CHAPTER VI.

Elizabeth, in the days of Miss Rice's rule, had often thought that the most desirable thing in the world would be to go to school. She had often watched girls in the street hurrying along with books under their arms as the clock was about to strike nine, and they always looked so happy, and appeared to have so much to say to one another. That, to Elizabeth, was particularly delightful, for she had a friendly nature, although her lonely life had made her shy with other children.

And now she was to go to school herself. The summer was over, the Misses Herrick had returned to town, and arrangements had been made for entering Elizabeth at Mrs. Arnold's school. This decision had cost Miss Herrick some thought. It must be a good school educationally which she chose for her niece, but it must also be aristocratic. To Miss Herrick's mind, suitable acquaintances were more to be desired than "higher education."

Mrs. Arnold's school, however, apparently combined these two necessary qualifications; and on the morning after her twelfth birthday Elizabeth Herrick began her school life.

It was a very awful ordeal at first. She had never before encountered so many staring eyes, and when any one chanced to speak to her, it seemed as if she should sink through the floor.

The other girls appeared to know one another very well, and had much to say after the summer's absence. Elizabeth wondered when there would be time for lessons if the scholars all talked so incessantly, but she soon found that it was only on the first day of school that so much liberty was allowed. The girl who had the desk next to hers enlightened her on this point, as well as on various others.

"You are a new girl, aren't you?" she remarked.

"Yes," said Elizabeth; "are you?"

"Oh dear no! I have been here a year." Elizabeth looked at her with increased respect. She was a tall girl, with bright brown eyes, and curly hair which hung about her face in a dark mass. "I am almost fourteen," she continued; "at least, I am thirteen and a half. How old are you?"

"I was twelve yesterday."

"And my name is Patsy Wayne Loring--that is, it is really Martha, but Martha is such a hateful name I never want to tell it, and I have always been called Patsy. What is yours?"

"Elizabeth Herrick."

"Elizabeth! What a terribly long name! What do they call you?"

"They call me Elizabeth," returned her neighbor.

"Goody! I wouldn't let them if I were you. I should be called Bessie, or Betty, or Beth, or Elsie. There are lots of nicknames for Elizabeth. I think Elsie is a lovely name. But there is Miss Garner! She is very strict."

"Doesn't Mrs. Arnold sit in this room?"

"Oh no. This is the Intermediate, and Miss Garner has charge of this. Mrs. Arnold is in the Senior, and we hardly ever see her, except when we have been especially bad or especially good, and then we are sent in to her. I have never been in on the good list. But once, when I fixed a jack-in-the-box in Miss Garner's desk so that it popped up at her when she opened the desk, the old thing found me out, and sent me down to Mrs. Arnold. It was such fun to see her jump! I nearly died laughing."

Elizabeth looked at her new friend with wonder. Would she ever dare to do anything so scandalous? And was that what girls did at school?

"That is the new drawing and painting teacher," continued her neighbor; "her name is Mrs. Brown. She is awfully nice, the girls say."

"I wish I could take lessons; I love to draw."

"Why don't you? Perhaps you can't afford it. It is extra, and that is the reason I don't."

"I don't believe that is the reason. My aunt does not want me to. She never will let me draw at home."

"How very funny! But there is Miss Garner ringing the bell, so we shall have to stop talking. I shall tell you some more at recess."

When school was over a maid was awaiting Elizabeth to accompany her home. Her new friend walked with her part of the way, but her destination was much nearer the school than was Elizabeth's, and she soon bade her good-by.

"I like you ever so much," were her parting words, "and I am sure we are going to be intimate friends. Come early to-morrow, and we shall have time to talk a little before school begins. Good-by!"

Elizabeth went home feeling that at last she was like other girls. She had a friend of her own. She could scarcely eat her luncheon she was so excited, and she longed for dinner-time, that she might recount her experiences to her aunts. They were not at home this afternoon.

She looked at her new books, and in a short time had studied her lessons for the next day. "It is too good to be true, Julius," she whispered to the cat, who sat purring in the window; "I have an intimate friend at last."

Fortunately no one dined there that night, so Elizabeth was to come to the table, and there were actually a few minutes in the library before dinner was announced in which she could be with her aunts.

"School is lovely, Aunt Caroline," said she, "and I have a friend already."

"Indeed! What is her name?"

"Patsy Loring."

"Loring? That is not a Philadelphia name; but of course she must be quite desirable, or she would not be at Mrs. Arnold's school."

"Her real name is Martha Wayne Loring, but she is always called-- Why, what is the matter, Aunt Caroline?"

Miss Herrick's face wore the same look which Elizabeth had seen there once or twice before.

"Martha Wayne?" she murmured.

"Why, yes, Aunt Caroline; but she is called Patsy. I was going to tell you--"

"Rebecca," said Miss Herrick, in a weak voice, "do you suppose--"

"I think it is highly probable," said Miss Rebecca, briskly. "Martha Wayne married a Loring, and went to Boston to live."

"Patsy said they used to live in Boston," put in Elizabeth; "but when her father died, they came here."

"Of course it is the same," said Miss Herrick. "Of all things, to have her come into our lives again. I always thought that it was partly owing to Martha Wayne's influence that--"

She stopped abruptly.

"But, Aunt Caroline, what do you mean? Do you know Patsy? Please tell me!"

"I cannot tell you. Do not ask me."

"Oh dear, another mystery!" exclaimed Elizabeth, petulantly. "I do hate secrets, and there are so many in this house! There is the closed room, and my father staying away, and now when I go to school, and everything seems nice and pleasant, and I have a friend at last, you go and make a mystery about her."

"Be quiet, Elizabeth. I cannot bear it! Rebecca, what do you think? Shall the child continue to go there? Will it do for her to be thrown with Martha Wayne's daughter?"

For a moment Elizabeth was speechless with indignation. Then, before her aunt Rebecca could reply, she started from her chair.

"Aunt Caroline," she cried, stamping her foot, "you are a horrid old thing! I _will_ go there to school. I _will_ be friends with Patsy! You won't let me have a thing like other girls! I wish my father would come home and take me away from here!" And she ran crying from the room.

"Her frightful temper again," exclaimed Miss Herrick; "and the doctor said she must not be excited! What shall we do, Rebecca?"

"You are very foolish to allow yourself to be so agitated. The child must go to school, and we cannot prevent her making friends. I wish Edward would come home and take her off our hands. But as for keeping her from Martha Wayne's daughter, or, in fact, from any one who knew Mildred--"

"Rebecca! How often have I asked you never to mention that name? I must go now and pacify Elizabeth, or she will make herself ill."

Miss Herrick's face looked drawn and old as she left the room. It was some time before Elizabeth could be quieted, but when she went to school the next morning it was with the permission to see as much of Patsy Loring as she wished.

The two girls were soon fast friends. Patsy came once or twice to Fourth Street, but they liked better to meet in her own little house, where the rooms were small, and the carpets and furniture were not particularly new, but where the sun shone brightly in at the windows, and where there was plenty of fun and merrymaking all day long.

"It is all so open here!" said Elizabeth one day.

"What do you mean, my dear?" asked Mrs. Loring, who was sewing by the table, while Patsy arranged her paper dolls. It was a rainy afternoon, and therefore the dolls were in demand.

"Oh, you have no shut-up rooms and secrets. Our house is full of skeletons. It is hateful."

"E-liz-a-beth!" exclaimed Patsy. "What in the world do you mean?"

"Well, how would you like to have a room in the house with a padlock on it that you never could go into, and have Aunt Caroline hush you up every time you asked about it? I have been there, though," and she nodded her head mysteriously.

Patsy left her paper dolls and drew nearer.

"Have you really? Do tell me about it," she said, while Mrs. Loring listened attentively.

"I stole the key and went in. Of course I ought not to have done it, but it was a whole year ago, and I was such a little thing I didn't know any better. I was only eleven then, you know. I went a good many times, until Aunt Caroline found me out. It is such a pretty room. If I only knew whom it belonged to! Mrs. Loring, I wonder if you know?" turning suddenly to Patsy's mother. "You look just as Aunt Caroline does when I speak of that room. What is there about that room that makes every one look so queer?"

"Why should you think that I know anything about it?" asked Mrs. Loring, recovering herself.

"Because I think Aunt Caroline used to know you, for she was so excited--at least, she didn't seem to like--well, please excuse me for saying it, but Aunt Caroline was so surprised to hear I knew Patsy, and at first she said-- I don't believe I can tell you."

Elizabeth came to a full stop. She was too honest to extricate herself from the difficulty, and too polite to state the truth.

"Never mind, dear," said Mrs. Loring, quietly, "I knew your aunts when I was a girl, it is true. But I cannot tell you about the room. Your aunt does not wish you to know, Elizabeth, and therefore you should not try to find out."

"I know I shouldn't, but it is so interesting. But I don't care so much about it, now that I have Patsy."

When Elizabeth went home that afternoon the old house looked grim and deserted. The aunts were out, as usual. She studied her lessons, and then sat down with a book by the front window. The rain had ceased, but the clouds were still thick and dark, and the room, handsomely furnished though it was, looked gloomier even than was its wont. It reminded her of the day, a whole year ago, when she wrote the letter to her lather--the letter which he had never answered.

Elizabeth's book fell from her hand and she leaned her head drearily against the window-pane. A whole year, and still he had not come.

Her attention was suddenly attracted by a figure on the sidewalk. It stood still for a moment, and then approached the steps. It was a boy in an overcoat, with the collar turned up about his ears, and a hat drawn closely down over his face. There was something familiar about that part of the face which could be seen, and almost immediately Elizabeth recognized him. It was Valentine.

He came up the steps and motioned to her to open the door.

"They are out, aren't they?" he asked, in a whisper.

"Why, Val, where did you come from?" exclaimed Elizabeth, but he interrupted her.

"Hush! Don't talk so loud. Are they out?"

"You mean Aunt Caroline and Aunt Rebecca? Yes, they are. But come in, Val. Don't stand out there. What is the matter? Have you come to stay?"

"I can't tell you now," he said, coming into the hall. "I am afraid they will come home and find me. I want you to hide me."

"Val! How can I, and why do you want to hide?"

"I tell you, never mind now. I will tell you some other time. You must hide me."

"But where?"

"In the locked-up room."

Elizabeth was speechless. She could only look at him.

"Come," exclaimed Valentine, impatiently, "don't stand there staring. Your eyes look as if they were going to pop out of your head. Let us hurry!"

"But, Val, I can't hide you there. I have been forbidden to go near that room, and I don't believe I can get the key now. Aunt Caroline keeps it in her desk, and her desk is nearly always locked."

"You must hide me there," said Valentine, decidedly, "and we can't stand here, or I shall be caught."

He ran up stairs, two steps at a time, and Elizabeth was obliged to follow him, though sorely against her will. What could it all mean? Why had he come, and why must he not be seen?

He went to the room which he had occupied when he was there a year ago.

"I will wait here," he said, "while you go and try to find the key, and if you can't find it, we will pick the lock."

"But why must you hide, Val? Why don't you just stay downstairs and tell Aunt Caroline you have come to make us a visit? She won't mind. She is not nearly as strict as she used to be, but she would mind dreadfully if she were to find you in the locked room."

"She won't find me there; that is, not if you have any sense. Of course if you spoil it all, that is a different thing. I wish you were Marjorie. She would have understood in a minute. But she will never be here again to help me--"

A lump came into Val's throat as he said this, and he was silent for a moment. Then he said,

"Well, are you going?"

"Yes."

The allusion to Marjorie was too much for Elizabeth. She went down to her aunt's room and walked to the desk. She would at least do this for Val. Then she would tell him that she could not open the desk, and that he must give up the idea.

But what did she see? She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The key of the desk was in the lock!

She stood there irresolute. Her conscience told her that she should not open it. Her aunt had left the key by an oversight, and she should not take advantage of it. On the other hand, Val was waiting for her at the top of the stairs. Apparently it was most important that he should be hidden; and then--his mention of Marjorie. He had said that Marjorie would have done it; that she would have helped him. This decided the question in Elizabeth's mind. She would try to atone to Val if she could for the loss of his cousin, and perhaps it would have the effect of making him care for her, his sister.

She opened the desk, and easily finding the little Chinese cabinet, she took out the keys, closed the desk again, and ran up stairs.

It was a whole year since she had entered the closed room. She had not been there since she and Val locked the door after the departure of the Brady girls, and now together they were opening it again.

"The first thing," said he, "is to give me something to eat. I am as hungry as a hunter. And then I will tell you why I came."

Elizabeth ran down to the pantry. There were crackers to be found there, and some fresh cake, and there was fruit on the sideboard in the dining-room. She filled two plates, and thus laden she hastened up the stairs again. Val had opened the blinds and drawn a chair to the window, and had made himself completely at home.

"I am mighty glad to get here," he remarked, "and it was the greatest piece of luck to have you come to the window. I did not know how I was going to get in, for it is very important that no one but you should know that I am here. I hung around the corner till I thought I saw the aunts' carriage drive off, and then you came and sat at the window."

"But, Val, why can't you be seen, and how long are you going to stay? I am sure I cannot hide you long, and I don't know what Aunt Caroline will say when she finds it out. I really think she feels worse about this room than she ever did."

"Leave it all to me, and do just as I say," returned Valentine, loftily. "If you don't go and make a mull of it, she'll never know. And now I will tell you why I am here, only first you must promise, on your word of honor, that you won't give me away."

"I promise--at least I think I do," said Elizabeth, slowly. "But wait a minute, Val. I wish you would let me tell Patsy."

"Who is Patsy?"

"She is my friend--my intimate friend--and she is just lovely, Val. She would never tell, and we have promised to tell each other everything. Do let me."

"No, you can't; not a word. Girls always have to tell each other such a lot. Now if you want to know how I happened to get here you must promise not to say a word to her. Will you?"

"Very well," returned Elizabeth, regretfully. "I won't tell her. But, Val!"

"What is it?"

"I have not promised not to tell Aunt Caroline."

"Aunt Caroline! Why, she is the person of all others that I don't want to have know it. What on earth do you mean, Elizabeth?"

The little girl was standing by the dressing-table. For a moment she did not speak, and she slowly turned over, one by one, the pile of unopened letters which had been lying there so long.

"If I promise not to tell, are you going to explain why you came and all about it?" she asked.

"Yes--every word."

"Oh, I do want to know so much! And if I tell Aunt Caroline you are here, what will you do?"

"I sha'n't explain a word of it, and I will never have another thing to do with you. I shall always think you are the meanest girl in creation, and so you will be. I shall just wish you were not my sister. Oh, jiminy! why aren't you Marjorie? _She_ would have helped me out."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.