Sister Sue/Chapter 13

early Thursday morning, before the first of Sister Sue's pupils were due, Donald Kendall rang the Gilmores' doorbell.

Delia admitted him to the living-room, then went upstairs, where Sister Sue was telling her father for the third time that morning all about the Old Home Day Celebration.

"The fiddler—he wants you, Miss," said Delia, with a crispness that spoke loudly of her dishes cooling in the kitchen sink.

"Me?" Sister Sue showed her surprise.

"He said you, Miss. I put him in the sittin'-room." And Delia, whose especial detestation was to answer the doorbell, particularly in the morning, turned and clattered down the back stairway.

More slowly Sister Sue turned toward the front part of the house. There was still a faint questioning in her eyes when she entered the living-room, where Donald Kendall was waiting alone.

"Good-morning, Mr. Kendall," holding out her hand.

"Good-morning." Donald Kendall advanced hurriedly. He had the air of a man who had come with a bit of news too good to keep. "It's early, I know, but I had to come right away. It came to me in the night what I could do."

"What you could do?" murmured Sister Sue, still with a slight frown. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Kendall."

"I must n't stop long." He dropped himself into a chair as she took her seat. "I'll have to go back and write to Dodge right away, of course. It did n't come to me until in the night what I could do. But now I know. I've decided to have you for my accompanist, Miss Gilmore. I'll pay you enough, of course, so you can take your sister, or any one you like, along with you for companionship and propriety. But that's a mere detail. We can settle that later. There will be no trouble about compensation, Miss Gilmore. I start West on my first concert tour in about two weeks. I thought you ought to know as soon as possible."

Sister Sue had come erect in her chair. Her face had shown blank incomprehension during the first half of his speech, then amazement, then anger. There was scorn in her eyes now, scorn with a tinge of amusement.

"Well, yes, I should want to know as soon as possible if I were going on a concert trip with you," she said.

"Yes, of course, of course!" He nodded abstractedly. He was not looking at her now. "As it is, there is all too short a time to practice. But you are such a good reader that—"

She interrupted him.

"Mr. Kendall. Just a minute, please. You don't understand. I said if I were going on a concert trip with you; but I'm not. Why, Mr. Kendall, I can't play your accompaniments for you!"

The man gave an impatient gesture.

"But I say you can! And I rather think I know. You are away ahead of Dodge; you are away ahead of—" He paused, then went on with somewhat pompous impressiveness: "Miss Gilmore, I can honestly say that never have I had any one who plays my accompaniments as you do. You never drag, never pull. You are always superbly right there—with me."

He sat back with the gesture of one who has settled a matter once for all.

"Thank you, Mr. Donald Kendall." Sister Sue was still quietly smiling. "That is high praise, I know. Yet still I must say I cannot play your accompaniments for you."

"What do you mean?"

"It is absurd, out of the question. I cannot go away like that."

"But you may take your sister, a companion, any one. I told you that."

She shook her head a bit impatiently now.

"You don't understand. I can't leave my home. I have duties here—my father—the home—my brother and sister—"

"Stuff and nonsense!" he interrupted with the rudeness of a spoiled autocrat whose will is crossed. "You have some duties to yourself, have n't you? Any one can do your work here. But the chance I offer you— See here, young woman, you don't seem to realize that you have talent—extraordinary talent. Are you going to waste it all in teaching scales and five-finger exercises to a dozen urchins who'll never know the difference between a Beethoven symphony and 'Johnny, Get Your Gun'? Have n't you any ambition? Don't you ever want to do something worth while in the world?"

Long before he had finished speaking she was on her feet. There was no smile on her lips now nor amusement in her eyes. She was white and shaking. Her voice, when she spoke, was not steady.

"Ambition? Something worth while in the world?" she repeated. And then, all reserve swept aside, she told him her heart's longings. She told him what the great music-master had said. She told him what she hoped and hungered to do. And so vividly did she tell it that even the startled man across the room seemed to hear at least the echo of that call: "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore! Encore!"

She paused then, but only for breath. In a moment she went on chokingly. She told him of the failure and all the horrors and terrors that had walked in its wake. She told of her father's condition now and of how dependent on her he was. She spoke of Gordon and of May and her hopes for them. And, as she talked, Donald Kendall was irresistibly compelled to see that the position of Sister Sue in her home was one around which, as on a pivot, the whole family had for years revolved. All the while she spoke kindly, yet fervently, with little half-finished phrases more eloquent by far than if they had been completed. It was a rush as of long-pent-up forces that had suddenly found vent. Then, without warning, in the middle of a sentence, she broke off with a little sob:

"Oh, what have I said! What have I said!" she moaned. "I must have been beside myself to talk like this to you—to any one! But the things you said— If you can, forget; and—" Then very calmly, "There's Carrie now, for her lesson. If you will excuse me, please."

The next moment Donald Kendall, at first chagrined, then dumbfounded and dismayed, and with a feeling almost of humiliation, found himself alone. Almost at once came the droning one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, from the room across the hall, and then Mr. Donald Kendall arose, picked up his hat, and went home.

Although, as the words would imply, Gilmoreville Old Home Week ostensibly continued through the entire seven days, yet in reality there was but little in the way of entertainment or of interest after that wonderful Wednesday. There were a few family reunions, and sundry parties and picnics. Viola Sanderson stayed through the week with her aunt and apparently minded not at all the privation of "no portcullis and conservatory." Cy Bellows left on the morning train Thursday, followed by the ringing cheers of half the town as long as the train was in sight. Miss Kate Farnum and her secretary left on the same train. Hearing the shouts Miss Farnum looked out of the window and smiled and bowed very graciously to the cheering throng. She seemed pleased, better pleased, perhaps, than she would have been had she known that those shouts were not for her, but for the popular ball-player in the car behind. But she did not know, which did Cy Bellows no harm and may possibly have done her some good.

Donald Kendall left, too, that same Thursday, though later in the day. In the afternoon he went over to the Gilmores' and said his stiffly proper farewells. He thanked Sister Sue formally for playing his accompaniments so finely, but he avoided her eyes except for a brief instant at the last, and then he did n't meet them, for Sister Sue, herself, was looking somewhere else. He shook hands with May and Gordon, and then hurried away.

"I don't imagine he's improved much—in manners," observed May as the gate clicked under his hand.

Sister Sue did not reply. She was very busy over some music at the piano. Then the next moment Jennie Howard came for her lesson.

Jennie had a poor lesson. It was plain to be seen that she had practiced very little. She bungled her scales and hit innumerable wrong notes in her "piece." She played inattentively and out of time. It was the same with all the pupils that came afterwards, until by night Sister Sue was completely worn out with the fret and annoyance of it all. She was still very tired when Martin Kent came that evening; so tired that she was not like herself. She sat back in her chair on the veranda, listless and preoccupied, while May and Martin chatted over the events of the day before. Frequently they turned to her with a question, and she answered, but still listless and still preoccupied. Yes, Viola Sanderson was very winning and very affable indeed. No, she did n't care much for the novelist. Yes, Donald Kendall was a fine player. Yes, she danced with Cy Bellows, once. No, she did n't call him handsome. Yes and no; no and yes. That was all.

When May went into the house after a time and left the two together, and when Sister Sue gave an abstracted "no" to his last question asking her if she had ever seen worse weather than that of the day before, Martin Kent promptly remonstrated:

"Sue! For Heaven's sake, what's the matter with you to-night?" he asked. "No, no; yes, yes. That's all anybody can get out of you. And I've just proved that when you say even that much you have n't any idea as to what you are really saying. I asked you if you had ever seen worse weather than we had yesterday, and you very serenely answered 'no'; while, as it so happened, there could n't have been a more perfect day—and you know it."

The girl aroused herself and laughed shamefacedly.

"Martin, I beg your pardon. I'm horrid, I know it; and I was n't thinking of what you were saying. But I will now, I promise. Try me."

"But what is the matter with you?"

"Tired, I suppose."

"Of course you're tired! Digging at that old piano every minute since Monday evening when that fool violinist first found out you could play. Did n't the man have any sense?"

Sister Sue laughed.

"Well, to tell the truth, I don't think he had a superabundance of it—when he got his violin in hand. But I did n't mind that, really. The long hours of practice—I loved them. It—it was to-day—all day—those impossible children stumbling through their lessons!" She paused, then went on with a whimsical smile, "You know, it is n't easy to come down to peeling potatoes after having had a little fling at eating frostings."

"H-mm! I suppose not." Martin Kent was still fretting. "But that eternal practicing for that exacting man had something to do with it, just the same," he maintained. "It was wearing, very wearing."

She shook her head.

"I did n't feel it; not that. I loved it. But, Martin! You should have been here earlier that Monday night, when he first came in, and heard the instructions the dear man gave me about not dragging and not playing at all if I could n't keep up with him."

"Yes, I know. May told me," grunted the man. "Impertinent puppy!"

"He was n't exactly polite," laughed Sister Sue, "but, as Gordon says, 'he can play!'"

"So can you," retorted Martin Kent. "But he need n't think, just because of that, he can keep you playing for him all the time."

"I don't—think—he does." An amused expression had come to Sister Sue's face. "He said this morning—but never mind," she broke off with a shrug and a quick ^change of manner, "he's gone now."

"Yes, he's gone now," echoed Martin Kent with a sigh that was obvious in its content. "And as for those tiresome, never-ending children—they'll be gone one of these days. Just wait till my 'Trixie' makes a hit!"

"I'm waiting," smiled Sister Sue mischievously.

"You don't believe in it, but listen. I received a letter from the publishers to-day and they report a very good advance sale. A very good one," he repeated impressively with aggrieved emphasis.

But Sister Sue only laughed again and said: "I'm waiting."

With the passing of Old Home Week Gilmoreville settled down and went about its usual business. With the tent removed and the sidewalk attractions banished, there was little but memory to remind the villagers of that one glorious week of debauch.

In the Gilmore homestead it seemed to Sister Sue that life had reverted even more than ever into a mere matter of potato-peeling for her. Martin Kent had gone back to the city, and she and May told each other they did not know how much his breezy visits meant to them—until they were without them. School had opened and Gordon was enrolled as a pupil, but he was plainly holding himself very much aloof from the other boys and also making himself and everybody else miserable. May had definitely given up trying to enter college. If there was not enough money coming in, she said, to send her decently and properly she did not care to go. As for trying to pay her way partly by waiting on tables, or darning the other girls' silk stockings, she preferred not to go at all rather than do these things. Much to Sister Sue's disappointment, therefore, she had given up all idea of a college education.

"But, May! I could help you a lot, and maybe I could pay it all, after a little," pleaded Sister Sue.

"Yes, and how should I feel with all my old friends swelling around in their good clothes and me behind their chairs waiting on them, and begging for their silk stockings to darn! Mercy! Sue, I could n't do it."

"I suppose it would be hard," replied the elder girl.

"Besides," avowed May with a sudden but somewhat forced display of unselfish consideration for her sister, "as if I'd go away, anyhow, and leave you slaving here at home to pay my bills. Certainly not! "

"But, May, you need it. You need it in your work. "What will you do?"

"I'm going to write here at home. Martin says I can. I told him before he went away that I was n't going to let you slave yourself to death helping me through college." May pursed her lips virtuously. "And we have it all fixed. I'm to write my story, send it to him for correction, then I copy it and send it to an editor. That won't cost anything but stamps and paper and typewriter ribbons. Martin's going to send me his old machine, you know. I told you that."

"Yes, you told me that. Martin's very kind, very kind. Still, that is not like a college for you," replied Sister Sue as she turned away.

In the hall she met her father with his garden trowel in his hand. "I'm going out to do a little digging," he said. "I think I'll transplant some of those asters."

"Yes, but, Father, it's too cold," she remonstrated, gently taking the trowel away and turning him toward the stairs. "And you have n't even your hat on. Come, dearie, let's go back up to your room. You know it's September now and we can't dig so much in the garden."

"Oh, yes. I see, I see." Meekly the old man let himself be led back to his room.

It was never any trouble to make John Gilmore "see." He was always "seeing" whatever they wanted him to see. It was only that they had to make him see the same things so many times, over and over. And now that the weather was cooler and he could not be out of doors so much among his beloved flowers, he was more restless and uneasy than ever, taxing Sister Sue's tact and patience and ingenuity to the utmost.

And there also were the pupils. Unmistakably Sister Sue was finding it hard to come down to potato-peeling after her "fling at the frosting." With the exquisite notes of a Beethoven concerto played by Donald Kendall in her ears, it was much harder to listen to the bungling rendition of the day's exercise in C major played by Susie Smith.

It was all so humdrum, so hopelessly commonplace, so hopelessly of no account. Sister Sue sighed to herself at times. And when she had so hoped to make something of her life really worth while!

To Granny Preston she frequently flew for refuge.

"When I just can't stand it another minute, I have to come to you," she panted one day, dropping breathlessly into a chair. "You don't mind?"

"Mind? Of course not. I'm glad to have you. It gives me something to talk of besides my aches an' pains an' troubles."

"As if you ever let anybody know you had any!" scoffed Sister Sue.

"Pooh!" With a wave of her hand the old lady tossed this aside. "Well, child, what is it to-day? Did Susie Smith strike C instead of G, or is Miss May crying over a story the editor would n't take?"

"Neither. Oh, yes, both." Sister Sue corrected herself with a faint smile. "We always have those with us, like the poor. But, Mrs. Preston, it's really serious this time. I'm worried, and I haven't the faintest idea what to do."

"What is it?"

"Gordon."

"The school? He don't like it, I suppose."

"Oh, that's better now. He's gotten over his snobbishness. I did talk him out of that. And he's doing splendidly in his studies, too. The head master, himself, told me so. But I'm beginning to wish now he did n't like the boys quite so well. He's with them all the time, out of school hours, hanging around the station and the hotel and Dan Bowles's pool-room."

"Why don't you have them here?"

"Here! In that tomb of a parlor with the hair-wreath and the coffin-plates? Suppose you try getting them to come!"

"I will, if you'll do what I say."

Sister Sue stared frankly. Then she gave a short laugh.

"Oh, I'll do what you say all right, I'll promise. Only I warn you, this is no case of too much soda in the pie-crust, Mrs. Preston. But I'll do what you say even if it's to give them a ."

"Thanks. That's just about what I want you to do," nodded the little old lady imperturbably.

"Mrs. Preston!"

"Well?"

"You don't understand! I'm trying to tell you that the boy won't even stay at home with me! He wants to be off all the time. All he wants to do is to hang around those horrid places and smoke with the boys, and some of them are not nice boys. They smoke and drink and gamble and swear, and—Gordon is getting awful in his manner and in his language, so rough and coarse. And you talk of giving him a pink tea!"

"Gordon's all right. He's just trying to be a man among men. I know; I've had boys of my own."

"But he's always been a gentleman before," faltered the girl: "even though he has smoked cigarettes in spite of anything I would say. But never before has he been coarse and rough and uncouth in his ways."

"H-mm. Does he dance?"

"He used to down there in Boston—during school, of course. And they were beginning to have little dances among themselves when—when we came away."

"H-mm. Care for girls?"

Sister Sue flushed.

"I—I don't know."

"H-mm. Well, I know. He either does and owns up to it, or does and won't own up to it. I know; I've had boys of my own. I know a few other things, too. I have ways of finding out things—in this town. I know that Kitty Sanborn wanted a dance last winter and her ma would n't let her have one 'cause 't would hurt their nice new hardwood floors. And I know that Bessie Merrill wanted a party a month ago and her ma would n't let her have it 'cause 't would cost too much to feed all them young folks. And I know that Mis' White and Mis' Anderson won't let their children ever bring home company 'cause they clutter up and wear out the carpets and bang up the furniture. And I know that—"

But Sister Sue interrupted.

"You don't have to say another word—not another word!" the girl said, jumping to her feet, laughing and dancing up and down on her toes. "I know it all now. And he shall have his pink tea—you wait and see."

"Molasses candy and popcorn make a fine treat, and they ain't a mite costly," called out Mrs. Preston as her visitor flew out of the door.

Hurrying down the back stairs, Sister Sue was muttering to herself: "Wear out the carpets and bang up the furniture! Indeed! Humph!" Going straight into the stiff, cheerless parlor she stopped and gazed at the things about her. "If I take away the hair-'wreath the coffin-plates, that will help some," she mused. Then she pulled up a shade and moved two chairs out of line. "And if I put in a few extra chairs—that will help some more."

Five minutes later, the hair-wreath under one arm and the framed coffin-plates tinder the other, she met May on the stairway.

"For Heaven's sake! What are you doing?" exclaimed May.

"Getting ready to give a pink tea to your brother," answered Sister Sue, proceeding on her way with a chuckle regardless of the amazed ejaculations and questions that followed her all the way to the attic.

But when she told her brother the next day she did not call it a pink tea.

"I suppose you could n't get together a big enough crowd to have a real country-style candy-pulling, could you? Say for next Wednesday evening?"

'Could n't I? Just try me and see." (As if Sister Sue did n't know that Gordon never passed any sort of a "dare"!)

"Well, how many could you get?"

"How many do you want?"

Sister Sue calculated rapidly. "Why, perhaps six boys and six girls."

"Done! You give us the candy to pull and I'll see that you have the crowd here to pull it."

"Good! Next Wednesday night, then, at eight o'clock," said Sister Sue. And to hear her nonchalant voice one would never suspect that she had spent hours planning just how to approach Gordon with the subject, and that she was even then quaking in her shoes lest she had said too much or not enough.

For the next few days Sister Sue was indeed busy arranging things around the house and getting her plans into shape for Wednesday night. May had declared that as for herself she would have nothing to do with any of Gordon's crowd and was surprised that her sister allowed him to invite them. She did not propose to put herself in a position where she would have to speak to every hoodlum on the street or else pretend not to see them. As it was, it was humiliating enough to have her own brother speak to them when she was walking with him.

"What do you suppose the Kendalls will think when they see Joe Anderson and his sisters with their beaus from the Whipple shops coming in here?" she asked.

"I don't know," replied Sister Sue. "I have heard that Joe Anderson won the hundred-dollar prize for the best set of housing plans for the employees of the Kendall shops and that he had been promoted to a very responsible position in the company's office. And I heard that George White had talked with the men at the Whipple shops and persuaded them not to go on strike last week."

"Yes, I know all that," rejoined May, "and I know also that George White's brother Tom was found in a barn down on the Meadow Road dead drunk the next day after the big ball-game and the Kendalls' superintendent discharged him as soon as he heard of it. Gordon has invited him here, and Gordon says he has accepted the invitation."

"I have heard that story," replied Sister Sue; "Gordon told me; but Gordon does not believe that Tom was intoxicated; he thinks he had been drugged and robbed at some gambling game."

"But are you going to have him here, now, in the face of the talk about him all over town?" asked May in astonishment.

"Yes; I wrote a special note to Tom and told Gordon to make him promise he would surely come Wednesday night, that I wanted him to sing and let me play his accompaniments. You know Tom has a wonderful tenor voice," quietly explained Sister Sue.

"Oh, Sue! How could you? What will Martin say? You first neglect Martin to play Donald Kendall's accompaniments, and now, without consulting him, you propose to play accompaniments for Tom White. You must be crazy over your old piano-playing," angrily cried May.

But Sister Sue had no time for argument. She still had much to do before her work for Wednesday night was finished. May could not help now, because she must finish the manuscripts for her new story, which Martin Kent had recently corrected and returned to her. Its title was to be "On the Mountain-Top," and Martin had written her it was the best piece of work she had ever done and any publisher would be glad to get hold of it, so she told Sister Sue the day she received it back with Martin Kent's corrections.

John Gilmore seemed much more feeble these days than he had been, though usually he had been quite contented to remain in his room with his pictures, except at times when he would suddenly start out bareheaded and inform anybody he met that he needed a little exercise and thought he would walk downtown that day to his office.

The pupils were farther advanced now and were more interested in their lessons and they were not so vexing and tedious as they had been.

And so when Wednesday night came all was ready. Sister Sue had taken out the rugs and tables and chairs from the big, wide hall, and had moved the piano to another corner in the parlor, making room for several more chairs and a few small tables. The evening was cool and the air crisp, and Delia in the kitchen was very happy with a large kettle of boiling, bubbling syrup on the stove, and plates and spoons and flour and butter on the kitchen table. Mrs. Preston had said, "Delia is a dabster at fixing up molasses for candy-pulling and popcorn balls," and so it proved.

Gordon had been true to his word and his "crowd" was all there. Three girls, Kitty Sanborn and Bessie Merrill and Grace Walker, came first. Sister Sue welcomed them at the door and told them to run upstairs and put their wraps in her room. Then came George White with his sister Ruth. He told Sister Sue his brother Tom had not been home since the day before, but he thought he intended to come. Joe Anderson came alone, but said his sisters were on their way with their beaus. Gordon had all the boys go to his room, where they spent more time than was necessary in fixing their ties just right and adjusting their cuffs so that exactly the proper amount of white would show. A few minutes past eight Tom White came. Sister Sue had been watching for him and was at the door to meet him.

"Good-evening, Tom," she said.

"Good-evening, Miss Gilmore. I am sorry I am late, but I had something important—that is, it was important to me—that I wanted to get before I came here," he said, "and I had to go down to the Junction to get it. I have it here," and he handed her a folded piece of paper. "Please read it, Miss Gilmore."

Sister Sue opened it and read:

"I am glad, Tom, that what we heard was not true," said Sister Sue as she handed the note back to him.

Tom flushed, and said: "Some of it was true, Miss Gilmore. I did gamble, but I'm done. I shall ask the superintendent to write me a letter offering my old job back and saying he was mistaken in his reason for discharging me, but I shall not go back there to work nor will I show the letter to anybody unless necessary," explained Tom as he went upstairs. Just then Ed Baker and Frank Woods came, with the two Anderson girls.

By ten minutes past eight exactly six boys came downstairs in a bunch and were vainly trying to appear unconcerned while exactly six girls in the parlor immediately began to chatter and laugh as they appeared. Sister Sue told them she had been lonesome ever since Old Home Week and had wanted a little party to liven things up for her. She told them she wanted some music and singing and was very glad they could all come.

As she talked to them, she sat at the piano playing softly little alluring snatches of ragtime and old country-dance music, and she asked if they supposed there was room enough in the hall for some of them to dance while Delia was getting things ready out in the kitchen for the candy-pulling. She looked toward Gordon for a reply and he at once asked Kitty Sanborn if she would try it with him. Then Joe Anderson went over to Ruth White (who was tapping her toe in time to the music) and asked her if she would start off with him. The music was now changing into a lively little two-step and soon four couples were forgetting their embarrassment in the witchery of the dance.

Sister Sue turned to Tom White while she was playing and asked him please to bring Grace Walker to the piano so they could talk and arrange for some songs right after giving the dancers a few more turns at the two-step.

In a few minutes the music began to slow down. The dancers clapped for more, but Sister Sue smiled and let it drift into the familiar little melodies of "Old Kentucky Home," "In the Starlight," "Music in the Air," and at a nod from her Tom and Grace began to sing "Annie Laurie," then following it with "Clementine" and "Jingle Bells," and soon the voices of the whole crowd were heard either joining in or humming at parts of the chorus until Delia appeared from the kitchen announcing:

"If you folks want to pull any candy, now's the time. And come quick!"

With the boys' "Hurrah for Delia!" and, "You bet we want to pull candy!" and the girls' excited little screams and shrieks of laughter, they all rushed into the kitchen, where Delia had two or three well-buttered plates of thick masses of soft, hot sugar ready for pulling.

"Now, some of you just get out on that back piazza; there ain't room enough for all of you in here," she told them; "I've got to have standin'-room while I learn some of you how to pull it."

Then she rubbed flour over her hands and took up one of the portions of soft, hot sugar, stretching it out and folding it together quickly and repeating this a few times, occasionally flouring or buttering her hands lightly to prevent the sugar's sticking to them.

"Now, Joe, you an' Kitty wash your hands an' wipe 'em dry an' rub them over with flour an' take this bunch I'm doin'. Be spry about it or it'll git too cold to pull," ordered she.

"An' you, Tom White, you an' Bessie Merrill git your hands fixed for this bunch an' go out on the piazza with it. Stretch it way out, double it over an' give your end to Bessie, then stretch it ag'in an' make Bessie give you her end. Stretch it so it'll be kinder flat-like. Keep a-stretchin' and doublin' it until it begins to git kinder hard to stretch, then pull one end way out 'bout as far as you can an' as flat as you can, lay it on one of these here buttered platters an' cut it off. Then stretch out some more the same way an' cut that off. You'll have to be mighty quick or it'll git hard an' won't stretch.

"An' you, Frank, if you've got your hands washed you may pop the corn; put it in this big pan, an' we'll have some popcorn balls. I'll show you how to make 'em when you git the pan filled up. Keep the pan up there over the stove so the corn won't git cold."

Thus Delia put them to work, sending some out on the back piazza where, with shrieks and laughs and "Oh, my hands are all sticky!" and "It's hot, take it quick!" and "You almost dropped it!" they soon had a very creditable array of platters and pans covered with long strips ready to be cut up into sticks and small pieces of real old-fashioned molasses candy. Delia attended to cutting it up and putting it on to smaller plates and setting it outdoors to cool. In the kitchen Frank Woods and some of the girls had made a panful of popcorn balls and these were outdoors cooling with the candy. Then the boys helped Delia wash the dishes and the girls wiped them.



Meanwhile, in the big parlor, Sister Sue had arranged the tables and chairs and had brought in some cake and lemonade, and was ready for the young people, who now were beginning to come in with plates heaped with the candy and popcorn balls of their own make. Probably never before had one of those boys or girls experienced the real fun and frolic, the jollity and genuine sport of getting together and spending an evening as they were spending that one at the old Gilmore homestead that night in October.

While they were eating and merry-making Sister Sue was lightly touching the keys of the piano, improvising little tunes and weaving into them bits of harmony from Schubert and Chopin and Liszt as she followed the moods of her guests. When they had finished their candy and cake and had drank their lemonade and were talking of going home, she asked them to give her just one more song and then she would let them go. After that, somewhat reluctantly, they went upstairs for their hats and wraps. The boys, as they came down, told Sister Sue her "party" was the "best thing ever," and that she was "all right" and "we hope you will have another one soon." The girls told her they enjoyed the dance, and candy, and everything, and just wished they could have her to their houses sometime.

"I thank every one of you so much for coming to-night, and if you will come again I shall be very glad. You've all made me very happy and I am so glad you have enjoyed it, too," said Sister Sue to them as they went down the walk.

"You're a brick! A regular brick!" exclaimed Gordon as she closed the door, and he emphasized his statement with a hug—a very unusual thing for him to do. "I was having a tough time getting the fellows to say they would come here until I told them they could dance and do any old thing they wanted to. They took my word for it, and now the whole bunch wants to know if you'll have 'em here again."

"They may come again just as soon as you want them and as often as they want to," replied she. "Perhaps we can fix up that large chamber over the kitchen for a headquarters and you can get up some kind of a club if you want to."

"Bully good idea!" exclaimed Gordon as he started upstairs for bed. "Good-night, Sis."

"Good-night, Gordon."

And that night a very tired but a very happy little girl went to sleep with a smile on her lips and a heart full of gladness because she knew the "pink tea" had been a success.