CHAPTER VIII.

MARGERY'S PLAN.

THE next morning Margery ate her breakfast of rolls and a bowl of blueberries and milk without in the least realizing what she put into her mouth. Her family was used to her abstractions, which usually ended in the announcement of some wonderful discovery or new verses, and paid no attention to her far-away look on this particular morning. She did her practising as faithfully as ever, but with such evident forgetfulness of what she was about that her mother came all the way down-stairs to ask her to defer it to another time, when her thoughts should be untangled. Accordingly she arose and went up-stairs, brushed her hair, and braided it with great care, donned her clean blue chambray with her favorite white ruffles, and went forth in solemn excitement towards the Evergreens, to unfold her plan to Mr. Dean.

She found him in the library putting his books and magazines in a case, in view of his coming departure. Margery's face clouded at the sight, but brightened again when she remembered that she had come to stay him.

"Why, what brings you so early, little dove?" asked Mr. Dean, brushing the dust from his knees as he rose to welcome her. "And all alone? How is it that you have flown away with none of your flock?"

"I did not want the rest," replied Margery. "I came to see you about something important."

"And I am very glad to have you all to myself," said her friend. "Come here, and sit by me on the sofa. You will not slip off of this one as you do from that slippery hair-cloth thing in the parlor. Now, what is the great matter that you have to tell me? Anything wrong with the post-office?"

Margery arranged herself beside him on the sofa, crossed her ankles, smoothed her dress, clasped her hands in her lap, and immediately unclasped them to remove her hat, folded them again, and was ready to begin.

"You see," said Margery, "I was thinking about your going away, and about Miss Isabel."

Mr. Dean looked rather startled.

"That is a queer subject for your thoughts, Margery," he said.

"I think that you are sorry that you are not friends with Miss Isabel," Margery continued.

"I am very sorry that I am not friends with Miss Isabel," Mr. Dean repeated gravely.

"Now I think Miss Isabel doesn't know," said Margery.

"Doesn't know what, little dove?" Mr. Dean asked.

"I don't know, but she doesn't know something," Margery replied. "Miss Isabel's this way: if anybody does anything she doesn't like, she always forgives them right away, before they ask her to, and if anybody's bad she says maybe they aren't what they seem. Now you're nice, and yet you're the only one she acts so queer about. I've puzzled and puzzled over it, and I can't see why it is, but I know she doesn't understand. I think you're friends all the time, only it's all horrid."

"Well," said Mr. Dean, smiling a little, "I think it's rather horrid myself."

"Yes," assented Margery. "Now why don't you send her a letter through our postoffice, and tell her how badly it makes us all feel?"

Mr. Dean sat up straight, and looked at her.

"I never once thought of the little post-office!" he cried.

"You're both members," Margery went on, "and you're the only ones who haven't written to each other. Now don't you think Miss Isabel would be pleased if you wrote her through our little post-office? Maybe she feels slighted."

"Margery, it's an inspiration," cried Mr. Dean. "And I could address it to Miss Alma Cara."

"Oh, yes, you'd have to, because that's her post-office name, only it's not _Miss_, it's _Lady_ Alma Cara. And you know it would be all part of our play, and yet it wouldn't, because it's dreadful not to be friends with people; but she wouldn't mind so much if you wrote her that way."

Mr. Dean was walking up and down the room by this time, and he came over and stood before Margery.

"Did you ever hear that Solomon was a little girl before he grew up?" he asked.

"I never heard about Solomon when he was little, but I guess he was a little boy," replied Margery.

"Well, I am sure that he was a little girl with a pale face and blue dress, and that some good fairy made him into a king when he was big enough, and the same good fairy brought him here to me to-day, once more in the form of a little girl," said Mr. Dean.

Margery laughed.

"Do you think it is a good plan?" she asked delightedly.

"Good plan, Margery?" cried Mr. Dean. "Solomon himself could have thought of no wiser. I'll try it, and you will carry Miss Isabel the letter." He took her face in his hands and kissed her hair. "You dear little soul," he said, "I think that you will grow up a second Miss Isabel."

And Margery felt that in all her life she could never again have such praise as this.

"Will you write it soon?" she asked, putting on her hat, and pulling its elastic from the ribbon on the end of her braid.

"You'll find the letter in to-morrow morning's mail," replied Mr. Dean. "I shall be in more of a hurry about it than you are."

"And if you and Miss Isabel were friends you wouldn't go away, would you?" asked Margery wistfully, turning back in the doorway.

"In that case I promise to stay--oh, no one knows how long," said Mr. Dean; and Margery ran down the walk with hope and joy speeding her steps.

She found Tommy Traddles watching for her return, for he was devoted to his little mistress, and sat at the door on the lookout, and crying for her when she was out, which was proof that she made life pleasant for him when she was at home, for if any animal appreciates being treated with attention it is the cat. He arose, welcoming her with loud mews, alternating with the softest murmurs, and jumping up on a table, where he could rub his head against her cheek, and give her hands sundry pats with his white paws. Then he ran away and hid behind the door, solely for the pleasure of jumping out at her, and then waited for her to hide, which she did behind the sofa, and when she cried "Coop!" Tommy Traddles came creeping softly to look for her, and when he found her, sprang up on the sofa, and gave her a pat, instantly running away to hide himself, as if he said, "Now you're _it_; come find me." When hide-and-seek grew tiresome, Tommy Traddles went to get the stick which was his favorite plaything, and brought it to Margery in his teeth, laying it at her feet, and rubbing his head against her, and making the most coaxing murmurs to induce her to whisk it about for him to run after. Margery never could resist his pleadings, and cat and child had a delightful frolic until both curled up on the big sofa, and fell into a long summer noonday sleep.

The afternoon seemed interminable to Margery, so full of impatience was she for the hour when her plan should be carried out. Jack, Trix, and Amy came over for three-cornered puss-in-the-corner and old-man-among-your-castle after tea, which helped her through the few hours that lay between then and bed-time.

When her friends had gone Margery slipped down into the orchard, through the wet grass, regardless of low shoes and damp ankles. She opened the drop-box--it was her turn to be postmistress--and thrust her hand down to the bottom. One letter was there, a big, thick one. She took it out; yes, she was right. Even by the starlight she recognized Mr. Dean's fine, clear hand. While they were playing he had come in the orchard gate and posted it.

She ran with it to the house, but she knew before she held it under the gaslight that she should find it addressed to Lady Alma Cara, Blissylvania, New York.

"Now if only Miss Isabel will forgive him, and he can stay here, and we can all be friends," thought the little conspirator.

She took the letter to her own room and put it under her pillow. The moon peeped in a little later and saw a small figure in its white night dress kneeling by the bed, and praying very hard for the success of the plan that might give happiness to the two friends whom Margery loved best. It was long before she went to sleep, and when she did it was to dream that Tommy Traddles had joined the club, and that instead of wearing the dove badge, he had two white wings growing from his striped back, and was flying over the orchard to take Mr. Dean a message from the President, saying that he had been appointed postmaster of Blissylvania, at Miss Isabel's request. And all night long she wakened at intervals to slip her hand under the pillow to make sure that the plump letter was still safe.