from every place he goes to. I've got three albums chockablock full, one all foreign ones.

—See here, Edward Hollis, I've got a bone to pick with you! You give me back that handkerchief you took from me that last day at dancing-school. You've had it long enough.

—I shan't neither. I suppose you want to give it to Frank Hall.

—The idea! I wouldn't give him anything. He stole a tie of mine once. And I never got it back. He's tried to make me let him wear this ring (Elsa takes off a little gold-and-garnet affair from her finger), but it was too small for him. I bet it's too small for you.

—No,it just fits. Guess I'll keep it for a while.

—The idea, Edward Hollis! Don't you dare keep that ring! Edward Hollis, you give me back my ring. Well, anyway, don't you tell that it's mine, Everybody would think it was the silliest thing. Let me look at your ring.

—(slipping off a ring from his finger). All right.

—(triumphantly putting it on her finger). Now if you want it back, you'll have to give me mine.

—I don't want it back.

—In the “Merchant of Venice,” Portia gave Bassanio a ring and Nerissa gave—

—Edward Hollis, you are the worst boy!

At half-past eight the next morning, Elsa intercepted Janey on the bridge. “I'm coming up to school to meet you to-day, Janey,” she said. “Will you give this note to Edward Hollis at recess? And Janey, remember, it is a secret. Can you keep a secret?”

“I kept a secret that Uncle Jim was going to give mother a fur coat for three months, once,” Janey replied.

Janey delivered the note. She liked that. She had a pleasant conspirator-sense of being connected with something contraband.

Elsa, true to her promise, was waiting at the door when school let out. A little further down the road, Edward met and joined them.

Every morning thereafter, Janey carried a note. Every afternoon thereafter, Edward joined her and Elsa. One day, when school let out, Elsa was not there. Trotting briskly homeward she overtook her and Edward. “Why didn't you wait for me, Elsa?” she demanded indignantly.

“Oh, I had an engagement with Edward,” Elsa explained in her most mature manner.

“Oh,” said Janey, although, for the life of her, she could not see what that had to do with it. And then at a turning, Elsa stopped and said, “Edward and I are going for a little walk. Good-by.”

Thereafter she always had to run to catch up with Elsa and Edward. Thereafter they always left after a few moments. But in the little interval that they spent with her, she tried her hardest to interest them in the new game they would play when the golden-rod grew high.

And then, suddenly, Scarsett woke up. The road seemed to be full of children walking in pairs. It was as if a bomb had struck infantile society in Scarsett; had exploded it into twos. To Janey's distress there seemed to be a slight coldness between Elsa and Colette, but Elsa continued to walk with Edward. Colette Kingdon walked with Stubby West. Cordy West walked with Wentie Kingdon. Sometimes Janey joined one of these couples, sometimes another. Their conversation was all very dull to Janey. She was horrified at her own stupidity, for this was a game of which she could not seem to learn the plays; of which she could not even hear the signals.

One day a crocheting mania seemed to break out at once in the entire set of girls. They gathered indoors every day to work with glistening needles on mysterious, long, silken strips. Janey discovered that these were ties. Elsa was making a green one for Edward, Colette a navy-blue one for Stubby, Cordy a brown one for Wentie. Janey would have liked to make one, too, just for the sake of having a visible bond with her friends. She felt that she needed a bond, for, occasionally, the horrid thought came to her that they could entertain themselves without her help. When Janey joined the Elsa and Edward combination in the afternoon promenade, Elsa was always sending her to Colette and Stubby. Colette would find a message for her to take to Cordy and Wentie. They in turn would turn her back on Elsa and Edward.

But Janey was patient. She believed that when the school closed, things would be different. The girls would have learned by that time how stupid boys were; that they really did not know how to play at all. At her most downcast moments, Janey could always console herself with the thought, “Wait till the golden-rod grows high.”

Once she caught a remark, “Let's lose her to-day. She's too young for our crowd.” And again, “She talks about nothing but books—books—books.

Janey wondered who this unfortunate unknown was. And she even wished lonesomely that she might meet her. For if she liked books—

And then, one afternoon, she found out. All the boys and girls were gathered in the Morgan orchard. Suddenly, but only after whispering, they made for the Morgan house. Janey started to follow. Elsa stopped her.

“Excuse me, Janey,” she said in a superior tone, “I guess you'd better run home now. We're going to have a little dance.”

Janey said nothing; she only stared stupidly at her. Elsa waited an instant; then, laughing airily, she turned and went into the house.

For a long time Janey stood rooted, looking after her; for the golden-rod might grow to the skies now; the Princess and the Curdie game would never, never be played.

That night, when Mrs. Blair had tucked Janey into bed, they had one of the long confidential talks which always smoothed over the acerbities of their day relations.

“Mother,” Janey said, “I'm through with Elsa Morgan.” Her small mouth set in a line positively Janeyesque—there is no other adequate adjective—with determination. “And when I'm through with anybody, I'm through. To-morrow I'm going back to Caroline. Mother”—Janey had the Spartan air of one who, for her own good, disillusions a trusting parent—“Mother, I guess you don't know what a baby I am. Mother, I guess I never'll be very smart. All I seem to care for in the whole world is “Alice in Wonderland” and Shakespeare.”