Classic Audiobook Collection - The Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhoades ~ Full Audiobook [family]

Episode Date: March 13, 2025

The Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhoades audiobook. Genre: family On a rainy New York day, a spirited, well-to-do little girl named Winifred spots a neighbor across the way and strikes up a friendship the only way she can - through an open window and sheer determination. The girl next door, Joy, is blind and lives in far humbler circumstances, yet her courage, good sense, and quiet dignity quickly upend every assumption Winifred has been taught about what makes someone a suitable companion. As the girls grow closer, Winifred finds herself navigating disapproving adults, awkward social rules, and the everyday logistics of making two very different lives fit together. Their friendship widens to include a small circle of struggling neighbors, including a boy named Jack whose future feels especially uncertain, and it draws Winifred into a web of long-suppressed grievances and whispered questions about Joy's past. When a stern and powerful figure takes an interest in the girls, Winifred must decide how brave she is willing to be for someone she has chosen as family. Warmhearted and quietly suspenseful, this classic children's novel explores compassion, class, and the fierce loyalty of true friendship. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:20:05) Chapter 02 (00:38:01) Chapter 03 (00:58:32) Chapter 04 (01:16:58) Chapter 05 (01:33:03) Chapter 06 (01:48:36) Chapter 07 (02:09:10) Chapter 08 (02:32:19) Chapter 09 (03:00:38) Chapter 10 (03:21:13) Chapter 11 (03:40:40) Chapter 12 (04:05:51) Chapter 13 (04:31:22) Chapter 14 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Chapter 1 of the little girl next door Getting Acquainted Rain, Rain, Rain, Oh dear, I'm so tired of looking at rain. I guess God has forgotten all about that promise he made after the flood was over. Gladys's voice sounded decidedly fretful, and the little face flattened against the window pane was a very disconsolate one indeed. Sarah looked up from her sewing. It is very wrong to speak in that way about things in the Bible, Miss Gladys.

Sarah spoke reprovingly, and the discontented expression on Gladys's face deepened. I don't care if it is wrong. I shall say it if I want to. I know there's going to be another flood this spring. Papa said so himself the other day. Sarah made no remark, but stitched away in silence. Gladys drummed with her fingers on the window glass and looked at out at the steadily pouring rain. After a minute or two, she began again. I don't see why I've got to stay in the house anyway, even if it does rain. Everybody else is out. I just saw two little girls not any bigger than me on the opposite side of the street, and they looked as if they were having an awfully nice time. If Papa were at home, I know he'd let me go out. Well, your Papa isn't at home,

and while he's away it's my business to take care of you and see that you don't get sick. You'll not go out in this poor, I can tell you, not if it lasts a week, so there's no use in your talking any more about it. I should think you'd be ashamed to be so discontented. I don't believe there's another little girl in New York who has as many beautiful things to amuse herself as you have, and yet you're never satisfied. Gladys's eyes wandered from the window around the pretty, luxurious room, to the baby house, the cooking stove, the phonograph, the toy theater, and the

bookcase filled with delightful storybooks. Her conscience gave her a little uncomfortable twinge. It was quite true. As Sarah said, there were not many little girls who had such nurseries, but in a moment the discontented expression crept back into her face again. After all, Sarah did not understand. I can't see much use in having toys and things if I haven't got anyone to play with me, she said in the same fretful tone as before. I wish Papa would let me go to school. Sarah smiled, a rather provoking little smile, and bit off her thread with a snap. I wonder how long you'd like going to school. All school teachers ain't as nice and easygoing as Miss May, I can tell you. Gladys blushed.

and her eyes drooped. Her conscience gave her another uncomfortable little twinge, and in order to change the subject, she said rather hurriedly. Well, if I went to school, I'd know other little girls, and they could come and play with me, and we could have nice times together. Sarah sniffed. Not unless you treated them more politely than you did the little Anderson children the day they came to play with you. Gladys's lip began to quiver, and the tears came into her eyes. "'Now, Sarah,' she began in a voice that was not quite steady, "'you know very well that wasn't my fault.

"'How could I let them change my doll's names, "'and pretend Mrs. Edgerton and Aunt Susie were little girls, "'and put long clothes on Alexis Edgerton to play he was a baby? "'I didn't mean to be rude, Sarah. "'You know I didn't. "'But my dolls are a family, and I couldn't have all their names changed. "'Those girls didn't know how to play at all.' Sarah rose and began folding up her work.

Well, she said indifferently, you really are without exception the queerest child I ever did see. A doll's a doll, and what possible difference it can make whether you call it by one name one day and another name the next is more than I can understand. Now I'm going down to the laundry to press out my new dress. Mind you, don't get into any mischief while I'm gone.

I shan't belong. Sarah left the room, but Gladys didn't move from the low chair by the window, only she no longer looked out at the falling rain. There was a big lump in her throat, and she had to wink hard to keep back the tears. She felt very lonely and very unhappy. Sarah did not mean to be really unkind, but she never could understand about things. Make beliefs were never of any consequence to her. Gladys wondered how things would have been if her mama had not gone away to heaven when she was a tiny baby, and if she had had brothers and sisters to play with. Oh, dear, if it would only stop raining, if something interesting would only happen.

It was the fourth rainy day that week, and it was scarcely surprising that the little girl was beginning to find life indoors decidedly monotonous. She got up and wandered aimlessly about the room. Now looking at one toy, now at another. She paused before the bookcase with the idea of finding something to read. But she had read that day until her eyes hurt her, and besides, she was sure she had read every book in that bookcase at least three times over. She must ask Papa to buy her some new ones.

She turned away listlessly and went on into the back room, which was also hers and where she and Sarah slept. This room, too, was furnished with every comfort and luxury that heart could wish. Gladys walked to the back window, pushed aside the lace curtains, and stood looking out with a very faint hope of finding something to interest her.

The view from the back windows, however, was even less interesting than that from the front. There was nothing to be seen but yards, dripping fences and other people's back windows. She was just turning away again, with a rather impatient sigh, when her attention was attracted by something she had not noticed before.

The house next door had a large extension, one of the windows of which was almost on a line with the one at which Gladys was standing. And there, sitting at that very window, looking straight at her, Gladys saw a little girl of about her own age. She was a very pretty little girl with big blue eyes and long light curls,

and she was sitting in a low rocker with her hands folded in her lap. Gladys was sure she had never seen the little girl before, but that was not surprising, for the house next door was a boarding house, and the people there were constantly coming and going. Sarah was apt to rather look down upon the boarding house, and to remark that she believed Mr. Wentworth would soon have to move into a more aristocratic neighborhood, but these remarks had never made any impression on Gladys.

Indeed, it was not often that she thought about the next-door neighbors at all, And as she very seldom looked out of the back windows, she was not likely to know much about them. But now she found herself suddenly interested in this strange little girl, and she found herself thinking how very pleasant it would be if they could get acquainted, and if this strange child could come in and play with her. Sarah would probably object.

Sarah always did make such a fuss about her, playing with any children whose parents did not live in big houses and keep a good many servants. but then Papa and Sarah did not always agree on such matters. The little girl certainly had a very sweet face, and she was smiling, too, with a bright, pleasant smile. Almost involuntarily, Gladys smiled herself and nodded her head, but to her surprise the child did not appear to notice the friendly overture.

She was looking straight at Gladys, and yet somehow she did not act as if she saw her at all. What can she be thinking about? said Gladys, speaking out loud in her surprise, she looks as if it must be something very pleasant, but she won't notice me. Gladys nodded and smiled again, in an even more friendly manner than before,

but with no better result. The little girl next door still appeared quite unconscious of her existence. There must be something queer the matter with her, said Gladys more and more bewildered. Perhaps her mother or her nurse have told her she mustn't smile at people she doesn't know, but I think she's very rude. She does look awfully pleasant, though.

I don't believe she means to be impolite. I'll open the window and see if I can't make her speak to me. No sooner said than done. Gladys threw up the window sash and leaning as far out over the sill as she could, regardless of the rain that splashed in her face, called at the top of her shrill little voice, "'Little girl! Little girl next door, I want to speak to you!'

"'If the strange child could not see, she certainly heard. "'For Gladys saw her lean forward in a listening attitude, "'a puzzled expression on the sweet little face. "'Gladis's heart began to beat fast with excitement. "'Little girl!' she repeated. "'Little girl, open your window. "'I want to speak to you.' "'This time there was no doubt that the child next door heard

and understood. She rose quickly from her chair and shoved up the window. Did anyone call me? She asked in a clear musical little voice. The blue eyes were still staring straight into Gladys's flushed, eager face. Yes, I did, said Gladys promptly. I want to ask you why you wouldn't smile at me. I've been smiling at you and nodding my head, and you've been looking straight at me all the time, but you wouldn't smile back. The color rose, suddenly in the other child's pale little face. I can't see, she said. I can't see anything at all.

I didn't know there was anyone looking at me. Oh, gasped Gladys, her own eyes growing big and round with surprise. Do you, do you mean that you're blind? The stranger nodded. I have always been blind, she said. I'm sorry I didn't know you were looking at me. you must have thought I was very rude. Oh, no, no, said Gladys eagerly.

I didn't mind a bit. But are you really and truly blind? You don't seem a bit like the blind people I've seen in the street. You've got such nice eyes. They look just as if they saw things. The little girl next door flushed again, but it was unmistakably a flush of pleasure, for her smile was very bright.

I'm so glad, she said with evident satisfaction. I know my eyes look all right, and people who don't know me often think I see. I don't, though, not one single bit. I never have seen since I was born. Gladys's tender little heart was touched. Not that there was anything specially sad about the appearance of the child, who looked the embodiment of smiling content. Still, to be blind, to be always in.

in the dark. Gladys could not help a little shudder at the thought. I wish you'd come over here and play with me, she said impulsively. I've got lots of nice things to play with, and I'm awfully lonely all by myself. It's only next door, you know. You couldn't get wet going such a little way. The little girl shook her head resolutely, though Gladys felt sure she looked as if she would like to say yes. I'd like to come, she said a little bit. wistfully, but I couldn't. There isn't anyone to bring me, and I can't go out by myself. Couldn't your nurse bring you? Gladys suggested. I'd ask my nurse to go in for you, but she's so

cross and fussy. I'm afraid she wouldn't do it. The little girl next door laughed outright. You must excuse me, she said, recovering her gravity with an effort. But it did seem so funny to think of my having a nurse. Why, I'm almost 11. Well, I shall be ten next month, said Gladys. And I have a nurse? I know lots of people older than I am who have them, too. But if you haven't any nurse, couldn't your mother bring you? A shadow flitted across the child's bright face. I haven't any mother either, she said sadly. She died when I was a baby. "'Why, so did mine,' exclaimed Gladys, quite struck by the coincidence.

"'But I've got a Papa,' she added. "'You've got a father, haven't you? "'And brothers and sisters, perhaps?' The stranger shook her head. "'My father is dead, too,' she said, her lip beginning to quiver. "'He died three years ago, and I haven't any brothers, "'but with a sudden brightening face, "'I've got a sister, the very best sister in the whole world.

"'She takes care of me, and we do have lovely times together.' "'Ladis felt her interest in this new acquaintance deepening every moment. "'She leaned her elbows on the windowsill and prepared for a comfortable chat. "'Fortunately the rain had for the moment seized, "'and the spring afternoon was not cold. "'Well, can't your sister bring you over to play with me then?' she persisted. I know you'd like to hear my phonograph and feel all the things in the baby house. You could feel them, you know, even if you couldn't see them,

and I haven't had anyone to play with me for ever so long. My sister would bring me if she could, said the little girl. But you see she's out. She won't be at home before six. She never is. And who takes care of you when she isn't there? Gladys inquired with growing curiosity. Nobody.

I take care of myself. But how can you when you're bligh? I mean, when you can't see things. The child laughed again. I don't need to see to find my way around the house. I go down to luncheon by myself every day and the rest of the time I just stay here. But don't you ever go out to walk or drive?

Oh yes, my sister takes me out every Sunday. In the mornings we go to church and in the afternoons we have beautiful long walks. Sometimes we go for rides in the electric cars, too. Oh, we have beautiful times on Sundays. And all the other days you just stay in the house alone by yourself? The stranger nodded. Gladys thought of her crossness and discontent,

just because Sarah had kept her in the house on a rainy day, and conscience gave her a sharper twinge than it had given her before that afternoon. She had no time to ask any more questions, however, for at that very moment the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps fell upon her ears, and Sarah's voice, sharp with indignation, exclaimed, "'Miss Gladys, Miss Gladys, what in the world are you doing? Standing by an open window in all this dampness, I declare,

it does seem as if I couldn't turn my back for five minutes without you're getting into mischief of some kind.' And before Gladys could utter a word of four, protest or explanation. Sarah had pounced upon her, swept her away from the open window, and pulled down the sash with a bang. Wait, just one minute, Sarah, please. I'm talking to a little blind girl next door, and I want to say goodbye. And Gladys struggled wildly to open the window again, but Sarah was both strong and determined. You really ought to be ashamed of yourself, Miss Gladys. She grumbled, jerking the child back into the room with no very jubble. She grumbled, jerking the child back

into the room with no very gentle hands. To think of a big girl like you screaming out of the window, talking to strange, common children that you know nothing about? I heard voices when I was in the laundry, but I thought it was only some children playing in one of the yards. No, you needn't try to open that window again, for I shan't let you do it. But she wasn't a common child,

persisted Gladys, beginning to cry. She was a very nice little girl, and she's blind too. She told me she couldn't see a single thing, and she hasn't any father or mother, only a sister who goes out and leaves her alone all day. Oh, Sarah, please let me just say goodbye to her. You shall do nothing of the kind, said Sarah firmly.

I know all about that blind child. One of the girls next door knows our cook, and she was telling us about her the other evening. They must be very common people, not fit for you to associate with. For the sister's a shop girl or typewriter or something of that sort, and they have the smallest room in the house. I wonder what Mrs. Graham would have said of Violet or Daisy had wanted

to get acquainted with such people, but I'm sure neither of them would ever have thought of such a thing. Gladys gave an impatient sigh and submitted to the inevitable. When Sarah began on the subject of the Graham children's perfections, there was never the least use in arguing any point with her. Violet and Daisy Graham were the two little girls to whom Sarah had been nursed before she came to the Wentworths. Gladys had never met any member of the Graham family,

but she knew them all from Sarah's descriptions, and if there was one thing above all others for which the child felt devoutly thankful, that thing was that she had not been born a Graham. Gladys sulked for the rest of the afternoon, and cried a little when Sarah was not looking. Even when Sarah, having finished her sewing, proposed to play a game of lotto with her,

she received the request in stony silence, whereupon Sarah lost her temper again, and the afternoon was altogether a most uncomfortable one. A pleasant surprise came, however, just as Gladys was finishing her solitary supper. This was a telegram from Mr. Wentworth, who had been away on business for several days, stating that he was coming home that evening

and expected to arrive at about nine o'clock. Gladys was delighted, but Sarah sighed. I suppose you'll have to stay up till he comes, she said disapprovingly. But these late hours are terribly bad for children. Violet and Daisy Graham were always in bed in asleep by eight o'clock. Mrs. Graham said sitting up late spoiled their tempers and their digestions. Sit up, said Gladys scornfully.

Of course I shall sit up, and I shall ask Papa the very first thing when he comes in if I can't go in next door to see that little blind girl tomorrow. End of Chapter 1. Chapter 2 of The Little Girl Next Door. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox. org read by Marie Christian the little girl next door by Nina Rhodes chapter two joy

when Sarah had appeared so suddenly on the scene and swept Gladys away from the open window the little blind girl next door had remained standing for a moment her head still turned in a listening attitude but at the sound of the maid's sharp voice and the sudden closing of the window. She had drawn back hastily, and having closed her own window, had once more seated herself in the low rocker where Gladys had first seen her. There was a bright color in her cheeks, and for a few moments her happy face was clouded. I hope she won't be scolded, she said half aloud. She was so kind, and I did like talking to her so much. I'm glad I haven't any nurse, if that was her nurse who came to the window. She sat quite still for the next five minutes, her hands folded in her lap, and the happy, contented look came back into her face.

The little clock on the mantel struck four, and with a joyful exclamation the child sprang to her feet. Four o'clock, she cried. Now I can read until Aggie comes home. She walked quickly across the room to the closet. It was quite true as she had told Gladys, she could find her way about as easily as any sense. seeing person, and taking from the shelf a large, clumsy-looking volume, returned with it to her seat by the window, and spread it opened on her lap. It was a very odd-looking book indeed, for instead of having printed letters in it, it was filled with queer little dots, all of which represented letters or word signs, and were sufficiently raised from the page as to be easily distinguished by the fingers. The queer puzzling dot combinations were no mystery

to the blind child, and her fingers were soon flying over the embossed page, with almost as much ease and rapidity as the eyes of an ordinary child would fly over a page of common print. For some time the little girl read on in happy oblivion to all around her. Sometimes she paused for a moment to smile over something that evidently pleased her, and once or twice she laughed outright. She was roused at last by the sudden opening of a room door. and the sound of a sweet, clear voice saying cheerily, And what has my little joy been doing all this wet day by herself? Down went the big book, and up sprang the child with a cry of delight.

Next moment her arms were around the newcomer's neck, and she was kissing her rapturously. Oh, Aggie, what a lovely surprise! Why, it's only a little after five. I hadn't even begun to expect you yet. And, passing her hand over her, her sister's waterproof, you're not a bit wet, has it stopped raining? No, indeed, but I've had a bit of good luck this afternoon. Mrs. Winthrop's niece came to see her, and when she was leaving,

she said she would drive me home in her carriage. Wasn't it good of her? It was very early, but Mrs. Winthrop said I might go. And you really had a drive all the way home, said Joy, clapping her hands. And all day I've been thinking of you coming home in one of those horrid cars full of wet people. That just shows how silly it is to worry about things before they happen, doesn't it? Now take off your things and come and sit down. I've got something real interesting to tell you. The elder sister smiled, then glanced rather anxiously about the room. Any parcel come from me today, Joy? Joy laughed and clapped her hands again. No in Indeed, I know what you're thinking about, but it won't come back this time. I know it won't.

Agnes tried to laugh as she kissed the little eager face, but she stifled a sigh nevertheless. We won't despair till it does come anyway, will we, dear, she said. This publisher has kept it so much longer than any of the others that I am really beginning to hope a little myself. Then she turned away to take off the shabby old waterproof and the hat that was seeing its third year of service. She was sometimes almost glad that Joy could not see how very shabby that hat was growing. Joy was always so fond of hearing about pretty clothes. And now, my pet, tell me all about that interesting thing. Agnes had drawn up a chair to her little sister's side and taken Joy's hand in hers.

They were very much alike those two, although Agnes was 21 and Joy not even 11. Joy laughed her happy, affectionate little laugh and gave her sister's hand a loving squeeze. Yes, I will, but first I must begin at the beginning and tell you all about the day. Well, when you first left this morning, I made the bed and dusted the room as I always do, and watered my dear little geranium. There are three new buds on it. Isn't that nice? I was so pleased when I found them that I just danced. Then I studied my history real hard for ever so long. It was quite interesting, too, all about Cromwell and the Commonwealth. Well, then it was pretty near lunchtime, so I washed my hands and

brushed my hair, and as soon as the clock struck one I went downstairs. Lunch was very good today. There was a nice cold lamb and preserved plums. Mrs. Smith scolded and said the meat was tough, but nobody ever minds her. They were all very kind to me, and Mrs. Smith's Porter asked me questions about my books and said she would take me for a walk in Central Park someday when she wasn't too busy. Mrs. Smith wanted to know why you didn't send me to a blind school, and I told her it was because we couldn't either of us get on without the other, and that you taught me every evening. After lunch I came back here and did a little knitting, then I played imaginary people, come to call on me. First Miss Latimer came. You remember I told you about her.

She is the very pretty young lady who goes to so many parties. And then Estelle Durant, and I made believe I gave them afternoon tea, and little cream cakes with chocolate icing on them. And they told me about all the nice times they've been having. I was just in the middle of it and was really enjoying it very much when the interesting thing happened. All at once I heard someone calling out quite loud. Little girl, little girl next door, open your window. I want to speak to you.

I felt sure it must mean me, so I jumped up and opened my window, and sure enough, it was that little girl who lives next door. Don't you remember you told me about her last Sunday when we were coming in from church, and she was on her front steps with a gentleman? You said she had such nice soft hair

you were sure I would like to feel it. She had been nodding and smiling at me, and when I wouldn't smile back, she wanted to find out the reason why. So she opened her window and called out. Of course I explained things, and then she asked me to come over and play with her. I told her I couldn't go out by myself, and she wanted to know why my nurse couldn't bring me. I thought that was very funny, and I told her how old I was.

But she didn't seem to think that made any difference, and said she knew people who were just as old as I am and have nurses just the same. She is nearly ten, and she has one, but she hasn't any mother, only a father. father. I was telling her about you and was just going to ask her her name. When someone came to the window, I think it must have been her nurse, and scolded her for standing in the dampness. Then they both went away and shut the window, and I was so sorry, for I did want to find out what the little girl's name was. And was that all the adventure? Agnes asked, a little disappointed perhaps. Yes, that was all, but it was really quite interesting, don't you think so?

Very soon after that it was four o'clock, and I knew I could read Little Lord Fontelroy till you came home. I had been looking forward to that all day, for I knew I could have a good long read. You know, I am trying to make the story last just as long as I can, so I only allow myself to read twelve pages a day. But yesterday, just as I was beginning to read, Miss Scott came in, and she stayed so long that I only had time to read three pages before you came in, and that left 21 for today. Agnes stifled another sigh, and her fingers tightened lovingly over the little hand. How you do love reading, don't you, Joy, she said softly, better than almost anything else in the world, especially reading with my fingers. If I could only buy you more books, the elder says,

said, with a rather wistful glance around the small, shabbily furnished room. That is one reason I shall be so very happy if the publishers ever do take my book. It will be lovely when they do take it, said Joy enthusiastically. You mustn't keep all the money for me. You must buy lots of pretty clothes for yourself. And, oh, Aggie, do you suppose there would be enough left to pay for our going away to the country this summer? That would be so beautiful, wouldn't it? There must be money enough to pay for that whatever happens, said Agnes, her face growing suddenly grave and troubled. I can't keep you in the hot city all summer again. You will be ill as you were last year.

Oh, no, I won't, said Joy brightly. It will be lovely to go to the country if we can afford it, but if we can't, why, it won't matter. We can go to the park sometimes, and I can smell the flowers and hear the birds. That will be almost as good as the real country. There was a short pause. Joy nestled her head comfortably on her sister's shoulder, and Agnes slipped an arm around the little figure. Joy was the first to speak. Aggie, she said abruptly as though struck by a new idea, haven't we got any relations? The elder sister gave a slight start. Relations? Why, No, dear, I don't think we have. That is, none nearer than second cousins. There is cousin Julia Randolph. You remember her, don't you? Oh, yes, she was very kind to us when Papa died,

and it was some friend of hers who knew Mrs. Winthrop and told her about you. But I wasn't thinking about Papa's people. I know he hadn't any near relations. I was wondering if Mama hadn't any. What put that idea into your head? Agnes inquired. in some surprise. It was something they said at lunch today. Miss Scott and Mrs. Oakley were talking about it. The color that Joy could not see rose in Agnes's cheeks, and she bid her lip with annoyance, but her voice was sweet and tender as it always was when she spoke to her little blind sister. What were they saying? Well, Mrs. Oakley, you know she hasn't been here very long, and I think she must be a rather curious person, asked her.

Miss Scott, who took care of me when you were out, and when she said I took care of myself, Mrs. Oakley asked if we hadn't any other relations. Then Miss Scott told her all about us, how we used to live in the South and were rich until Papa died and all the money was lost. Mrs. Oakley said you didn't talk like most Southerners, and Miss Scott said she believed our mother came from the North. Then Mrs. Oakley asked what our mother's name was before she was married, because she said I looked something like a lady she knew long ago. And Miss Scott said she didn't know that, but she was sure anyone could see we came of a good family.

And, and that was all, except that Mrs. Smith, who had been listening all the time, said it seemed rather queer that we shouldn't have any relations at all. She laughed in that funny way she does sometimes, and somehow it made me a little uncomfortable. And as I had finished my lunch, I came upstairs. But I couldn't help wondering whether we really did have any relations or not. Agnes was twisting one of Joy's long curls around her fingers. She was silent for a moment.

Then she said slowly, I will tell you all I know about Mama's people, Joy, but that isn't very much. You know, I was only 11 when she died, and I never heard Papa mention her family. But I remember that once when I was quite a little girl, she told me that her mother had died before she left home, and that she had never had any brothers or sisters. She was very, very fond of her father,

and he was devoted to her until, until she did something that made him very angry, and after that he would never see her or speak to her again. It nearly broke her heart, but he was very firm and very obstinate, and so, though she knew he loved her all the time, he would never forgive her, and even sent her letters back unopened.

Joy was leaning forward now, drinking in every word of her sister's story with almost breathless interest. He must have been very cruel and very wicked, she said in a tone of conviction, to treat his own daughter like that. But what had Mama done that he couldn't ever forgive? Agnes hesitated.

Mama never told me exactly, but I think, indeed I am almost sure. He didn't like Papa. Not like Papa? Oh, Aggie, how could that be? Papa was so good. Everybody loved him. Well, you see, dear, Papa was a southerner and Mama's father hated the South.

It was not very long after the war then, and people felt much more strongly on these subjects than they do now. Our grandfather had lost his only brother in the war. He died in a southern prison. Papa had fought in the war, too, you know, but on the other side. It was all very sad. Joy was silent for a moment, then she said, It was all very dreadful, but if Mama had only lived, I am sure her father would have forgiven her at last, and everything would have been all right. I wonder if he is alive now, and if he would like to know us.

I don't know, I'm sure, said Agnes, smiling. He must be an old man now. He may be dead. I wish we could find him, said Joy thoughtfully. Why, my pet? Because I'm afraid he must be very lonely. You said he hadn't any other children except Mama, and perhaps most of his old friends are dead by this time. Then I think he must be very unhappy when he remembers how cruel and unkind he was. You dear little tender-hearted girl, said Agnes kissing her.

I believe that you would make the whole world happy if you could. But there is the clock striking six, and I must hurry and dress, or I shall be late for dinner. Joy was unusually thoughtful that evening. She had very little to say at dinner, and even later when they had gone back to their room, and she had recited her history lesson, and worked out some examples in arithmetic, with Agnes's help. She had still very little to say. No further allusion, however, was made to the subject of the afternoon until Joy was in bed.

And then, just as the elder sister was sitting down to do a little necessary mending before retiring herself, the child suddenly lifted her head from the pillow and inquired. Aggie, what was Mama's name before she was married? Agnes looked up with a start of surprise. Still thinking about that? said Agnes laughing. It seems a very strange thing to say, I suppose, but really, Joy, I don't know. You see, I was such a little girl when Mama died, that she had never happened to mention it to me, and I always had a feeling that it was something Papa didn't like talking about, so I never asked him.

I sometimes wish I had asked, though, for it seems so queer when people ask me not to be able to tell them my own grandfather's name. Joy gave a little sigh. I don't suppose we could possibly find him then, she said. Agnes's eyes flashed and her sweet face was a little hard as she answered. I don't know that I should care to find him. He treated Mama and Papa very cruelly. Yes, Aggie, I know, but you know you said Mama was sure he loved her all the time and I know he must have been very unhappy afterward.

I think he might be a little glad to find us, especially if he's very lonely. And, and I was just wondering if he would, wouldn't be proud of you when he heard how you paid all the debts after Papa died, even though there was so little money left. And cousin Julia and all the rest said you were foolish. And I was wondering, too, if he wouldn't be just a little bit sorry when he knew how very hard you do have to work. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of The Little Girl Next Door. This is a Librevox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Marie Christian, The Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhodes. Chapter 3. Gladys

has her way. Gladys did not forget her intention of speaking to her papa on the subject of the little girl next door. It was after 9 o'clock that evening when Mr. Wentworth reached home, But despite all Sarah's remonstrances and assurances that such conduct had never been heard of in the Graham family, Gladys was still up and dressed, and she flew to meet her father at the front door, and was soon settled comfortably on his knee. Mr. Wentworth was very fond of his little daughter. Sarah declared he spoiled her outrageously, and perhaps Sarah was right. He listened with a smile to all Gladys had to tell him of what she had been doing during his absence, but when she came to the account of the afternoon's experience, he looked rather grave.

I really was dreadfully lonely, Gladys finished rather mournfully. It's just horrid never to have anyone to play with. Don't you think it was very unkind in Sarah not to let me talk to the poor little blind girl? Sarah was right not to let you stand by the open window if she thought you might take cold, said Mr. Wentworth with decision. But I think she might have let you explain matters to the little girl. I wish I knew of some nice children to come and play with you sometimes, but I thought the last experience in that line didn't turn out very well.

Now, Papa, please don't talk about that, said Gladys pouting. I told you what very disagreeable girls those were, and how they wanted me to do things I couldn't possibly do. I'm quite sure this little blind girl isn't like them. Oh, Papa dear, won't you? please let me go and see her tomorrow? Just think she hasn't anyone in the world to take care of her, except one sister, and she's away all day long. She must be dreadfully lonely, and she can't see a thing. She told me so. Mr. Wentworth hesitated. Gladys's little eager face was raised

to his in earnest pleading, and something in her description of the lonely blind child touched him oddly. Well, he said rather doubtfully, I scarcely know what to say. You know I don't care to have you play with children whose families I know nothing about. And yet in this case, Miss Scott, who keeps the boarding house, is a lady, and I am sure her boarders must all be respectable people. I don't think there can be any harm in you calling on the child. Sarah will go with you, of course, and she can judge by appearances what sort of people they are. But what are we thinking of, 10 o'clock and you not in bed. What will Sarah say to us? Now give me a kissed little woman and run off to bed like a good girl. Gladys, having gained her point, had no further objection

to going to bed, and after bestowing on her father a rapturous embrace, she flew upstairs to impart to Sarah the delightful news that Papa had given his consent, and she was going to see the little blind girl tomorrow. Whatever Sarah's private opinion on the subject may have been, she had the good sense to keep it to herself. She had a great respect for Mr. Wentworth, who paid her liberally for her care of his little daughter, and always treated her with kindness and consideration. She could not resist remarking that she was quite sure Mrs. Graham would never have permitted Violet or Daisy to visit an unknown child who lived in a boarding house, but she made no further objections and Gladys fell asleep with a light heart and the happy consciousness that she should

certainly renew her acquaintance with her interesting neighbor on the morrow. Her determination remained unshaken and even before she was dressed next morning she had run to the back window to try and catch a glimpse of the little blind girl. In this hope, however, she was disappointed, though she did see a very pretty young lady who came to the next window to pull up the shade, just as she was peepy. keeping through the curtains, and she felt sure this young lady must be the elder sister of whom her new acquaintance had spoken. She would have liked to have made her call immediately after breakfast, but that she knew to be impossible. Miss May, the daily governess, came every morning from nine till eleven, and even Papa, indulgent as he was, would not allow lesson hours to be interfered

with. So Gladys had to content herself with being even less attentive to lessons than you, usual. And indeed, she was so restless and troublesome that good-natured Miss May at last lost her patience and told her sharply that if she did not behave better tomorrow, she should be obliged to complain to Mr. Wentworth. As the clock began striking eleven, Gladys was on her feet with the joyful exclamation. "'11 o'clock, Miss May, now I can't I?' Miss May sighed and closed the geography book with an air of resignation, but Gladys was already in the closet searching for hat and jacket. Sarah, Sarah, she called impatiently.

Are you ready? I'm through. Sarah appeared, stern and disapproving, but outwardly calm. Miss May manifested a desire to remain in chat with the maid, possibly on the subject of Gladys's delinquencies, but the little girl speedily nipped any such dangerous. topic in the bud you must please excuse us right away miss may she said pulling impatiently at Sarah's skirts as she spoke I've got a very important engagement this morning oh miss Gladys how can you be so rude

remonstrated Sarah as she and her little charge having closed their own front door behind them were mounting the steps of the boarding house next door you know perfectly well there wasn't the least hurry about your going out this morning Gladys looked a little ashamed, but she was saved the necessity of a reply, for at that moment the door was opened by a neat servant girl, and she suddenly remembered something that she had hitherto quite forgotten. She did not know her new friend's name. Is Miss, I mean, is the little blind girl at home? She faltered, feeling suddenly rather shy and uncertain how to proceed. To her relief, the girl smiled. "'Little Miss Joy, you mean?' she said readily. "'Oh, yes, she's at home. Do you want to see her?' "'Yes,' said Gladys.

"'Tell her it's Gladys Wentworth, but I forgot. She doesn't know my name either. Tell her it's the little girl next door.' The girl smiled again and showed Gladys and Sarah into the parlor, while she went upstairs to deliver the message. She returned in a very few moments to say that Miss Joy would be very glad to see her, her visitor and would Gladys please walk upstairs. It was with a beating heart that Gladys, in accordance with this request, ran lightly up the two flights of stairs to the third story, followed more slowly by the disapproving Sarah. The door of the small back room was open,

and in the doorway her sweet face, radiant with pleasant anticipation and both hands extended and welcome, stood joy. Oh, I'm so glad to see you, she said, leading the way hospitably into the room. I told my sister all about you, and she was so interested. I didn't believe you would really come, but I hoped you might. Now won't you sit down? Drawing forward the low rocker in which she spent so many hours each day. There's someone with you, isn't there?

I thought I heard another step. Yes, said Gladys. It's Sarah. She's my nurse, you know. She spoke rather indifferently, but Joy took. turned at once to the maid with sweet cordiality. I'm very glad to see you, too, she said. Please sit down.

There aren't many chairs, but this one's all right. Just wait till I take my big book off it. What a very big book! exclaimed Gladys with eager curiosity, while Sarah, who really had a kind heart, underneath her prim, fussy ways, looked mollified and murmured a polite thank you as she took the offered seat. The mention of the book led to an explanation from Joy, and Gladys, and even Sarah, looked on with deep interest while she described the queer little dots to them and read a few paragraphs and answered to Gladys's eager, Do show me how you do it.

It was all very wonderful, and Gladys' interest in the blind girl deepened every moment. Do you know, she said laughing when Joy had finished explaining, and put the big book away in its place. I didn't know your name, and I had to ask at the door for the little blind girl. I don't believe you know my name either. Oh, yes, I do, said Joy. At least I know your last name is Wentworth. Miss Scott told me so last night at dinner. She heard us talking at the window, and she asked me about it.

She didn't know your first name, though. My whole name is Gladys Mortimer at Wentworth, said Gladys proudly. And mine is Joy St. Clair. Joy, what a very queer name, exclaimed Gladys. It sounds like a name in a storybook. My real name is Joyce, Joy exclaimed, but everyone has always called me Joy. Papa liked it because it was my mama's name. She was always called Joy, too.

I think Joy St. Clair is a very beautiful name, said Gladys, fearing her friend might have considered her last remark rather rude. Have you always lived in New York? No, we lived in Virginia till after Papa died. We had a big plantation, and it was such a lovely home. Why don't you live there now? Gladys inquired rather bluntly, with a glance around the plainly furnished boarding house bedroom. Joy flushed slightly. Because we couldn't afford it, she said. Papa failed just before he was taken ill, and afterward there was very little money left. Our old home had to be sold, and, as well, Agnes and I came here to New York to live.

Weren't you very sorry to lose your old home? Gladys asked sympathetically. Yes, indeed, it was such a dear old place, but it was harder for Agnes than it was for me, because she was so much older and she lived there so much longer. I think she minded selling her horse more than anything else. He was such a beautiful horse, jet black with just one white spot on his forehead.

She called him Black Beauty because he was just the like the picture of black beauty in the story. He would go so fast, and he was as gentle as a dog, and would follow Agnes all over the place. She was so fond of him, and sometimes she would put me on his back and lead him up and down the avenue in front of the house. Oh, it was such fun. Agnes cried the morning he went away to be sold, and so did Josh, our old black coachman. I hope my papa will never fail, said Gladys a little apprehensive. We haven't got a plantation, but we've got a lovely country place at Clam Harbor. I've got a pony too, a darling little bay one, and some guinea pigs and ever so many bunnies.

It must be very disagreeable to lose your money and have to live in a boarding house. Sarah looked rather shocked at this want of tact on the part of her little charge, but Joy did not seem to mind. It isn't so bad when you get used to it, she said cheerfully. all the people in the boarding house are very kind and does your sister go out and leave you every single day gladys went on not noticing sarah's warning shake of the head she has to every day except sundays she is a companion to a poor old lady who is so crippled with rheumatism that she never goes out all winter long agnes reads to her and writes her letters and does everything for her all day she is quite kind though and sometimes she lets Agnes come home early on Saturday afternoons. And yesterday, you know how it rained. Well,

she let Agnes come home at five o'clock instead of at six, because her niece offered to take Aggie home in her carriage. We both thought it was very kind. And what do you do with yourself all day? inquired Gladys with another glance around the room. Where do you keep your toys? I haven't any toys. I used to have them at home, but we had to leave them behind when we came away. There wouldn't have been room for them, you know. I have my books, though, and I love reading better than almost anything else in the world. Agnes taught me to read. Wasn't it clever of her?

She teaches me lots of other things, too. Then I knit some of the time, and I make up stories, and play imaginary people come to see me. Gladys looked much impressed. That must be very interesting, she said. I should like to play it, too, if you would teach me how. But you don't really like learning less. Do you? Oh, yes, I like it very much.

At least I like some lessons. I don't care for arithmetic, but Aggie thinks I will like it better when I know more about it. She teaches me every evening. I hate lessons, said Gladys frankly, and now it was Joy's turn to look surprised. Before she could express her surprise in words,

however, there was a knock at the door. A parcel for Miss St. Clair, said the servant, entering, and depositing a large flat package on the bed. A boy left it. There's nothing to pay. All the color went suddenly out of Joy's face. She said nothing,

but when the servant had left the room, she rose and walking over to the bed, touched the parcel with one trembling little hand. Then to Gladys's amazement, she suddenly put up both hands before her face and burst into a perfect passion of tears. Oh, what is it? What's the matter?

cried Gladys, running to her new friend's side and slipping an arm about her waist. It wasn't anything I said that made you cry, was it? Oh, I'm so sorry. Oh, no, no, sobbed joy. It wasn't that, but it's come back again, and Aggie will be so dreadfully disappointed. What's come back? Gladys inquired, more and more bewildered. You don't mean that parcel the girl just brought in, do you? Yes, it's her book, her beautiful book, that it took her nearly a whole year to write. She read it to me, and it's such a lovely story. I was so proud of her, and I thought the publishers would love it, but they don't. They all send it back.

This is the fourth one, and he kept it so much longer than the others that I began to hope he was really going to take it. Oh, I think it will almost break Aggie's heart. "'My papa's a publisher,' said Gladys. "'Have you sent it to him?' "'No, I don't think so,' said Joy, making a great effort to check the sobs which seemed choking her. "'Is your father Wentworth and Company?' she added with a sudden recollection. "'Yes,' said Gladys.

"'A. L. Wentworth and Company. "'That's my Papa's firm. "'They've got a big store on Broadway. "'I go there sometimes to see Papa.' "'Yes, I know,' said Joy. "'Agie and I passed it once, and I asked her why she didn't send her book there. "'She said it wouldn't be any use because it was such a big place, "'and they only published very fine books.'

"'I'll tell you what,' exclaimed Gladys with a sudden inspiration. "'You let me have the book, and I'll give it to Papa. "'He'll publish it, I'm sure he will, "'when I tell him all about it and how disappointed you were.' Joy gave a little gasp and clasped her hands. You will? You really will? She cried rapturously. And I won't have to tell Aggie about it coming back again? I hid it the last time and kept it for two days, and then I had to tell her.

Perhaps your papa will see that someone really reads it. Aggie says she thinks some of the publishers don't even have it read. It looks when it comes back just as if it hadn't been touched. Oh, Gladys, I can't tell you how much I thank you. And with a sudden impulse, Joy flung her arms around her new friend's neck and hugged her. Gladys was deeply gratified and returned the embrace with a fusion. Papa will do almost anything I ask him to, she said confidently. I'll give it to him the very first thing when he comes home, and I'm sure it will be all right.

Miss Gladys, said Sarah, rising just at this interesting moment. I think you better say goodbye now, or it will be too late for your walk before lunch." Gladys looked as if she would like to rebel, but Sarah was firm, so with another goodbye kiss and a promise to come again very soon, Gladys departed, hugging the precious parcel tightly in her arms. "'Well, Sarah, isn't she the very nicest girl you ever saw?' exclaimed Gladys the moment the door of the boarding-house had closed behind them. She seems a very nice lady-like child, Sarah admitted with unusual graciousness.

The family have evidently seen better days. But Miss Gladys, she added severely, You did very wrong to take that book and promise that your father would publish it. It isn't at all likely he would even look at such trash. How do you know it's trash? demanded Gladys indignantly. Of course it's trash, said Sarah with decision. didn't you hear the child say that it had been refused by four publishers?

Gladys looked a little crestfallen. Well, I guess Papa will do it, she said hopefully, when I tell him about the poor little blind girl and how she cried. Your Papa isn't the only member of the firm to be consulted, said Sarah dryly. However, it's no concern of mine and you can show it to him if you choose. Gladys did choose, and when Mr. Wentworth reached home that afternoon, he was greeted at the top of the front stairs by his little daughter, holding a large flat parcel in her hand. Oh, Papa, she began scarcely waiting for his kiss. I want you to do something for me very much indeed. Will you please promise to say yes? I will if I can, said Mr. Wentworth, laughing. What is it, little one?

It's a book, said Gladys, speaking. fast and just a little nervously. Joy St. Clair's sister wrote it. Joy St. Clair is the little blind girl next door. I went to see her this morning, you know, and it came back while I was there, and she cried and said it would almost break her sister's heart. Sarah says I oughtn't to have promised you that you would publish it, because she thinks it's trash, but Joy said four publishers had sent it back. And oh, Papa, it was dreadful to see her cry so. She's blind, you know, she can't see a single thing. Gladys's eyes were full of tears,

and her father, who had been looking rather grave while listening to the story, smiled and patted her head kindly. There, never mind, little woman, he said, Is this the wonderful book? Well, let me have it, and I'll take it to the office tomorrow

and have one of our readers examine it. If it's trash, we can't do anything worse than send it back again. And with this slender consolation, Gladys was forced to, be content. End of chapter 3. Chapter 4 of The Little Girl Next Door.

This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Marie Christian. The Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhodes. Chapter 4. Happy Days The acquaintance so unexpectedly

begun was not allowed to drop. On the very next day, which happened to be Saturday, Sarah appeared with the request that Joy should spend the afternoon with her new friend next door, and take a drive in the park with Gladys and her nurse. Joy was enchanted, and flew about to get ready, with such a radiant face that Sarah's own face softened wonderfully, and when she spoke to the little girl, it was in a tone that Gladys seldom heard. What an afternoon that was! Afterward, Joy used to like to think of it and talk of it. Never in her life, even in the prosperous days in the South, had she dreamed of such wonderful toys as Gladyses.

The doll's house with every appointment complete, even to a doorbell, and laced pillow shams on the beds. The train of cars worked by electricity that would run on a miniature track and whistle and ring a bell at every curve. And above all, the phonograph, to which she never tired of listening, in which she privately considered the most marvelous invention in the world. Then the drive and the luxurious carriage, the bright sunshine, and the air fragrant with the perfume of budding lilac and wisteria.

Oh, it was all beautiful, beautiful. Gladys was in excellent spirits and gentler and more considerate than Sarah had ever seen her before. She was a rather selfish little girl, overindulged, and not always easy to please, but she had a kind heart, and the sight of the little blind girl seemed to bring out all that was best in her nature. It was a very pleasant feeling, too, to know that she was making someone else happy, and it required only one glance at Joy's smiling face to convince her of the fact that her new friend was very, very happy. Did you remember about Aggie's book? Joy had whispered the first

moment the two children were alone together. Yes, said Gladys. I gave it to Papa, and he said he would take it to the office and let one of his readers see it. Joy gave a sigh of relief. I am so glad, she said. Now perhaps it will really be read, and no one could possibly read it without finding out what a beautiful story it is. It was so fortunate Aggie forgot to ask me last night if any parcel had come for her. I was so afraid she would, and I shouldn't have known what to tell her, for I couldn't tell a story, you know, But she never said a word about it, and now if she asked this evening if anything came for her today,

I can just say no, and she'll go on thinking her book is still with the same publisher. It was after five when they came back from the drive, and when Sarah took Joy home, she found that the elder sister had already returned. Agnes was delighted to hear of the pleasure that had come to her little sister, and she thanked Sarah so prettily for her kindness to joy, and was altogether so gracious and so charming, that Sarah's heart was one from that moment. She's a real lady. She informed the cook on her return home. They may have met with reverses, and I dare say they have a hard time to get along, but I think after all my experience of living in the best families, that I may be trusted to know a lady when I see one. That drive was

only the beginning of pleasures for joy. Gladys, always an affectionate, impulsive little person, had taken a violent fancy to the little blind girl, and scarcely a day passed on which she did not send for her new friend, to play with her, or to take a walk, or drive in the park. Notwithstanding all the love and indulgence that was lavished upon her, Gladys had really been a very lonely child, and this new companionship was a most delightful experience in her life. Joy was always ready, always happy, and her sweet, bright nature was unconsciously bringing a new, good element into the big, luxurious house next door. Joy never wanted to change the doll's names.

To her, the Eagerton family were quite as real human beings as they were to Gladys, and the two little girls would play happily together by the hour. Then when Gladys found how fond her friend was of books, she suggested reading aloud to her, and the proposal was received with such gratitude that her vain little soul was flattered, and from that day forward, one of her greatest amusements was reading to joy joy was fond of lessons which

Gladys was not but Gladys had some ambition and the discovery that the little blind girl who had had so few advantages was so much more familiar with historical facts and personages than she was herself was a rather unpleasant one miss May began to find her little pupil more attentive in those days and rather less inclined to keep one eye constantly on the between the hours of nine and eleven. Mr. Wentworth was a very busy man, and though devoted to his little girl, he did not really see so very much of her. He had perfect confidence in Sarah, and left the arrangement of most things concerning Gladys in her hands. He had no near relations in

New York. His only sister lived in Boston, and on the one visit she had made to her brother in late years, she had had so much to say about the folly of spoiling children and about the manner in which her own little boys were brought up, that Gladys had taken an intense dislike to her, and had been so naughty and impertinent during her aunt's visit, that Mr. Wentworth had been actually a shame to invite her again. Mr. Wentworth was delighted to see his little girl so happy, and he listened with real interest to her detailed accounts of joy's perfections, but it so happened that he did not see the child himself until several weeks after her first acquaintance with Gladys. Then coming home one afternoon rather earlier than usual, he found the two children together

in the parlor. The little blind girl was at the piano, softly touching the keys and trying to pick out a simple tune that a hand organ had just been playing in the street. At sight of her father, Gladys jumped up with an exclamation of pleasure. Oh, Papa, here's joy. I do want you to see her so much. Mr. Wentworth smiled, but his glance was very kind as it rested on the sweet face with those big blue, unseeing eyes. Joy had risen at once on his entrance and now stood blushing and even trembling a little. To her, Mr. Wentworth was the great and omnipotent power in whose hands rested her sister's fate. Little did she dream that Mr. Wentworth, with his mind full of other things, had entirely forgotten the incident of the rejected manuscript.

He took Joy's hand very kindly and told her he was glad to see her, and that he had heard a great deal about her from his little daughter. Then his eyes wandered to the open piano, and he inquired, Were you not playing when I came in? Joy blushed more than before and looked decidedly embarrassed. Oh, I can't play, she said. I was only trying to remember a tune that the hand organ was playing outside. That is more than most of us can do, I fancy, said Mr. Wentworth. Are you fond of music?

Joy's face brightened. Oh, yes indeed, she said eagerly. I love it dearly. You ought to take music lessons, said Mr. Wentworth, looking interested. He was passionately fond of music himself, and it was a source of deep regret to him that, so far, Gladysius, had not appeared to care much about it. I met a young blind lady at a friend's house the other day who played remarkably well on the piano. I should like to take lessons very much, said Joy. Agnes, my sister, plays beautifully and sings too.

She would teach me, but you see, we couldn't afford to have a piano in our room, and Miss Scott doesn't like to have us use the one in the parlor, for fear it might disturb some of the old ladies. Mr. Wentworth laughed and said a few, more pleasant words and then went away up the stairs, but he did not forget the little incident. It was on the following Saturday morning that Gladys and Sarah made their appearance at the boarding house at a much earlier hour than usual. I've come to take you home with me to spend the whole day,

Gladys announced. It's my birthday, you know, and we're going to have a perfectly lovely time. In the first place, we're going out in the carriage, and I'm going to stop at Schwartz's toy store to buy my birthday present from Papa. He gave me $50 this morning, but I told him stupid old money wasn't a real present. So he laughed and said he would put it in the bank for me, and perhaps someday when I was grown up I might change my mind. Then he gave me $10 more and told me to buy just what I liked with it.

I decided to get a doll with a trousseau, and if there's any money left after that, we can stop at the phonograph place on the way home and get some new records. Then you're coming home to lunch with me, and our cook's going to make a beautiful birthday cake with icing and candles and everything. And after lunch, and this is the best part of all, Papa has got three seats for Flora Dora, and you and Sarah and I are all going. Won't that be splendid? Oh, gasped Joy, and positively could not say another word.

So much pleasure all crowded into one day fairly took her breath away. Papa said you must go because you're so fond of music, Gladys went on. He's just crazy about music himself, you know, and he wants me to take lessons next winter. But, oh dear, I know I can never learn. It must be awfully hard. But you will try to learn, won't you? said Joy a little anxiously. I don't think it can be so very hard. That is, not if you love it the way Aggie and I do. I don't know, said Gladys indifferently. If I don't like it, I suppose I shall stop. But if it would make your papa happy, there was no doubt about the anxiety in Joy's tone now.

He does so many nice things for you all the time. Oh, Gladys, I don't believe any girl in the world ever had such a good father as you have. I should think you'd just love to please him. Gladys looked a little uncomfortable. Oh, of course I shall try. She said rather hurriedly. I didn't mean I really shouldn't, but now do hurry and get your things. James will be here with the carriage in just a few minutes, and we've got such a lot to do this morning. Nothing more was said on the subject of Gladys's music lessons, but perhaps those few words of joys had not fallen on quite such barren ground as Sarah, who had listened with an approving countenance, had imagined. For several times that day they recurred to Gladys' memory, and that evening when she was bidding her father good night, she threw her arms around his side,

neck and kissed him with more affection than usual. Oh, Papa dear, she exclaimed, feeling half inclined to cry, though she could not have told why. It's been such a nice birthday, and now that I'm ten, I'm really going to try to like lessons better. Perhaps that birthday was the happiest of all those happy days to joy, the visit to the toy shop, the delicious lunch, and oh, best of all, the fascinating operetta with its gay pretty music. Joy scarcely spoke during the whole performance, but sat drinking in every note of music with rapturous enjoyment. She was indeed living in a beautiful, wonderful new world from which she did not emerge until they had left the theater and were on their way home. Wasn't it nice? said Gladys as Sarah closed the carriage door. Then Joy came back to reality with a

start. Nice, she echoed. It was too beautiful. I didn't know there was anything so lovely in the world. Gladys laughed. How you do enjoy things, don't you? She said a trifle patronizingly. Didn't you ever go to the theater before? No, never, said Joy, and was silent for several minutes until Gladys, who liked to talk much better than to think, inquired, what are you thinking about? I was just wondering, said Joy, smiling, whether there were any people in the world as happy as I am. Gladys opened her eyes wide in astonishment at this novel idea. Why, of course there are, she said. There must be lots and lots.

But Joy, are you always happy? Don't you wish you could do things and feel cross because you can't? Joy's bright face was just a little wistful as she answered. I can't help wishing for things sometimes, but I'm almost always happy. I used to be happy even when I was alone all day. And now, since I've known you, I've been happier still. I couldn't help it, you know, when you've been so awfully, awfully kind to me. What are your principal wishes? Gladys inquired with natural curiosity. Well, said Joy slowly, I do wish sometimes that Aggie didn't have to go to Mrs. Winthrop every single day, and that she had money enough to buy lots of pretty clothes. I wish she could go to parties sometimes, just as she used to before Papa died. You don't know how pretty she is when she's dressed for a party.

Mammy Lou, that was my old black nurse, you know, used to describe her to me, and I heard a gentleman and tell Papa once that Aggie was the bell of the season. That was just before Papa was taken ill, and Aggie has never been to a party since. But don't you ever wish for things for yourself, too? Gladys asked. Oh yes, I do sometimes, but I don't believe I ought, when I've got so many nice things. I can't help thinking sometimes how lovely it would be if we could live in the country, and I could have lots of books and a piano. Don't you ever wish that you could see? Joy shook her head.

I never think much about that, she said. I never have seen, you know, and I can't even imagine what it's like. Gladys asked no more questions, but it was not the first time that Joy's simple words had made her vaguely uncomfortable. It was not very pleasant to remember how often she herself wished for things and was cross and discontented because she could not have them. And yet she had so much more to make her life bright and happy than poor little joy. But all good things must come to an end at last, and it was only a few days later,

that Gladys told Joy that her Papa had decided to move out to his country place at Clam Harbor Long Island for the summer. Gladys was radiant over the prospect and had a great deal to say about her pony and doesn't other pets, but Joy looked graver than her friend had ever seen her look before, and Gladys hastened to cheer her up by saying, "'And you're to come and make a nice long visit this summer. I asked Papa this morning if I might have you, and he said certainly if I liked, and of course I do like. I'll take you to drive in my pony cart, and you shall feed the bunnies, and I'll read lots of nice stories to you.' Joy smiled gratefully. "'You're awfully kind,' she said.

but I'm afraid I couldn't leave Aggie. Then she can come too, said Gladys with reckless hospitality. She can sit on the piazza and read and talk to Papa in the evenings. Oh yes, and she can play on the piano too, just as much as she likes. Joy's face shone with pleasure. That would be just beautiful, she said. But I don't know whether Aggie would like to come or not. She doesn't know your Papa, you see.

Well, she'd get acquainted with him if she came, wouldn't she? said Gladys laughing. But you've got to come anyway whether she does or not. Joy said nothing, and Gladys chattered on about the pleasures in store for them both. The days flew by all too fast, and all too soon came the morning when Gladys ran in next door for the last time to say goodbye. The express wagon was at the door, and some of the servants had already left on an earth. train. Gladys was in the gayest of spirits and kissed joy with real affection. As for joy, she said very little, but clung tight to her friend and tried hard to choke down the big lump in

her throat. I shall never, never forget how good you've been to me, she faltered. I shall keep thinking about you all the time and when you come back next winter. But we shall see each other long before next winter, interrupted Gladys. You're coming to Clam Harbor in July. Even Sarah talks about it. But I can't stay any longer. Papa said I must only just say goodbye and then come right back. We're going in a little while. Goodbye, you precious thing, and don't forget you're coming very soon. In another moment the bedroom door had closed behind the visitor, and the little blind girl was once more alone. End of chapter four.

Chapter 5 of The Little Girl Next Door. This is a Librevox recording. All Libra Box recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. The Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhodes. Two letters. It was six o'clock on a very warm evening at the the end of June. For over a week, the weather had been almost unbearably hot in the city,

and all those who could possibly manage to do so were hurrying away from town to seaside or mountains. Most of Miss Scott's borders had gone away for the summer, and Miss Scott herself was talking of just taking a run-up to Vermont, to spend the fourth with a married sister. All the other houses on the block were closed, or tenant had owned. only by caretakers and their families. Mrs. Winthrop, whose rheumatism was worse than usual this year, still remained in town, and Agnes Sinclair sat patiently reading to the fretful invalid, or writing long, uninteresting letters at her dictation, while in the little hot boarding-house bedroom, Joy sat alone through the long June days, trying vainly to find the old amusement in reading and making up.

Hot weather did not agree with the little blind girl, and the elder sister's heart ached with an almost unbearable ache as she saw the little face she loved so dearly, growing paler and thinner day by day, and noted the weary languid note in the sweet voice that still had never one word of complaint to utter. On this particular evening, Agnes was feeling even more tired and anxious than usual. The day had been extremely hot. and Mrs. Winthrop's temper, never of the sweetest, had suffered in consequence. Her head ached and she was very tired, but she walked fast, in spite of the heat, for Joy was expecting her, and Joy must not be kept waiting. Miss Scott herself opened the front door to her border. "'Well, this has been a hot day, hasn't it?' she exclaimed as Agnes stepped into the hall, which did feel delightfully cool after the heat and glare of the street.

"'You look just about ready to drop to, you poor thing.' "'I am rather tired,' the girl admitted with a smile, "'but I suppose I ought not to mind heat, as I am a southerner.' "'Well, that poor little sister of yours minds it whether you do or not,' said the landlady a little sharply. "'That child doesn't look a bit well. "'She hardly tasted her lunch to-day. "'I brought her a glass of lemonade and some cookies a-south "'and some cookies a-savis.

afternoon, thinking she might like something. But when I went in to take away the glass and played a few minutes ago, I found she had only eaten one cookie, though she did drink the lemonade. Can't you manage to take her off somewhere for a little change? It would do her all the good in the world, if you could. Agnes shook her head sadly. I'm afraid not at present, she said. "'Mrs. Winthrop doesn't intend leaving town before August, and even then, I scarcely know. "'Do you really think Joy is ill, Miss Scott?' "'Well, I don't say she's exactly ill,' said the landlady, "'touched by the anxious expression on the elder sister's face.

"'But a change would certainly be a splendid thing for her. "'If my sister hadn't such a big family of her own that she never has room for anyone outside, I declare I'd take Joy to Vermont with me next week. I'm only going to be away a few days, but it would be better than nothing. You are very, very kind, said Agnes, impulsively holding out her hand, and Miss Scott saw that her lip was trembling. I must try and manage to give Joy a change this summer, though I can't see just at present how it is to be done.

Then Agnes hurried away upstairs to her room, and the landlady went off. to see about dinner. Joy was sitting in her old place, the low rocker by the window, with her big book on her lap. But as little Lord Fontoroy was now being read for the third time, it was only natural that little of the original interest should have worn off, and at the moment when Agnes entered the room, Joy's busy fingers were resting idly on the page before her, and she was leaning back in her chair with a listless, tired expression on the pale little face, that it wrung her sister's heart to see. But Joy's greeting was just as bright and eager as of old, and when Agnes had taken off her hat, the two sat down together, side by side, just as they had done on that other afternoon,

more than two months ago, when Gladys had first made the acquaintance of the little girl next door. Have you been very uncomfortable today, pet? Agnes asked, anxiously, laying her hand on Joyce. Oh, no, not very. It was pretty warm while the sun. was on this side of the house, but I kept the blinds shut. And what do you think? I really fell asleep and had quite a long nap. I had such a lovely dream, too. I thought you and Gladys Wentworth and I were all in the country together, and you were driving Gladys's pony, and my lap was full of flowers. Oh, it was such a nice dream, and when I woke up, such a pleasant thing happened. I was just feeling so thirsty and wishing I could have a nice drink of something cold,

when in came Miss Scott with a lovely glass of lemonade and some cookies. Wasn't it kind of her? Very, said Agnes, rather absently. Joy, she added after a moment's pause, Do you know I have made up my mind to write to that publisher again? Joy gave a violent start. It is nearly four months since I sent my story there, Agnes went on, and I have never heard one word. At first I tried to hope it was because they were really considering accepting it, but now I'm afraid they've either forgotten all about it or else that the manuscript has been lost. Oh, no, said Joy earnestly. I'm quite sure that hasn't happened. Oh, Aggie, dear, please don't write yet. Not for a little longer.

Please, please don't. Agnes started in astonishment at the little flushed, excited face that only the moment before had been so pale and languid. Why don't you want me to write, dear? she questioned, wonderingly. Because... Oh, never mind. Only, please wait just a little while longer, Agnes smiled. I suppose you think that just as long as we don't hear anything,

there is always the hope that they may take it, she said, softly stroking Joy's cheek. Well, I will wait another week. but I know it is only postponing the evil day. It's the most beautiful story in the world, said Joy with conviction. Someone will be sure to take it. I know. Oh, Aggie, dear, you will wait a little longer before you write?

Yes, I will, but I'm afraid it won't make any difference. The money would be so useful just now, even if it wasn't so very much. Joy, dear, don't you think it is rather strange that you've never heard a word from your little friend Gladys since she went to the country? Gladys hates writing letters, said Joy rather apologetically. She told me she never wrote when she could possibly help it. Didn't she say she was going to ask you to visit her? Yes, and I told her I couldn't possibly go and leave you at home all alone.

Agnes looked a little troubled. I wish you hadn't said that, dear. Why not? inquired Joy in a time. tone of astonishment. You wouldn't want to have me go, would you? Agnes's fingers tightened over the little hand, but she answered with forced cheerfulness, and why not, pussycat? Do you think you are of such vast importance that I couldn't possibly exist for a week without you? I thought you would miss me, said Joy simply. And so I should, more than I can tell, and yet if I knew that the change was doing you good, I think I should feel very happy about it.

You would like to go, wouldn't you? Oh, yes, I should like it very much if I knew you were having a good time, too. I love Gladys, and it would be beautiful to be in the country, and hear the birds and smell the flowers. But I couldn't enjoy it unless I knew that you were very happy. And I should be very happy, said Agnes quickly. I don't know of anything that would make me happier just now. I can't afford to pay for sending you away anywhere myself, and even if I could, I shouldn't know where.

Mrs. Winthrop isn't going before August, and if I should ask her for a week's vacation now, she might refuse to take me back again in the autumn. Perhaps Gladys may forget all about the invitation, but if she really does ask you, Joy, darling, I should like very much to have you accept. But we've never been away from each other at night, never, in all our lives. said Joy with a little quiver in her voice. I know that, my pet, and I dare say it would almost break my heart to part with you when the time came. But it would make me so happy to see the bright color in your cheeks again, and we need only be separated for a little while, you know.

I should feel safe about you, too. That Sarah is a good conscientious woman, and I should have no fear in trusting you to her care. Before Joy could answer, there was a knock at the door. Joy sprang to her feet. "'Let me open it,' she cried eagerly. "'You seem so comfortable, I don't want you to move.' She flew to the door, returning in a moment, with two envelopes in her hand.

"'Two letters, Aggie. "'Where do you suppose they're from?' "'One is for you,' said Agnes, taking it from Joy's outstretched hand. "'And, yes, I'm sure. "'It's from Gladys Wentworth, for it has the Clam Harbour postmark.' "'Oh, do read it!' cried Joy, to whom the receipt of the the letter was an event of considerable importance. Agnes tore open the envelope and read aloud. Clam Harbor, June 26th. Dear Joy, I want you to come to Clam Harbor next week, to stay just as long as you

possibly can. Let me know what day you can come, and Sarah will go to the city for you and bring you here. My pony is well, and all my other pets, and we will have lovely times together. I am very lonely, and Papa says he will be very glad when I have someone to play with. I hate writing letters, so I won't say any more. So please write, just as soon as you can, and tell me what day you will come. Sarah says to tell your sister she will take good care of you. I think Sarah likes you better than she does most people. Goodbye till you come.

From your loving friend, Gladys, Mortimer, Wentworth. Agnes looked up from the letter with a smile. "'How odd that it should have come just now "'while we were talking about it,' she said. "'You would really like to go "'if you knew it would make me happy, wouldn't you, darling?' "'You are sure you really do want me to go?' "'Joy questioned still a little anxiously.'

"'Quite sure was her sister's prompt reply. "'Then,' said Joy slowly "'and with a little sigh of intense satisfaction, "'I think I should like.' it better than anything else, except having your book accepted. You funny little girl, said Agnes, kissing her. Well, we will consider it settled then, and I will write a letter for you to Gladys after dinner, saying that you accept her kind invitation and will be ready the last of next week.

I don't think I could get you off before that. Your clothes all need looking after, and I must manage somehow to get you one new dress. Joy's bright face clouded. "'I wish you didn't have to do that,' she said regretfully. "'Do you really think I need it?' "'Yes, I really do,' said Agnes with decision. "'I can't have my little sister going visiting "'unless she's dressed like a lady.'

Joy sighed. When Agnes spoke in that tone, there was never the least use in arguing with her. But here's the other letter, she exclaimed with a sudden recollection, I was forgetting all about giving it to you. Agnes held out her hand rather indifferently. Her correspondence was never very interesting nowadays. Next moment, however, her manner changed and she exclaimed in astonishment. Why? It's from Wentworth and Company publishers. Perhaps Gladys's father has written to ask my consent to your going. How very nice of him isn't it? Joy made no answer. At the words Wentworth

and company publishers. Her heart had given one great bound and then almost seemed to stand still. Agnes tore open the letter, read the first line, then uttered a low, astonished cry, and sank back in her chair, trembling from head to foot. What is it? Oh, Aggie, what does it say? gasped Joy, seizing the paper which her sister, in her surprise, had let fall in her lap. It's about my book. Why, Joy, Joy, how can it be? I never sent the story there. Read it, read it, cried Joy almost beside herself with impatience. With an effort, Agnes recovered her self-possession, took up the letter again and read in a shaking voice.

Dear Madam, in reference to your story, a tangled web, which you placed with us some weeks ago, we would say that we have given the novel careful consideration and are so favorably impressed by it that we should be very glad to hear from you further on the subject. We would be pleased to make some satisfactory arrangement with you in regard to publication. Awaiting your reply, we remain very truly yours Wentworth and company publishers. And I did it. I did it all. "'All,' sobbed joy, her arms tight round her sister's neck. "'Oh, Aggie, I'm so happy. "'I didn't know anyone in the world could be quite so happy.

"'It was my secret. "'The story did come back from the other publishers, "'and I was so unhappy about it. "'I couldn't bear to tell you. "'Gladis was here when it came, and she felt so sorry. "'She said she would show it to her father. "'It was such a relief, for I knew you would think it hadn't come back and would keep on hoping all the time, and Gladys said she would ask her, Papa, please, to be sure and see that the story was read.

Oh, I've been so excited about it, and when you said you were going to write to those other publishers, I was so frightened. Oh, Aggie, darling, I don't know what makes me cry, but I'm so proud and so happy. I don't think I quite know what I'm doing. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 of The Little Girl Next Door. is a Libravox recording. All Liprovox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. The Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhodes At Clam Harbor. It was more than two weeks since that memorable, never to be forgotten evening,

and in the meantime many interesting and wonderful things had happened. In the first place, Agnes's book was really going to be published. And if the story proved as much as much, much of a success as the publishers confidently hoped, there was a prospect of ease and comfort for the future, such as poor tired Aggie had never dared, even in her most sanguine moments to hope for. As for joy, her heart was almost bursting with pride and happiness, but it would be some time yet before the book could be ready to come out,

and meanwhile, Agnes, being a sensible, cautious little woman, dared not run the risk of losing her present situation, and notwithstanding all joys and treaties was firm in her determination to remain at her post as long as Mrs. Winthrop stayed in town. In August I will take a nice little holiday, she said, and then we will go off somewhere together and be just as happy as the day is long. Miss Scott thinks we may be able to get good, cheap bored at that place in Vermont where her sister lives. She's going to inquire about it for us when she goes up there next week,

and in the meantime you will go to Clam Harbor and have a lovely visit with Gladys. So it was settled, and one afternoon in the following week Sarah appeared, and Joy clung about her sister's neck and cried a little, and Agnes cried too, though she pretended she was only laughing, and was very careful to dash away the tears before Joy could feel them. Then came the last parting kiss, and anxious, You'll take good care of her, Sarah, from Agnes, A heart he promised from Sarah, and then almost before Joy realized what was happening to her,

she was in the train, being whirled rapidly away from the great city, towards the scene of new pleasures and new experiences. Gladys gave her little friend of rapturous greeting, and had soon introduced her to the pony, the bunnies, and all the other inhabitants of the place. Mr. Wentworth, too, received joy very kindly, and altogether those first few days at Clam Harbor were very delightful ones, notwithstanding the fact that there were times, especially towards evening, when Joy would steal away by herself and indulge in a quiet little cry.

I know I'm very silly, and please don't tell Gladys, she explained to Sarah, when the maid came upon her suddenly while thus engaged one afternoon. But you see, it's just the time when Aggie gets back from Mrs. Winthropson, and I was always there, and I can't help being afraid she may miss me, just a little, though she said she shouldn't. Every day Joy wrote a long letter to her absent sister. They were queer-looking letters, and to some people they might have appeared

only unintelligible combinations of little-raised dots, but to Agnes those little dots were quite as intelligible as any ordinary writing would have been, and her tired face would brighten wonderfully as she read of the pleasant things that were continually happening at Clam Harbour. How one day Mr. Wentworth had taken both children for a sale in his beautiful,

yacht, and how another time they had gone black-burying in the woods, taking their lunch with them, and making the excursion into an all-day picnic. There was one fact, however, which Joy did not mention in her letters, and that was that two or three days after her arrival, Sarah had received a telegram telling of the serious illness of her mother, and begging her to come at once. Sarah was a very conscientious woman, and it was not without a good deal of reluctance that she decided to leave her two little charges, but her mother needed her, and of course she had to go. Mr. Wentworth was also somewhat disturbed, as none of the other servants were particularly reliable, and he knew from experience that his little daughter was not always to be

dependent upon insofar as not getting into mischief was concerned. He looked rather grave until Sarah, with a sudden inspiration, suggested that they might send for Miss May. A telegram was dispatched and was speedily answered. Miss May would be very glad to come, and would be in Clam Harbour on the following morning. Gladys was delighted. She really liked her good-natured young governess, especially when there was no danger of lessons being suggested, and at present she was not afraid of that, as Papa had promised to say a word to Miss May on the subject of summer holidays. Joy looked a little troubled. I suppose Miss May is very nice, she said. But I do like, Sarah, even if she is a little fussy sometimes. And then Aggie said she was so happy about

letting me come because she was sure Sarah would take such good care of me. I wonder if it would be wrong if I didn't say anything to her about it. Of course it wouldn't, said Gladys confidently. It's too bad about Sarah's mother, of course, and I suppose I ought to be very sorry. But she does scold awfully sometimes and just wait till you see Miss May. Miss May arrived the next day, and although she was very kind and pleasant and much more inclined to let people do as they like than Sarah, still Joy found herself sometimes thinking a little regretfully of the absent maid and did not agree with Gladys. When that young lady remarked that she wished Miss May were going to live with them all the time, and that Sarah's mother might require her daughter's service for the

rest of the summer, it was a very sultry July afternoon and the two little girls were "'comfortably settled on the Wentworth Broad Piazza. "'Joy, lying in the hammock, while Gladys, "'curled up in a big wicker armchair, "'read aloud from a volume of St. Nicholas. "'All the bright colour had come back to Joy's cheeks, "'and if Miss Scott had seen her at luncheon that day, "'she would have had no cause to complain of the child's lack of appetite.

"'Gladis had been reading aloud for over an hour, "'and her voice and eyes were both rather tired, "'so, having reached the end of her story, "'she looked up from her book, and indulged in a mighty yawn. That was a very nice story, said Joy. But I'm afraid you're tired. Yes, I am a little.

I guess I won't read any more now. What shall we do next? Would you like to play imaginary people, Joy inquired? Gladys shook her head. I'm getting rather tired of that, she said. Can't we play something else? Let's go upstairs and play with the Egerton family. We ought to see how Alexis is getting on with the measles.

"'It's so hot indoors. I wish we could get out with the pony. "'But we can't. You know your papa said he had to go to the blacksmiths to be shot this afternoon.' Gladys stamped impatiently. "'I think blacksmiths are an awful bother,' she remarked. "'I wish horses' shoes grew on their feet. Then they wouldn't have to be shot. "'I wonder if Miss May wouldn't take us down to the beach.' "'She said at lunch and that she had a bad headache. I wouldn't like to ask her, would you?' "'No, I suppose we couldn't, and anyhow, there isn't any need.

"'We could just as well go by ourselves.' "'But I thought Sarah said we couldn't go alone when you asked her the other day. "'Oh, bother about Sarah. She's just an old fuss. "'Course it's all right for us to go. "'It's only a little way, and I can take care of you as well as anyone else. "'Come along. I'll get our hats and we'll have some fun.' "'But Joy still looked doubtful. "'I don't think we ought to.

To go without asking Miss May first, she said with decision, she might come to look for us and be frightened, and she couldn't find us. Gladys seemed to consider this a rather unnecessary proceeding, but as Joy firmly refused to move until the governess had been informed, she finally yielded and ran upstairs to obtain the required permission. Miss May's door was closed,

but in answer to Gladys's rather impatient knock, a sleepy voice called, Come in, and as the little girl entered the room, the governess who was lying on the bed with a novel and a bottle of smelling salts, looked up to inquire, What do you want, Gladys? I was just falling asleep, and I have such a wretched headache. I'm sorry I woke you up, said Gladys, but I just came to ask if Troy and I may had go down to the beach to play. We're tired of staying on the piazza and we can't have the pony because he's gone to be shot. Miss May laid down her novel and took a whiff of the smelling salts.

Why, yes, I suppose you may, she said a little doubtfully. I don't believe you'd better go alone, though. Can't Lizzie go with you? No, she's ironing. And anyway, we don't want her. I'll take good care of joy, and we'll be all right. Well, I don't really see what could possibly happen to you down there. Will you be very careful crossing the road and be sure you don't get your feet wet? I would go with you myself, but my head really is very bad, and if I keep quiet this afternoon, it may be better by dinner time. and Miss May passed her hand wearily across her forehead and yawned. Gladys readily gave the required promise and flew off in high spirits to get her hat. Five minutes later the two little girls were trudging along the dusty road,

hand in hand in the direction of the beach. It really was very hot in the sun, and Joy could not help thinking regretfully of the cool piazza and the hammock, but she was too good-natured and too fond of Gladys to make any objections to her friend's plans for their amusement. So she walked on cheerfully, listening to Gladys's merry chatter, and only remarked when they had been steadily walking for nearly a quarter of an hour, that the beach seemed rather farther off than she had supposed the day they went in the pony cart.

There's another way that's ever so much shorter, said Gladys, but I don't like to take it because it's through Mr. Hinsdale's place. Who's Mr. Hinsdale, Joy inquired? Oh, he's a crossest, most disagreeable old gentleman in the world. "'Everybody's afraid of him, even Sarah. "'They say he never has a pleasant word for anyone, "'and there isn't a single person who likes him.' "'Oh, the poor old gentleman!' exclaimed Joy.

"'How dreadful! "'It must be terribly lonely for him if he hasn't any friends. "'Does he live all by himself?' "'Oh, he's got plenty of servants. "'He's very rich. "'I heard Papa and Mr. Brent talking about him once, "'and they said he was a millionaire. "'He's got the handsomest place in Clam Harbor,

"'but I don't see what use it is to him. for he never has any company and never lets anyone come in to see it. Did you ever speak to him? Troy inquired with interest. Speak to him, good gracious, no. I wouldn't for anything. I would be frightened to death. Why even Papa says he doesn't like to have any more to do with him than he can help.

I see him every Sunday in church, though, for his pew is right across the aisle from ours, and he says the response is so loud it almost makes me laugh. One Sunday we had a strange clergyman who talked very slowly, and Mr. Hinsdale got so impatient he kept tapping his foot and shaking his head. I couldn't help smiling. It looked so funny, and just at that very minute he turned round and looked straight at me. Oh, my, didn't he frown? I was so scared I nearly went under the seat.

Lizzie, our waitress, says Mr. Hinsdale has such a dreadful temper. She thinks he wouldn't mind killing a person when he's angry. But here we are at the beach, and don't you feel the nice cool breeze? The two children were soon established in a shady nook behind the bathing house deep in the interesting occupation of building sand forts. To Joy, who had never been at the seashore before, this new play proved very attractive, and the afternoon slipped away without either of them realizing the flight of time, until Gladys suddenly exclaimed in a tone of some anxiety, "'Why, how dark it's getting! It can't be so very late, but the sun's gone in.

I wonder if it's going to rain. I thought I heard a rumbling noise a few minutes ago, said Joy. Do you suppose it could have been thunder? I guess we'd better go home anyway, said Gladys. It does look pretty black, but if we hurry, we'll be all right. Joy scrambled to her feet, and the two children started rapidly in a homeward direction. It certainly was unusually dark for the time of day. Gladys was sure it could not be much after five o'clock,

and they had not taken many steps when the rumbling noise Joy had mentioned was hurt again, and this time there was no doubt about it being thunder. There really is going to be a shower, said Gladys, hurrying her companion along. Are you afraid of thunderstorms? Not exactly, but I shouldn't like to get wet. Besides, wouldn't Miss May be dreadfully frightened if we didn't get home before the storm? Couldn't we take that short way you told me about? Gladys hesitated, but at that moment there came a louder peal of thunder than before,

and the branches of the trees began to wave in a sudden breeze. I guess we'd better, she said, with a nervous glance at the rapidly darkening sky. I don't believe Mr. Hinsdale will see us. We don't have to pass very near the house. Do you suppose he would really do anything to us, even if he did? Joy inquired. I don't know, but I shouldn't like to try. He's got such a dreadful temper, everyone says, and there's a big sign no trespassing.

loud right over his gate. I know I should run if I saw him coming after us. Perhaps we oughtn't to go in his place if he doesn't allow people, said Joy a little nervously. But Gladys had already turned in at the iron gates which enclosed Mr. Hinsdale's property, and fired by the spirit of adventure she had no intention of turning back. I don't believe he'll see us, she repeated reassuringly. They look so much like rain, he'll be sure to be in the house. Oh, don't you smell the flowers? They're perfectly. beautiful. We mustn't stop to look at them, though. It's getting blacker and blacker every minute.

She quickened her pace to a run as she spoke, and poor little joy, unused to such violent exercise, found considerable difficulty in keeping up with her. You can't run worth a cent, can you? said Gladys, somewhat contemptuously, dragging her friend along the gravel path. No, I'm afraid I can't, panted Joy. Are we almost home? We'll be out of Mr. Hinsdell's grounds in a few minutes and hours. is the next place. Stop! Stop! Both of you! What do you mean by trespassing on my property in this way? Stop! Do you hear me? It was a very loud, terrible voice, and it came from what appeared to be a small rustic summer house, only a few yards away from them. It was an awful moment. Gladys uttered a

low, shrill scream, and Joy's heart seemed to stand quite still. Come here! I want to Talked to you, the terrible voice went on. It was too much for Gladys, with another terrified shriek. She dropped Joy's hand, and next minute was flying at full speed in the direction of home, leaving her poor little blind friend to whatever fate might be in store for her. End of Chapter 6. Chapter 7 of The Little Girl Next Door. This is a Libervox recording.

All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit. at Libravox.org. Read by Marie Christian, The Little Girl Next Door, by Nina Rhodes. Chapter 7. The Terrible Mr. Hensdale.

For the first second when she found herself deserted, Joy stood quite still, panting for breath, and scarcely realizing what had happened. Gladys! She gasped, stretching out her hand. Gladys, where are you?

I'll try to run as fast as you. I'll, I'll, oh, Gladys, where are you? There was no answer, only the sound of flying feet, rapidly dying away in the distance. Could it be that Gladys had deserted her? Joy gave a little frightened sob and started blindly in pursuit. She ran half a dozen steps, then stopped. Where was she to go? She did not know. Suppose instead of following Gladys, she should be running straight towards the owner of that terrible voice. And at that very moment her quick ear caught the sound of another step, not gladyses, approaching rapidly. Why didn't you stop when I told you to?

The loud, harsh voice demanded, and it sounded frightfully near this time. Didn't you see the sign on my gate? What do you mean by coming where you're not wanted, eh? The footsteps were close at her side, and a big heavy hand was laid on her shoulder. Joy gave one more frightened sob, then resolutely stood still to meet her doom. The little blind girl was no coward. I'm very sorry, she faltered. We wanted to get home before the storm, and we thought perhaps you wouldn't mind just for once.

This way was so much shorter. You thought I wouldn't mind, did you? What right have you to think any such thing? Now listen, and mind you, pay attention to what I say. I put that sign up because I won't have trespassers on my property, and I intend to have that sign respected, too. I won't have my place turned into a public thoroughfare. I won't have my flower beds trampled, and my fruit stolen.

Now get along as fast as you can. I'll let you off this time, but if either you or your friend try to walk across this path again, you can be prepared to take the consequences. That's all. The big hand was removed from Joy's shoulder, but the child still stood motionless. Well, what are you waiting for? Do you want me to set my bulldog on you, or are you trying to defy me? No, oh no, sir, gasped Joy. But, but you see, Gladys has gone, and I don't know the way. Well, I guess you'll find it if you're going. you try. Now be off and don't let me hear another word."

He was actually turning away. Joy clasped her hands in despair. Already the first big drops of the threatened storm were beginning to fall. Mr. Hensdale took half a dozen steps, then turned his head to see if his orders were being obeyed. To his amazement he saw that the child had not moved, and with a furious exclamation regained her side and seized her once more by the shoulder, this time with no gentle hand. I'll teach you what it means to disobey my orders. He began savagely, but Joy cut him short. Oh, please, please don't be angry, she cried.

I don't want to disobey you, and I would go right away. Indeed, I would, but you see, I can't go alone. I don't know the way. I'm blind. The grip on her shoulder loosened, Mr. Hensday. hand dropped to his side. Blind, he repeated slowly. Blind, and I've been ordering you off the places if you were a tramp.

But that friend of yours, he added in a different tone. She wasn't blind, was she? Oh, no, sir, said Joy. She was Gladys, Mr. Wentworth's little girl. There are places next to yours, you know. We were playing on the beach, and Gladys saw a shower coming, and we were running to get home before it began to rain. Hmm.

And your friend has run off and left you behind, has she? A nice person to have charge of you, she must be. What can your mother be thinking of to trust a might like you with nobody better than that to take care of you? I haven't any mother, said Joyce simply. Gladys's governess has a headache, and she said we might go to the beach by ourselves. It wasn't Gladys's fault. It really wasn't. I can't run nearly so fast as she can, and, and she was so frightened.

Besides, I made her come this way. She told me about the sign, and she said she was afraid to come, but it was so much shorter, and I didn't believe that you, that is, I mean anyone, would really do anything to us. The stranger made a queer noise in his throat, which sounded to joy something like a suppressed chuckle. And somehow his loud voice did not seem half so terrible now, as he said, still very grimly.

Well, you're caught, whether you expected to be or not, and there's nothing for you to do but come with me. It's beginning to rain already, and I don't propose to stand here to be drenched. Come along. Joy gave a little frightened gasp, but there was no resisting the firm grasp of the terrible Mr. Hendale's hand, and in another moment she was being led rapidly along the gravel walk,

in the direction from that which she and Gladys had been walking. Mr. Hensdale walked very fast, and Joy had hard work to keep up with his long strides. Not another word did he utter until they reached the house, and indeed they were only just in time, for as they stepped onto the piazza, there was a vivid flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, and the storm burst in all its fury.

Still in silence, Mr. Hensdale, led the child into what she afterwards knew as the wide hall of Hensdale Place, the largest and handsomest house in Clam Harbor. She was panting from her rapid walk, and her heart was still beating very fast, but there was certainly some comfort in finding herself under shelter, and with her natural politeness, she felt it incumbent upon her to thank her grim companion. You're very kind, she said a little timidly. I'm ever so much obliged to you for bringing me in out of the rain. Sit down, said her new acquaintance, pushing her not ungently onto a sofa,

where she leaned back among the soft cushions, feeling all at once very tired and rather queer. Mr. Hensdale stood for a moment looking down at the little figure with a rather puzzled, curious expression in his keen gray eyes. He was a very tall, erect old gentleman, but though Gladys had declared that everyone was afraid of him, there was nothing very terrible in his expression at that moment. Are you afraid of me now?

He asked abruptly. Joy gave a little start. The question came so suddenly, but her answer was prompt enough. No, sir, she said. You're not, eh? You were a few minutes ago, though. "'Not very much,' said Joy. "'I couldn't help being a little just at first,

"'but even then I didn't believe you would really do anything very bad to us.' "'A grim smile that Joy could not see stole across the grim, handsome old face. "'It strikes me that you're rather a courageous young person,' he said. "'I believe I haven't the reputation of being a very amiable old party. "'Your friend the Wentworth child seems to have shared, in the general opinion. Gladys is only ten, said Joy coloring. She's almost a year younger than I am, and then you see she isn't used to taking care of herself. And you are, are you? I shouldn't think you were very fit for that sort of thing. Who do you belong to anyway? I never saw you in this

neighborhood before, did I? No, sir, said Joy. I am only visiting here. I came last week to stay with Gladys. I live in New York with my sister. Oh, that's it. Well, now I'll tell you something. I rather like people who are not afraid of me. I don't eat little girls, you know, even if I do scare them sometimes, and I haven't any dungeon in my castle. You're perfectly safe here, and just as soon as this shower is over, I'll see that you get home all right. Now shall I call my housekeeper to look after you, or will you stay here with me? I think if you don't mind, I'd rather like to stay here. Very good. You're not afraid of thunderstorms, are you?

As at that moment, a deafening crash filled their ears. Oh, no, sir, not at all, when I'm indoors. Seems to me you're not afraid of many things. Perhaps you'd like something to eat. Joy said she was not hungry, but her new friend, who seemed in his odd way really trying to be kind and hospitable, paid no attention to this assurance, and crossing the hall he opened a door and called loudly.

Hannah, I say Hannah, bring some milk and some cake here, and be quick about it. After delivering this order, Mr. Hensdale walked out on the piazza, and Joy was left in solitude for the next five minutes. Then a door behind her opened, and an elderly woman, carrying a tray, made her appearance. At sight of the only occupant of the hall, the woman started back in, an evident surprise, and uttered a little startled exclamation. Good land! What in the world? I beg your pardon, said Joy, rising politely.

I suppose you're surprised to see me. Mr. Hensdale brought me in to wait till the shower is over. Well, I never! ejaculated the woman in a rather low voice. Then recovering herself, she added in a different tone. Then I suppose it's for you. that Mr. Hensdale ordered the milk and cake. Do you like fresh molasses cake? Yes, very much, thank you, but I'm really not hungry at all. I told Mr. Hensdale I wasn't. I guess you can eat molasses cake even if you're not very hungry. Here's a nice glass of milk, too. Help yourself. Why? What's the matter? As Joy put out her hand with a timid, uncertain movement.

It's nothing, said the child. smiling. Only, would you mind helping me? I'm blind. Blind. Oh, you poor little thing. There was no mistaking the kindness and pity in the housekeeper's tone. That accounts for his doing it, of course. He's got a good heart whatever people may say. And in another moment, the old woman was on the sofa beside Joy, holding her glass and helping her with as much tenderness as though she had known her for years. The molasses cake certainly was delicious, and the cold rich milk was also most refreshing. Joy found herself relishing her impromptu lunch exceedingly, and she was soon chattering away to Mr. Hensdale's good-natured housekeeper quite as though they were old friends.

She did not know that Mr. Hensdale himself was standing in the doorway and watching her intently while she talked and ate, and always with that same curious, puzzled look in his eyes. Joy told about Gladys and her pets, about the many pleasant experiences of the past week, and about Aggie and her home in the New York boarding house. The housekeeper listened and asked kind, interested questions, and every few moments stole anxious. furtive glances at her master standing still and rigid in the open doorway. Suddenly there was a sound of approaching wheels and a closed carriage dashed up to the front door. Mr. Hensdale stepped out onto the piazza. I beg your pardon, Mr. Hensdale, said a voice which Joy recognized at once as Mr. Wentworth's. But the little blind girl, can you tell me where to find her?

She's all right, said Mr. Hensdale. said Mr. Hensdale, and now his voice sounded gruff and cross again. Did you think I had left her out in the rain to be drenched when that precious daughter of yours ran off without her? I am very much obliged to you, I am sure, said Mr. Wentworth, springing out of the carriage and hurrying up the steps. Ah, here she is, as Joy, led by the housekeeper, came smilingly forward. Well, Joy, I hope you haven't been very much frightened. "'Oh, no, indeed,' said Joy eagerly. "'Mr. Hensdale and this lady have both been so kind.

"'Did Gladys get home all right?' "'She got home all right,' said Mr. Wentworth rather grimly. "'I came home from the city to find the whole household on the piazza in a state of wild excitement. "'From what I could make out from Gladys, "'I gathered that there was a probability of your being found somewhere in this neighborhood, So I came for you as quickly as I could. We had better be going now. The shower is nearly over,

and Miss May was on the borders of hysterics when I left. Mr. Wentworth spoke hurriedly, and there was a sternness and impatience in his manner which Joy had never noticed in it before. The fact was, he had learned enough of the afternoon's adventure from Gladys to feel very much ashamed of his little daughter's conduct, and Mr. Hensdale's words had not,

tended to soothe his feelings he inwardly resolved that Gladys should receive a lesson that she would not forget in a hurry joy turned to say goodbye to her new friends i'm ever so much obliged to you sir she said holding out her hand to mr hensdale after she had thanked the housekeeper for her kindness i hope you won't mind about gladys being afraid she didn't know you you see but when I tell her how kind you have been, and what a nice time I've had, I know she'll wish she could come and see you someday. Mr. Hensdale took the little outstretched hand in his and held it for a moment without speaking. His eyes had still that strange puzzled expression in them. Then, as if recollecting himself, he dropped Joy's hand and said abruptly,

Goodbye. You can tell your friend that I don't eat little girls, even if I do objecting to trespassers on my property, and if you feel like walking over this way again, you can. Thank you, said Joy politely. I should like to come and see you again very much. Then Mr. Wentworth hurried her away into the carriage, murmuring at the same time a few hurried words of thanks to his disagreeable neighbor. Joy was already in her seat, and the coachman was gathering up the reins when Mr. Hensdale, who had followed his guests, as far as the front steps, suddenly called out in his loud, imperious voice. Wait one minute, you haven't told me your name. The horses were already moving, but Joy leaned

eagerly forward. Joy St. Clair! She called out as loud as she could. Mr. Wentworth was very silent during the short drive, although he was also very kind, keeping Joy well protected from the rain and twice expressing the hope that she had not been very much frightened. Joy did not suspect the reason for this silence until they had reached home, and Miss May, repentant and nervous, had taken the two little girls indoors. Then, just as they were all on their way upstairs to dress for dinner, Mr. Wentworth called Gladys back. "'Come into the library with me, Gladys,' he said sternly. "'I have something to say to you. Gladys hesitated but dared not disobey, and with hanging head and flushing cheeks, she turned and followed her father into the library.

What happened during that interview no one ever knew, but it was a very sorrowful subdued Gladys who came out of that room some 20 minutes later, and made her way very slowly and disconsolately upstairs. Joy was in her pretty little room next to Gladys' night. nursery brushing her hair when she heard her friend's step and called cheerfully. Is that you, Gladys? Where have you been? Downstairs with Papa, said Gladys, pausing in the doorway. Her voice sounded as if she had been crying and Joy turned in surprise, the hairbrush still in her hand. Why, Gladys, what's the matter? Nothing, said Gladys shortly and was turning away, when, with one of her sudden impulses, she changed her mind, came back and threw her arms

around her friend's neck, and burst into a perfect tempest of sobs and tears. Oh, joy, joy! Well, the repentant little sinner, I'm so sorry, so dreadfully, dreadfully ashamed. Ashamed of what? Inquired joy in growing bewilderment. Oh, Gladys dear, what is it? makes you cry so. Because I've been so bad, and I've been a cow coward, sobbed Gladys. I ran off and left you all alone with that dreadful Mr. Hensdale, because I was afraid to stay,

and Papa says he's ashamed of me. Oh dear, oh dear, what shall I do? I don't want to be despised. Poor little joy was terribly distressed. Oh, don't, please don't, Gladys, darling. she pleaded, sobbing too from sympathy, and covering her friend's tear-wet face with kisses. You couldn't help running away when you were so frightened, and it was my fault for not being able to run as fast as you did. No, no, it wasn't, cried Gladys, hugging joy tight. You're a dear, brave, beautiful person, and I love you better than anybody in the world except Papa. I was a coward. Papa said so, and he's just a coward. dreadfully ashamed of me. He says cowards are always despised, and if all people despise me,

I shall die. I know I shall. Nobody will despise you, said Joy reassuringly. And your papa didn't mean he was really ashamed. I'm sure he didn't. People can't help being afraid of things sometimes. I was a little bit afraid myself just at first, but, oh, Gladys I needn't have been, Mr. Hensdale was just as nice and kind as he could be, and he's got such a nice housekeeper, too. But I'm afraid he must be very lonely, for he talks so loud it sounds as if he was angry when he really isn't, and I suppose that's what makes people afraid of him. He says I may come and see him again, and I should like to, very much indeed. End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8 of the little girl next door. This is a Libravox recording.

All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Marie Christian, The Little Girl Next Door, by Nina Rhodes. Chapter 8. Joy Goes Out to Dine Joy's little adventure caused considerable excitement among the members of the Wentworth household, and even Mr. Wentworth himself, when his aim, had had time to cool, was interested in what the child had to tell about her visit, and all the servants were deeply impressed. Mr. Hensdale was a very well-known character in the neighborhood,

and stories about his oddities and his violent temper, often exaggerated ones, were subjects of a good deal of gossip. Is he really a terrible man, Papa? Gladys inquired that evening after dinner, when, still subdued and remorseful, but happy in the certainty of her father's forgiveness, she was comfortably established on Mr. Wentworth's knee. Mr. Wentworth smiled. He is certainly a rather eccentric old gentleman, he said, but I don't believe there is anything very terrible about him. From what joy tells us I should judge that he has a rather kind heart. I think he had a good deal of trouble in his life, and that may have been.

soured his disposition. What kind of trouble? inquired Gladys, to whom the terrible Mr. Hensdale had suddenly become a person of considerable interest. Well, he lost his wife when they were quite young, and then his only daughter ran away from him and married someone he did not like. It all happened a good many years ago, but I have heard about it from people who lived here at the time. Did he always live here in Clam Harbor? Gladys asked. Always in the summer, but I believe he had a home in New York as well, and that his daughter was a very pretty girl and a great bell in society. I think Mr. Hensdale is a very interesting person, remarked Gladys. I wonder why he didn't like the gentleman his daughter married. I don't know, I am sure, said Mr. Wentworth. Although we have been neighbors for years,

I don't think I have ever exchanged more than a dozen words with the old gentleman. Joy has given us more information about him than I have ever had before, and shown him up in a rather new light, too. Do you think you would really like to call on him again, Joy? Yes, very much, said Joy promptly. The next few days passed very pleasantly. Gladys was really ashamed of her conduct, and made many good resolutions for the future,

some of which I fear were forgotten before very long. She was even kinder and more devoted to joy than before, and the little blind girl was very happy. There was only one drawback to the perfect enjoyment of everybody, and that was Miss May. Mr. Wentworth had said a few words to the young governess on the subject of her carelessness and allowing the children to go to the beach by themselves,

and Miss May, who objected to being found fault with, was, in consequence, so much less charming than at first, that even Gladys could not feel very sorry when, towards the end of the week, there came a letter from Sarah, saying that her mother was better and that she hoped to return to Clam Harbor on Saturday. Sarah really isn't so very disagreeable all the time, Gladys admitted on the Saturday evening when Sarah had once more taken up her duties, and, contrary to her frequently expressed opinion, that sweets were very bad for children, had brought each of the little girls a nice box of hulers.

I really think she might be quite nice sometimes if she didn't talk so much about those horrid grams. Are they really horrid? Joy inquired in surprise. I thought they must be about the best people in the world. Sarah seems to think they are. Well, I'm awfully glad they've gone to Europe to live while Violet and Daisy get educated,

said Gladys. I know I should hate them if I ever saw them. They are all so terribly good. The next day was Sunday, and as Miss May had left on the previous afternoon, and Mr. Wentworth had gone to spend a few days with some friends, Gladys and Joy had their breakfast by themselves. Gladys had remarked before they came downstairs that she had a headache,

and Joy had hoped that it would not be very bad, but Sarah had not appeared at all sympathetic. and had indeed made a rather scathing allusion to Sunday headaches, which Joy had failed to understand. It's a beautiful day, remarked Gladys, as the two little girls left the breakfast table and came out onto the piazza. The water looks so pretty with all the boats on it and the sun shining so bright. Wouldn't it be lovely to go down to the beach and stay there all the morning?

We could take Uncle Joe's Thanksgiving, and I could read such a lot to you. It would be nice, assented Joy. But wouldn't it make your head ache worse to read? Oh, no, it always feels better out in the air, but when I get into a hot stuffy place, it's dreadful sometimes. Do you think Sarah would take us to the beach? Joy asked. No, I guess not, not unless you coaxed her very hard anyway.

She'd do more for you than she would for anyone else. Won't you tell her you want to go very much indeed? Yes, if you want me to, but why doesn't she like to take us? Why, because it's Sunday, of course. She hates doing things on Sunday. She says because they're wrong, but I know it's just because she's got her best clothes on and she's so afraid of spoiling them.

Oh dear, I do hate Sunday anyway, don't you? No, indeed. I think Sunday is the nicest day in the whole week. Agie and I always have such happy times together on Sunday, There was a little quiver in Joy's voice as the recollection suddenly came over her that Aggie must be spending a rather lonely Sunday today. But you hate going to church, don't you? Gladys demanded rather incredulously.

Why no, I like it very much. There's such lovely music at the church where Agi and I go, and I like the service too, though I do think the sermons are pretty long sometimes, especially when I don't understand them. Well, you are a queer girl, said Gladys. Just then some trifling interruption occurred, and nothing more was said on the subject of churchgoing. The next hour passed very quickly.

Gladys described the boats on the sound and joy made up interesting stories about the people who might be in them. Then Sarah, looking more prim and solemn than ever in her black Sunday dress, made her appearance. Come, children, it is time to get ready for church. Joy rose obediently. Gladys, who had not mentioned the word headache for the past hour, suddenly passed her hand across her forehead.

Oh, Sarah, must we go? I know it will make my head worse. It's such a very warm day. Nonsense, said Sarah sharply. If you've got such a bad headache as that, your stomach must be out of order, and I'd better give you a dose of ruby. rhubarb and soda. Otherwise, I think you're perfectly able to come to church. These Sunday

headaches of yours are getting to be a rather old story. Gladys sprang to her feet with alacrity. Rubarb and soda was, in her opinion, the worst medicine that had ever been invented, and she promptly decided that there were some things even worse than going to church on a hot day. The walk to church was a rather silent one. Sarah had very strict ideas respecting Sunday behavior, and she made the two little girls walk in front of her hand in hand, and once when some remark of Joy struck Gladys as rather amusing, and they both began to giggle, they were promptly silenced by a grave, children remember what day it is. Joy thought of her happy Sundays with Agnes and suddenly felt more homesick than she had before done since coming to Clam Harbor.

The feeling of homesickness increased rather than diminished when they had had. had reached the church and she found herself settled in one corner of the Wentworth's family pew. The sound of the organ made her sad somehow, though it had never done so before, and before she realized what was happening, Joy felt two big tears slowly trickling down her cheeks. She dashed them away as quickly as she could, but almost before they were dry, there were more tears in their place, and the little girl was forced to make a hasty search for her handkerchief. Gladys, a absorbed in looking up the hymns for the day, did not see what was happening, but someone else saw, someone who, from the moment when the children had taken their seats, had been watching the

little blind girl intently, though furtively, from a pair of keen, grey eyes, which had not lost any of their keenness for all their owner's seventy years of life. Someone has been unkind to her, said the old gentleman to himself. How dare they make her cry? And he frowned so darkly and looked so fierce that a small boy in a pew nearby felt sure the terrible man with the sharp eyes was frowning at him, and he nestled close up to his mother and hid his face on her shoulder. But when the service actually began, Joy forgot to be homesick. She remembered all at once that Aggie was probably listening to that same service, though far away in the hot city, and the recollection seemed to bring her nearer to her sister. A sense of peace and content stole into her heart, and by the time the sermon began, she was her own bright, happy self once more. Joy, whispered Gladys, as they walked down the aisle together.

There's Mr. Hensdale right in front of us. He was looking at you, I saw him. I'd like to say good morning to him, said Joy eagerly. Would you really dare? inquired Gladys in a tone that was half frightened and half admiring. Why, yes, of course, why shouldn't I? He was very kind, and I like him very much. They had spoken in whispers, but at that moment Mr. Hensdale, who had been walking rapidly down the aisle, looking neither to the right nor left, suddenly stopped short as he reached the

door, and faced about almost as if he heard what Joy was saying. Gladys gave a little gasp. Oh, dear, she said, feeling rather frightened. You'll have to speak to him now. I do believe he's waiting for you. I'm glad, said Joy simply. I wanted to speak to him. Will you tell me when we get close to him in case he doesn't speak first? Little Joy St. Clair had no idea of the sensation she was causing in the Clam Harbor Church that Sunday morning. When, in response to a warning pinch from Gladys, she paused suddenly and held out her hand to the terrible Mr. Hensdale, the eccentric old gentleman, who was known at least by sight, to nearly everyone present. and who, in all the long years during which he had been a member of that congregation,

had never, to the knowledge of anyone present, been voluntarily addressed by any child before. Good morning! She said quite as pleasantly and naturally as if she had been addressing any ordinary mortal. Gladys told me you were here and I wanted to speak to you. Gladys gasped, and were it not for her good resolutions, would have felt more than a little inclined to run away a second. time. Even Sarah, who had of course heard the story of the thunder shower, gave a slight start, and instinctively put out her hand to draw Joy away. But Mr. Hensdale, although he had not uttered a word,

had taken the child's hand and was holding it fast. This is Gladys, Joy went on innocently. I have told her all about you and what a nice time I had at your house the other day. I hope your housekeeper as well. Would you like to come and see her again? Mr. Hensdale inquired brusquely. He did not look at Gladys or Sarah, but the eyes that rested on Joy's little upturned face had nothing stern or terrible in their expression. Yes, I should like to very much, said Joy without the least sign of hesitation.

Very well, come home and dine with me then. I'll see that you get back to your friends all right this afternoon. Joy hesitated. May I go, Sarah? She asked, turning to the maid. I think perhaps, began Sarah showing more signs of embarrassment than were usual with her,

but Mr. Hensdale cut her short. You needn't make any objections, he said shortly. If the child wants to come, she shall. As you wish, sir, of course, returned Sarah, beginning to look offended. The children being left in my care, and Mr. Wentworth being away, I thought,

Fiddlesticks, interrupted the old gentleman. Do you want to come with me, child or not? We agreed the other day that you were not afraid of me. I should like it, said Joy. That is, she added blushing. If Gladys and Sarah don't mind. I don't mind, said Gladys in a flutter of excitement. And Sarah doesn't either.

She only thinks she's got to object. So the matter was settled. and the congregation were rendered almost paralyzed with stupefaction by the sight of the eccentric Mr. Hensdale, the terror of half the children in the neighborhood, calmly walking down the church path with the little blind girl clinging to his hand. Serenely unconscious of the sensation she was causing, joy chattered away happily to her companion, telling him about the pleasant time she was having,

until, just as they were turning from the village street into the road, that led to Hensdale Place, the old gentleman suddenly interrupted her with a question. What were you crying for in church? Joy gave a little start, and the color deepened in her cheeks. I'm sorry you saw me, she said. It was very silly, but I think I was a little bit homesick just for a few minutes. What made you homesick? Was it some more of that Wentworth child's doing, eh? Oh, no, no, indeed, cried Joy. eagerly. Gladys is very kind, and I love her ever so much, but you see, I have hardly ever been to church before without my sister, and I couldn't help thinking of her, and wondering if she missed me,

and so, well, I couldn't help it. You seem to be very fond of that sister of yours, remarked Mr. Hensdale. She's very good to you, I suppose. Good to me, echoed Joy. She's the very best sister in the world, Why, she takes care of me. She has taken care of me ever since Papa died. We've only got each other. Father and mother both dead? Yes, my mother died when I was a baby. But you've got other relations, I suppose.

No, there is no one but Aggie and me. Mr. Hensdale asked no more questions and joy, feeling suddenly a little shy and uncomfortable, relapsed into silence. Arrived at the house, Mr. Hensdale led his little guest into the parlor, and once more, as on the occasion of Joy's first visit, he called loudly for Hannah. The housekeeper speedily made her appearance and greeted Joy very warmly. She seemed rather nervous and fluttered, and her voice sounded so odd and unsteady that Joy was puzzled, and wondered if the old woman might not be unhappy about something, and was only making an effort to appear cheerful. In compliance with a request from Mr. Hensdale, the housekeeper took Joy upstairs to take off her hat. She led the child into a large, cool room on the second floor. After taking off Joy's straw hat, she brushed out her long curls and smooths her white dress. I want you to look just as nice as possible, she said.

Mr. Hensdale likes to have people look pretty. You are very kind, said Joy gratefully. I hope you haven't got a headache. A headache? No, indeed. What made you think I had? I thought your voice sounded a little the way my sisters does when she has a headache. That's all, but I suppose I made a mistake. How very nicely you brushed my hair. Do you like little girls? Indeed, I do, very much, especially little girls like you.

Did you ever know anyone else who was like me? Joy inquired with deep interest. How do you mean like you? Why? Who couldn't see, you know? The housekeeper laid down her brush, but her hand still rested lovingly on Joy's soft curls. No, she said, and Joy was quite sure there was a tremble in her voice now. I never knew anyone who couldn't see,

but I did know a little girl who was very much like you. Did you like her very much? Joy asked softly. Something in the housekeeper's tone, made her feel sure that the little girl must be either dead or far away now. I think I loved her better than I have ever loved anyone else in this world. I was her nurse, and I took care of her always from the time she was a baby until she married. With a sudden impulse, the old woman stopped and drew joy into her arms.

You are very, very like that little girl, she said, and the child could feel the hot tears on her forehead. I thought so the first time I saw you, and so did Mr. Hensdale. I think that is why he asked you to come home with him today, for he loved that little girl, too. Joy would have very much liked to ask where the little girl was now, but something in the housekeeper's manner made her sure the subject must be a sad one, and being a very tactful child. She wisely decided to ask no more questions,

but she kissed old Hannah and stroked her wrinkled face, and then the housekeeper dried her eyes and they both went downstairs again. They found Mr. Hensdale waiting for them in the hall, and as dinner was already on the table, he gave his arm rather ceremoniously to Joy, and led her to the dining room. That dinner was a rather solemn meal. Joy felt very small, and just a little bit uncomfortable, when she found herself seated in the big leather armchair opposite her host,

But she made a great effort to appear at her ease, and neither Mr. Hensdale, who watched her so keenly, nor the solemn butler, to whom the sight of a child at the table was a new and rather startling experience, noticed anything beyond the fact that the visitor was a perfect little lady. The dinner itself was very good, and served in much more style than Joy was accustomed to even at the Wentworths. There were a good many courses, but Mr. Hensdale himself did not appear to be enjoying his dinner very much, and once he spoke rather sharply to the butler, because some dish was not served quite to his fancy. Joy wondered a little at this. She had been taught that it was not considered good table manners to make remarks about the food, but she reflected that Mr. Hensdale was an old gentleman, and Mr. Wentworth said he had had trouble. Perhaps trouble did make people fretful sometimes, though it had never made Aggie so.

Mr. Hensdale did not talk very much himself, but he seemed to like to hear joy talk, and the little girl, mindful of her duties as visitor, really did her best to entertain the grim, silent old gentleman, whose eyes, though she did not know it, seldom left her face. Once or twice she stopped, thinking her host might prefer silence, but he was sure to draw her out again by some adroit question, so that before dinner was over, he had learned a good many things about Joy in Joy's life. After dinner, Mr. Hensdale took his little guest out onto the piazza, and in a few minutes he asked her if she would like to go out into the garden and greenhouses to smell the flowers. Joy was delighted, and the old gentleman

gave her his arm again, and led her away to what the little girl afterwards described to Gladys as the most beautiful place she had ever been in her life. If Mr. Hensdale had one passion, it was his love for flowers. He was always gentler and more like other people when he was in his garden and greenhouses, though even there his violent temper would sometimes break out, and woe betide the gardener who was found neglecting his duty. The old gentleman was delighted with Joy's evident admiration of his favorites, and he led her about from bed to bed, letting her touch and smell to her heart's content, and telling her many interesting things about the different rare plants. All together, The flower among the flowers was a very happy one, and when they returned to the house, Joy's arms were loaded with an enormous bouquet, and her face was shining with pleasure.

Now I suppose you'll be wanting to get back to your friends next door, Mr. Hensdale said, as they mounted the Piazza steps. I suppose I'd better, said Joy a little regretfully. I'd like to stay longer, but Gladys may be wondering why I don't come home. Like to stay longer, would you? Joy was sure there was a note of real pleasure in the gruff voice. Perhaps you won't mind coming again sometime to smell the flowers. I should like to come very much indeed, said Joy smiling. But not only just to smell the flowers.

Not only to smell the flowers, eh? What else? To see you, sir. You're not afraid of me then? No, indeed, not one single bit. And you don't consider me an old bear? I believe that is the reputation I have amongst most of my neighbors. Joy laughed.

I think you are just as good as you can be, she said, and I like you ever and ever so much. End of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 of The Little Girl Next Door. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org.

read by Marie Christian, The Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhodes. Chapter 9, Joy's Birthday Aren't you going to wake up soon, Joy? It's almost 7 o'clock, and I came to wish you many happy returns of the day. Joy opened her eyes and put out one hand in a sleepy, uncertain way. The hand touched Gladys's soft round arm, and Joy became aware of the fact that her friend,

still in her nightgown, was sitting on the end. edge of the bed. What's the matter? She inquired drowsily. Is it morning? Yes, of course, and oh, Joy, have you forgotten what day it is? Joy sat up with a start. It's my birthday, she said laughing. I remember now, but I was so sleepy I couldn't think of anything just at first. It seems only about ten minutes since I went to bed. It's ten hours, returned Gladys. We were in bed when the clock struck nine, and now it's just striking seven. Do hurry up and get dressed. I want to show you your presents, and they're all downstairs. Presents? exclaimed Joy, beginning a hasty search for her bath slippers. You don't mean I'm really going to have presents, do you? Of course I do. Doesn't everyone

have presents on birthdays? It was awfully hard not to tell you about them last night when Papa brought them home from the city. They're such nice ones. I know you'll like them. There was no need of urging Joy to hurry after that. She was every bit as eager to see the presence as Gladys was to show them, and made such rapid progress in her toilet that in less than half an hour the two little girls were racing down the broad oak staircase, joy making almost as good speed as her friend this time. Here they are, cried Gladys as they entered the dining room. All on the table by your plate.

May I open them or do you want to do it yourself? Joy thought she would like to do it herself and Gladys stood by, curbing her in patience as best she could, while the little blind girl, with fingers that trembled with pleasant excitement, untied the parcels. Oh! cried Joy rapturously as she unfolded the soft tissue paper from around the largest of the four packages. It's a doll! Such a beautiful one, with long hair and a silk dress, just like a little. like my old Virginia that I used to have in the South. That's from me, said Gladys triumphantly. I described your Virginia to Papa, and he tried to get one just as much like her as he could. You said she was your favorite, you know, and I thought you'd like to have another just like her.

She's got a pink silk dress on, and her clothes all come off and on. Oh, thank you so much, said Joy, hugging her friend and her new treasure at the same time. It will be such fun to have her to play with when I'm by myself all day. I can talk to her and pretend she's my child. That'll be ever so much nicer than playing imaginary people. But you haven't opened your other presents. This one's from Papa. Why? What is it?

Exclaimed Joy in a rather puzzled tone. It feels like a round box, but there isn't any place to open it. Here's a little key. Oh, Gladys, I do believe it's a music box. Yes, of course it is. I knew you'd love it. I'll show you how to wind it, but let me do it the first time. I can so much quicker. There, isn't it pretty? Papa said he picked out the sweetest toned one they had in the store. There are twelve tunes, and you can get more any time you like. Joy clasped her hands in rapture too intense for speech. And here's something from Sarah. I know what it is, for I saw her making it. It's a bag for you to keep you. your knitting in and it's awfully pretty too. Now here's the last and it came by Express. It must be from your sister, I'm sure. It's a handkerchief case and half a dozen nice new handkerchiefs,

said Joy touching the most precious gift of all with loving fingers. Aggie must have made the case herself in the evenings. Wasn't it good of her? She does get so tired and it's such hard work for her to do anything these hot nights. Oh, dear Aggie, how I wish I could give her a great big hug. That certainly was a delightful birthday. If Agie had only been with her, Joy felt sure it would have been the very most delightful she ever had. Mr. Wentworth and Sarah were both more than satisfied with the thanks they received, and everyone was so kind that even the thought of the absent sister could not make Joy sad for many minutes at a time. Joy, said Gladys, coming out onto the piazza about an hour after breakfast.

Did you tell Mr. Hensdale about today's being your birthday? Yes, said Joy, pausing for a moment in the letter she was writing to Aggie. He asked me how old I was and I said I would be eleven today. I wonder if he'll send you a present, remarked Gladys, throwing herself lazily into the hammock. Sarah thinks perhaps he will. He's so fond of you. Oh, no, said Joy, I'm sure he won't. I don't believe he even remembers I told him about it. Well, he's awfully fond of you anyway, persisted Gladys. He asked you to dinner last Sunday, and Tuesday he took you for a drive, and yesterday he sent you over all those lovely flowers. Sarah and Lizzie were talking about it, and Lizzie says she was sure

he must be losing his mind. Oh dear, I hope he isn't, said Joy, beginning to look distressed. What makes Lizzie think so? Why, because his servants say there must be something queer the matter with him. He never has company, you know, and he has never been kind to anybody before. Oh, here comes the express wagon. Perhaps it's another present for you. I guess not, said Joy smiling, though she still looked troubled. There isn't anyone else to send me one. It's a great big package anyhow, announced Gladys with interest. I'm just going to see who it's for. She darted off but was back again in less than a minute crying excitedly. It's for you, Joy. It really is. I saw your name, Joy St. Clair on the paper. Oh, do come quick and let's see what it is. Down went slate and paper and away flew Joy to the

front hall, where Lizzie the waitress was already untying the cord from around the mysterious parcel. "'Why, it's books!' cried Gladys. "'Great big books, the kind you read, Joy. Yes, they are that kind. I see the raised things on the covers.' With a little joyful cry, the blind child sprang forward, and next moment she was down on the floor hugging the three large, bulky volumes in a rapturous embrace.

"'It's little women,' she gazed. asked, the book I've been wanting for so long, and that Aggie was going to get from me when her book came out. Oh, I'm so happy. I'm so happy. Do you suppose she sent it? Gladys inquired. To her, books had never seen such very interesting articles, and she was a little surprised at Joy's delight over this present. No, I'm sure she didn't. She wouldn't have sent it here, and besides, she sent the handkerchiefs in the case. Who do you suppose did send it then? I think. I'm almost sure that it was Mr. Hensdale.

I told him about how I loved reading with my fingers, and he asked me where books and raised print were sold. Oh, how good he is! How awfully, awfully good! And to the utter amazement of both Gladys and Lizzie, the little blind girl burst into tears. Oh, please don't mind, she sobbed, half crying and half laughing. I know I'm dreadfully silly, but, oh, I do love books so, and to have this one I've been wanting for so long, it's all just like a dream.

I suppose you'd like to go over and thank Mr. Hensdale for his present, said Sarah, coming into Joy's room later in the morning. Joy, who was kneeling beside the bed, turning the pages of her precious new book, turned around with a start. I should like it very much indeed, she said, eagerly. I didn't like to ask you to take me because I thought you were busy. Well, I guess I can take you now. You won't want to stay long, I suppose. Oh no, only just to thank him. I'm sure he must have sent me the book. He's the only person who knew anything about my wanting it, you see.

Sarah said she thought it very probable, especially as Mr. Hensdale had already shown a desire to be kind, and in a few minutes they were on their way to the Hensdale Place. Joy had asked Gladys to accompany them, but although much interested in the terrible Mr. Hensdale, Gladys had not yet sufficiently overcome her awe of him to care for a closer acquaintance, and declined the invitation saying she would rather hear all about it when Joy came back. Mr. Hensdale's front door was opened by the solemn-faced butler, who in answer to Sarah's inquiry, replied that the old gentleman had gone to the village but was expected home very soon and requested them to wait mr hensdale seemed to think you might come this morning miss he said to joy and he told me that if you came

while he was out i was to ask you to wait sarah looked a little doubtful i can't wait very well she said but i will leave you and come back for you in about an hour will that do it isn't 12 yet and you will be get home in plenty of time for lunch. Joy professed herself quite satisfied with this arrangement, and after settling her comfortably on the parlor sofa, Sarah departed promising to return before long. It was very cool and pleasant in Mr. Hendale's parlor, and Joy found the contrast to the hot July sunshine out of doors very refreshing. She leaned back in her corner of the big comfortable sofa and gave herself up to pleasant

reflections. How good everyone was to her, how delighted Aggie would be when she heard about Little Prudy. What a beautiful birthday she was having. She was glad now that Aggie had persuaded her to stay another week at Clam Harbor. As the Wentworths wanted her, instead of going home in time for her birthday, as had been their original plan. It was only two weeks till the first of August, and Mrs. Winthrop had fully decided to leave town on the first. Miss Scott had brought back glowing accounts of the Vermont farmhouse where Aggie had decided to engage bored for a fortnight. Oh, how delightful everything was going to be and how very, very happy she was. Joy wondered if many other little girls were quite as happy as she.

These pleasant reflections were suddenly checked by the sound of approaching footsteps and voices. Mr. Hensdale had returned and was speaking to someone whom he had evidently found waiting for him. No, I tell you no, I don't want to hear another word on the subject. Was the first sentence which reached Joy's ears, and there was no doubt that Mr. Hensdale was really angry this time. The little girl started nervously and drew further back into her corner with a little irrepressible shiver at the sound of the loud, harsh voice. Then another voice spoke, a woman's voice this time. But you won't be after making us go today, while me little Tommy's so sick. he can't leave his bed, and me that were sitting up all night, that it's all I could do to hold

me head up at all. Will you be quiet? thundered Mr. Hensdale. I have told you before that I wouldn't listen to another word. I have ordered the men to call and take away your furniture this afternoon, and that's the end of it. That cottage is to be cleared of your belongings before tonight. I have let you off too many times already. I'll have no more of your shiftless, shilly-shallying ways. And what's to become of us? Well, the woman beginning to cry.

Oh, Mr. Hensdale, think of it. Me, a widow woman with five little childer, and no place to lay our heads, and Tommy's so sick. You know we always paid the rent regular with Pat was alive. But with the chelder's clothes wearing out and the washing coming in so slow, oh, Mr. Hensdale, dear! But already the front door had closed with a bell. bang, and Mr. Hensdale's footsteps were rapidly approaching the parlor. Hello, exclaimed the old gentleman, catching sight of his little visitor as he entered the room. So you've come to see the old man again, have you? That's right. Well, how goes the world today?

Joy had risen and came slowly forward. She was very quiet, and all the bright look of happiness had gone suddenly out of her face. I came to thank you, she said, for the book, you know. I am sure you sent them. Mr. Hensdale laughed, and he took Joy's little hand in his. Well, I suppose I did. What of it? Do you like them? Oh, so very much, better than anything else you could possibly have given me. Well, now that's good, but what's the matter? You look as if there was something you didn't like. Has anyone been making you cry again? Only let me find out who it is, and I'll... No, oh no, sir, interrupt you. to Joy with crimsoning cheeks. It's nothing at all. That is, nobody has done anything to me,

only I'm so very sorry for that poor woman. What poor woman? The woman you were talking to outside. Please don't be angry about it, but I couldn't help hearing what you said, and, and she seemed to be in such dreadful trouble. Mr. Hensdale was silent for a moment, and Joy could not see the expression on his face. Then he said, slowly, and in a voice that was almost gentle. So, that's the trouble, is it? Well, listen to me and don't make yourself unhappy about what you don't understand. That woman isn't worth one tear from you or anyone else. She's a miserable, shiftless creature, without enough sense to keep soul and body together. She lives in one of my houses in the village, and not a scent of rent have I been able to get from her for more than six months.

I've let her off three times already, and I'm about tired of it. I've told her she and her family have got to pack out this very day, and I mean what I say, too. Joy said nothing, but the blue, unseeing eyes were full of tears, and she kept her lips drawn tight to keep them from quivering. Mr. Hensdale saw the tears, and he tapped his foot impatiently on the carpet. Not satisfied yet, eh? Well, what would you like to have me do? She said her little boy was very sick, said Joy softly. And there were five little children. Where will they go when they have to leave your house?

I don't know, I'm sure. Those people always have plenty of friends to take them in. Anyway, it's no affair of ours. Now sit down and tell me all about these wonderful birthday presents. Joy sat down and began an account of the morning's pleasures, but the glad sound had gone out of her voice, and more than once she had to pause in her story in order to steady that troublesome little catch in her voice.

Mr. Hensdale watched her with a troubled look. When Joy had finished describing the birthday presents, there was a rather long pause. Joy found it necessary to wink rather hard to keep back the rebellious tears, which every moment threatened to overflow. Suddenly Mr. Hensdale put out his hand and laid it on the little curly head beside him.

I'm glad you liked the books, he said, and there was actually a note of embarrassment in his voice. I'm not accustomed to making birthday presents to young ladies, and I don't always know what would be most acceptable. I got the book because you seem to think you might like to have it, but, well, the fact is, I want to give you something else besides. Something else besides? repeated joy in a tone of bewilderment. Oh, no, Mr. Hensdale, indeed I shouldn't like to have. have you give me anything more. The book is beautiful, and I shall just love reading it, but never mind about the butts. I've made up my mind to give you something else besides, and I'd like to have you tell me what it shall be. Joy hesitated for a moment, then her cheeks flushed,

and a light of sudden hope came into her face. Do you really, really mean you would like to have me tell you what I'd rather have than anything else? She asked. I generally mean what I say. Joy clasped her hands. Then, she said slowly, I would like better than anything else. Yes, better than anything you could possibly buy for me, that you would let that poor woman and her children stay in your house a little longer. Joy paused.

She was almost afraid to hear Mr. Hensdale's answer, but if she could have seen the expression in the eyes looking down upon her, she would not have been afraid. There was a moment's silence. Then Mr. Hensdale laughed. Oh, the relief to joy in the sound of that laugh. Well, you've got your wish. He said, patting Joy's head, and notwithstanding the fact that he was laughing,

his voice was not quite steady. I've given my promise, and you've caught me this time, sure. Bridget Flanagan shall stay in her cottage for another month at least. Oh, said Joy, and there was no need of a number. another word. Her radiant face was quite enough to convince Mr. Hensdale of her gratitude. And can we go now and tell Mrs. Flanagan she is to stay? said Joy a few minutes later. She must be so dreadfully worried and unhappy, you know. Perhaps she may be hanging about somewhere, said Mr. Hensdale, hoping I may be induced to change my mind. I'll go and have a look.

He left the room but very soon returned with the information that Mrs. Flanagan had gone home. The butler had seen her walking down the road, crying as she went. Joy began to look distressed again. Oh, couldn't you send someone to tell her? She said eagerly. She's so unhappy, and suppose the men should come to take away her things before she knew she was going to stay.

Mr. Hensdale glanced at the clock. I'll tell you what we'll do, he said. You shall go and tell her yourself. It's all you're doing anyway, and she might as well know it. I'm not much in the habit of changing my mind about things myself. I'll order the trap and drive you down to the village and back before lunch. Fifteen minutes later, Joy, her face once more wreathed in smiles, was seated by Mr. Hensdale's side in the ladder's high dog cart,

and Mr. Hensdale's black horse was carrying them rapidly in the direction of the home of Mrs. Bridget Flam. It was in a narrow, unattractive little back street before a small, rather unprepossessing looking cottage, that Mr. Hensdale at last brought the black horse to a stand, and throwing the reins to the groom, who sat behind, sprang to the ground, and lifted joy from her high seat. It was a rather novel proceeding on the part of the eccentric Mr. Hensdale to be calling on one of the tenants for the purpose of informing her that she might remain in her cottage. rent-free, for a month, and perhaps the very novelty of it caused the old gentleman to quite enjoy the sensation. He led Joy up a narrow path bordered with clothes lines, and knocked at the

door of the cottage, which was opened after a short delay by Bridget Flanagan herself. A very untidy, slovenly-looking person she was, and perhaps there was some reason for Mr. Hensdale's opinion of her character. But her eyes were read from crying, and there was no doubt as to the fact of her being in real trouble. At sight of her visitors, the woman started back with an exclamation of dismay. Well, Mrs. Flanagan, began Mr. Hensdale, who never wasted time in unnecessary words. This is Miss Joy St. Clair, and she has come to tell you that you may stay in this house for another month. The woman clasped her hands and burst into a rather incoherent torrent of gratitude and blessings in the midst of which Mr. Hensdale cut her short.

There's nothing to thank me for, he said in his harsh, abrupt voice. If the matter had rested with me, you'd all have packed out of here this afternoon. But I promised this young lady a birthday present, and she took it into her head to request that you and your family should be allowed to stay here for another month. The torrent of Mrs. Flanagan's gratitude was immediately turned upon joy. "'May the saints in heaven bless you for a dear, sweet little lady, "'and may you neither know the touch of sorrow yourself. "'And it's praying for you will all be this night. "'In another month I'll be able to pay the rent with the insurance money that's common to me.

"'You've saved us all, and poor little Tommy's so sick I could never get him out of bed, "'however hard I tried. "'There, that will do,' interrupted Mr. Hensdale. "'We haven't time to hear any more. "'Come along, Joy. "'And wouldn't you be after stepping inside just to have a look at poor little Tommy?' said Mrs. Flanagan. "'He's awful sick, poor little felly. The others is all out playing on the shore.' "'No, I thank you,' said Mr. Hensdale shortly. I'm not fond of sick children.'

He was drawing joy away, but the child hesitated. "'Don't you think I might go in for a minute?' she whispered. "'It might please Mrs. Flanagan, and I'd like to see her poor little. boy. Very well, do if you like, only don't stay long. It's nearly lunchtime. Here, Mrs. Flanagan, this young lady would like to say a word to your boy. She can't see so be careful she doesn't get hurt. This information elicited a fresh torrent of words from Mrs. Flanagan. This time they were expressions of pity. But Joy, who was accustomed to hearing herself spoken of as a poor, unfortunate child, was not much affected by these exclamations, and she accompanied the Irish

woman into the house and up the steep narrow stairs into a tiny bedroom which struck the child as being very hot and close. "'Oh, Tommy, darling,' began Mrs. Flanagan as they entered the room, "'here's a sweet, beautiful little lady come to see you, and as blind she is, poor little crater, and neither a bit of the sun can she see. But she's come with good news to it, this day, for it's Mr. Hensdale that's brought her, and we ain't to be turned out, nor for another month, and by that time I'll have the insurance money. Ain't that fine news, Tommy? The only answer was a faint fretful moan from the bed, and the demand in a weak, childish whisper.

Give me a drink. Oh, Tommy, remonstrated the mother, you do be asking for drinks every minute all day. So much cold water ain't good for little buys. I'm awful dry. Oh, Mammy, do give me a drink. Poor little boy, said Joy pityingly. I don't believe it will hurt him, and it must be dreadful to feel so thirsty. Mrs. Flanagan left Joy standing in the middle of the room while she went down to get some water, but Joy, guided by the sound of Tommy's sobs, for the sick child had begun to cry, speedily. Shelly made her way to the bedside and laid a soft, cool little hand on the boy's burning forehead. "'Why, Tommy, how very hot your head is!' she exclaimed, drawing back a step and feeling a little frightened, though she could not have told why.

"'Does it ache very badly?' "'It hurts awful,' said Tommy, "'and me throat, too. It hurts all over.' "'I'm so sorry,' said Joy, stroking one of the little hot hands which lay outside the sheet. I guess you'll feel better soon. Here comes your mother with a nice drink for you. Tommy sat up in bed and held out his hands eagerly for the glass his mother carried, but when he had drained its contents at a gulp, he sank back again on the pillow with a moan.

I'm afraid he's very sick, said Joy anxiously. Haven't you had a doctor to see him? Not yet, but I'll have one this afternoon if he ain't better. Dr. Brown will come if I send one of the children for him. He's a good man and very kind to poor people. Maybe I'd better be taking you down again now, for fear Mr. Hensdale would be waiting for you. Yes, I guess I'd better go. Goodbye, Tommy. I hope you'll be ever so much better tomorrow. I never did see nothing so sudden on all my life, said Mrs. Flanagan as she led Joy down the stairs. He was as well as could be yesterday, Marnon, and he was as well as could be yesterday, marnon, and he never did.

it was only last night as he was took like this all in a minute. How old is he? Joy inquired with interest. Eight, gone on nine, and a foined big bye for his age. He neither had a day's sickness since he was born. I don't understand what's the matter with him at all. Mr. Hensdale was waiting rather impatiently, and he hurried Joy into the dog cart, cutting short Mrs. Flanagan's farewell hope that the swate little angel would have double sight in heaven. He did not appear very much interested in Tommy either, although Joy told him all about the poor little sick boy, whose head felt so hot, and who kept asking for drinks every minute. Indeed, Joy had an idea that he was thinking of something else and did not pay much attention to what she was saying. He was very kind, though, and he drove her all the way home, instead of stopping at his own house and leaving her to walk back with Sarah.

Goodbye and thank you a hundred million times, said Joy as her friend lifted her down from the dog cart at the Wentworth's front door. I really think this is the loveliest birthday I ever had. I wish I could give you something. You've made me so awfully, awfully happy. Give me a kiss then, said the old man suddenly bending his head down to a level with Joyce. That's about as good as anything else, I guess. Next moment Joy's arms were a real. around his neck. Oh, you dear kind Mr. Hensdale, she cried, kissing him heartily. I can't ever tell how happy you've made me and how much I thank you. It was the first time in many a year that Mr. Hensdale had felt the touch of a child's arms or of a child's lips. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of the little girl next door. This is a Libravox recording.

recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. The Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhodes. Little Tommy What's the matter with you this afternoon, Joy? You don't seem one bit interested in anything. Gladys's tone was decidedly impatient, and Joy had been lying back in the hammock with closed eyes,

hastened to assume a more upright position. I'm sorry I was stupid, she said apologetically. I didn't mean to be, but I guess it's because I've got such a bad headache. I believe you've been asleep most of the time, Gladys went on, still unmolyphoid, and I have been reading to you such a nice story, too. I think Marjorie's Quest is one of the most interesting books in the world. It is a lovely story, Joy assented, blushing. I liked it ever so much, but I'm afraid I did fall asleep for a few minutes.

I've been sleepy all day today, and my head feels so funny and heavy. Don't tell Sarah about it or she'll make you take rhubarb and soda. I'm sorry you've got a headache. Perhaps we stayed out too long with the pony this morning. It was pretty hot in the sun. I didn't mind it, said Joy. I was chilly then, and the sun felt so good and warm. But I'm hot now and my throat feels so dry and queer.

I guess you're getting a cold. My throat always feels like that when I have one. Shall we go and ask Sarah to take us down to the beach now? She said she'd be ready at four. o'clock, you know. Joy hesitated. Would you mind very much if I didn't go? she asked rather wistfully. I'm afraid it'll make my head worse to walk in the sun and I just feel like staying quiet. But you're going away the day after tomorrow, urged Gladys.

We've only got one more day to be together. Do come. I'll get your hat and I know the nice cool air on the beach will make your head better. All right, said Joy, getting out of the hammock and wondering vague. why every exertion seemed such an effort today. It was ten days since Joy's birthday, and in two more the little blind girl was to return to her city home. Next week, she and Aggie were to start on that delightful, long-anticipated trip to the mountains. Joy was very happy, and yet ever since the morning when she had first felt those little uncomfortable chills running up and down her back, even the thought of the pleasant times in store for her had seemed to make her feel tired all over.

Gladys ran into the house for their hats, returning in a few moments accompanied by Sarah, and the three started in the direction of the beach. Don't you feel well to date, Joy, Sarah inquired rather suspiciously. She could not help noticing how slowly the little blind girl was walking, and what a listless tired expression had replaced the radiant one on her face. Oh, I'm all right, thank you, said Joy, admonished by a warning pinch from Gladys, and the recollection of the threatened rhubarb and soda. I guess I've got a little cold, but that's all.

Sarah said no more, and they had nearly reached the lane which led down to the beach, when the sound of approaching wheels caused Gladys to turn her head and exclaim in a tone of some interest. It's Mr. Hinsdale in his dog cart. Perhaps he'll ask you to take a drive with him. In another moment the black horse had been brought to a standstill, and Mr. Hinsdale's loud voice was calling, "'Hello, Joy, want to come for a drive?'

Joy looked doubtful, but gladys with unusual unselfishness, hastened to set her friend's fears at rest by whispering, "'Go if you want to, I don't mind!' So Joy smiled and accepted the invitation, and in less than two minutes a little blind girl had been lifted into the high seat beside the old gentleman, and the black horse was carrying them over the ground at a pace which might have frightened some little girls,

but which seemed very delightful to Joy. to whom the sensation of fear was almost an unknown experience. Well, and what have you been doing with yourself lately, Mr. Hinsdale inquired, as they turned from the main road into a shady lane, where the air felt cooler and more refreshing on Joy's hot forehead. Oh, I've been having a lovely time, said Joy, trying to speak in her usual cheerful tone, but finding something of an effort. Gladys and I went for a long drive with the pony this morning,

and yesterday we had a picnic dinner on the beach. "'I haven't seen you for ever so long. I was wondering where you were. "'Did you really? Well, now, that's quite flattering. "'Young ladies don't, as a rule, trouble themselves to worry about me, "'or to care what becomes of me either. "'I had to go to the city on business, "'and as I'm not fond of travelling, I stayed there until it was finished. "'I only came home last night.

"'I'm going home the day after to-morrow,' Joy said. "'Mr. Hinsdale frowned. "'Going home, are you? Where's home?' "'Why, New York?' York with my sister. You can't go to New York in this hot weather. What's went we're thinking of to let you do such a thing? Oh, but I've made a very long visit already, said Joy earnestly. Besides, I'm not going to stay in New York now. Next week, my sister has her vacation, and we're going away to a beautiful place in Vermont. And when are you coming back here, I should like to know.

Oh, I don't know, said Joy, smiling. Not before next summer anyway. The Wentworths live in New York in winter, you know. Look here, said Mr. Hinsdale with sudden decision. This won't do at all. You've got to come back. You've got to come and make me a visit. Joy was very much flattered. Would you really like to have me, she asked?

I don't really ask people unless I want them. How would you like to come and live with me altogether, eh? Mr. Hinsdale asked this startling question in just the same tone in which he might have asked her to take a drive with him, and for a moment Joy thought she must have misunderstood his meaning. To live with you, sir, she repeated blankly. To be your little girl, you mean? That's just what I do mean, to be my little girl.

Joy was almost too astonished to speak. You're very kind, she faltered. Very kind indeed, but, you see, I could never leave Aggie. Bother about Aggie. Can't she get on without you? "'I don't think she could,' said Joy. "'And anyway, I couldn't get on without her. "'You've seemed to get on very well without her since you came here.'

"'Yes, but that was only just for a little while. "'I knew we should be together again very soon. "'And even then I've missed her. "'Oh, I have missed her very much sometimes.' "'There was a quiver in Joy's voice and a mist of tears in the blue eyes. "'The child could not have told why it was, "'but she was missing her sister more that afternoon. than she had done at any time since coming to Clam Harbour.

She thought that if she could only lay her aching head down on Aggie's shoulder and feel the touch of Aggie's loving alarms around her, she would be so very, very happy. Mr. Hinsdale said no more on the subject of Joy's return to Clam Harbour, but it was evident that something had disturbed him, for he was graver and more silent that afternoon than Joy had ever known him to be before. It was a very silent drive altogether, for Joy herself was not in a talkative mood and preferred sitting quietly in her corner

and letting the cool, fresh air fan her burning cheeks and forehead to doing anything else. They were driving through the village street on their way home when a gentleman who was standing on the sidewalk in front of the drugstore came hastily forward and motioned to Mr. Hinsdale to stop. I beg your pardon, he said apologetically as the old gentleman brought the black horse to a stand, but I called it to your house this afternoon on rather important business. I don't know whether you've heard it or not, but there are some bad cases of scarlet fever in one of your cottages.

No, I didn't know it, said Mr. Hinsdale, roughly. Not that it makes any special difference to me that I can see. It certainly isn't my fault. No, of course not, but I thought you might wish to avoid going near the place. Did you think I would be afraid of catching a child's disease? "'Not for yourself, but I thought that, possibly.' And the gentleman looked at Mr. Hinsdale's little companion. "'Oh, I see.

"'Well, you needn't worry. "'I haven't any intention of visiting any of my tenants at present. "'Which family have the fever?' "'A family by the name of Flanagan. "'They live in the small White House on the right.' "'Mr. Hinsdale gave a violent start, "'and some of the colour went out of his face. "'Flanigan,' he repeated in a very different tone.

Bridget Flanagan, a widow with several children. Yes, one child died this morning, and two more are very ill. It's a very bad, malignant form of the disease I've been attending the family for the past week. Look here, Brown. Mr. Hinsdale leaned forward in his seat and spoke in a rather low voice. I'm afraid this is a bad business. I did take this little girl to that very house about ten days ago. One of the children was ill then, but I never dreamed. Good heavens, what are we to do?

Mr. Hinsdale was looking fairly frightened, and the kind-hearted doctor who had known him for years, suddenly realized that there might be a possibility of his eccentric neighbor possessing feelings, like other people, after all. There may not be any cause for alarm, he said, speaking cheerfully, though he looked rather grave. Which one of the children was ill?

Do you happen to remember? I don't remember, but she will know. Joy, turning to the child, you remember that house we went to on your birthday, don't you? You went upstairs with the woman to see a sick child. Joy, who'd been sitting with closed eyes, paying no attention to the conversation, roused herself at this question, and the look of interest came back into her face. It was Tommy, she said, poor little boy. He was very ill, and his mother said if he wasn't better soon,

she was going to ask Dr. Brown to come and see him. Mr. Hinsdale and his companion exchanged glances. Tommy died this morning, the doctor said in a voice too low for joy to catch the words. Mr. Hinsdale was actually white. What is to be done? he asked hopelessly. The doctor said nothing, but walking round to the other side of the dog cart, he mounted the high step and looked long and searchingly into Joy's flushed little face. I am Dr. Brown, he said kindly.

Won't you shake hands with me? Joy promptly held out her hand. Did you go to see Tommy? She asked eagerly. And is he quite well again now? Little Tommy is well now and very happy, the doctor said, holding Joy's hot little hand in his

and still scanning her face with grave interest. But I'm afraid you're not feeling very well yourself today, are you? Not very, Joy admitted. My headaches and my throat is a little sore, but I guess I'll be all right tomorrow. I hope so. You're not often ill.

I suppose? Oh, no, I'm never really ill. I was never ill since I was a baby, my sister says. Never ill since you were a baby, eh? You haven't had measles then, or scarlet fever? I did have measles, but I wasn't really ill. The doctor said it was one of the lightest cases he had ever seen. And scarlet fever? Oh, no, I never had that. Aggie, my sister had it, but it was before I was born. The doctor dropped Joy's hand and turned once more to Mr. Hinsdale, who'd been listening to the conversation with rapidly increasing anxiety. This child is visiting the Wentworth, says she not? He asked. Mr. Hinsdale nodded. Well, I scarcely think it would be right to take her back there just now. Mr. Wentworth's little girl ought not to be exposed to danger any more than can be helped.

You don't mean that you think there is really danger that Mr. Hinsdale checked himself abruptly at a sign from the doctor. Joy was leaning forward, wide awake now, and taking in every word that passed. I don't say there's anything wrong as yet, said the doctor rather hastily, but this little girl tells me she isn't feeling quite up to the mark today, and I thought that under the circumstances it might be better if she could go somewhere else for a day or two, just till we're sure what the trouble really is. She shall stay at my house, of course, said Mr. Hinsdale with decision. You won't mind coming to stay with me for a while, will you, Joy? Oh, no, said Joy, I should like it very much. But does the doctor really think I'm going to have scarlet fever?

No, no, said the doctor reassuringly. But you see, the fact is, little Tommy Flanagan has had scarlet fever, and his two little sisters are ill with it now. And as Mr. Hinsdale tells me you saw Tommy the other day, I thought it might be just as well for you to keep away from your little friend for a few days, just till we're quite sure you're all right, you know. Joy's lip was quivering, and she had to make a great effort to keep back the babyish tears. I don't know what to do, she said in a rather tremulous voice. I shouldn't like to give it to Gladys or Mr. Hinsdale or anybody. I should like to go home.

But if I had it at the boarding house, Miss Scott would be so vexed, and perhaps it might make some of the people leave, and that would be dreadful. A big tear splashed down on Joy. but before she could wipe it away or even realize what was happening to her she felt a strong arm around her and mr hinsdale was saying in a tone that very few people had ever heard in that gruff harsh voice before don't cry joy don't my dear it's all right i'm going to take care of you and you are going to be my own little girl now how it was joy never exactly understood but at the sound of that kind voice all her fears suddenly melted away and with a little

A little sigh of relief and content, she let her tired heads sink on Mr. Hinsdale's shoulder, murmuring softly, Thank you so much. You're always so very kind, and I'd rather have you take care of me than anyone else in the world except Agie. Half an hour later, Joy was lying in a soft, cool bed in the very room where Hannah had taken her on that first Sunday when she came to dine with Mr. Hinsdale. Hannah herself, with a grave troubled face, was moving about the room, folding up Joy's clothes and generally setting things in order. Hannah, said Joy suddenly, speaking for the first time since the housekeeper had finished undressing her.

How long are people ill when they have scarlet fever? That depends, said Hannah, sometimes only a little while, but the surest way to get well quick is to lie still and not worry about things. Joy stifled a sigh. "'I do hope I'm not going to have it,' she said. "'But if I should, do you think I'll be well enough to go with Aggie to the mountains next week?' "'Well, I don't know about that,' said the housekeeper, "'but you'll surely be able to go before long,

"'and in the meantime you'll just stay here and we'll have such nice times. "'I love to take care of little girls, "'and it'll seem just like the old times to have somebody to look after. "'Did that little girl you told me about the other day ever have scarlet fever?' inquired Joy. "'Yes, indeed she did, and pretty badly too, and I nursed her through it in this very room.' "'In this very room,' repeated Joy, raising herself on her elbow and looking more interested than she had looked before that day. "'Why, did that little girl live in this house?' Hannah flushed and looked a little embarrassed. "'Well, yes, she did,' she said rather reluctantly, though I didn't mean to tell you.

"'You won't say anything to Mr. Hinsdale about it, will you?' "'Not if you don't want me to, but why doesn't Mr. Hinsdale like to hear about it?' "'Because, dearer. That little girl I used to take care of, and who looked so much like you, was Mr. Hinsdale's little girl, and when she died I think it almost broke his heart. He never mentions her name now, and it might make him unhappy to be reminded of her.' Joy looked a little troubled. "'Do you think he would like to have me stay in her room, then?' she questioned anxiously. "'Perhaps that might make him unhappy, too.'

"'No, it wouldn't,' said the housekeeper with decision. "'I know that. "'For when he brought you home, his very first words to me were, "'Is the bed in the blue room made up? "'If so, I should like to have you put the child there.' "'Joy smiled contentedly, "'and laid her head down on the cool pillow once more. "'I'm glad,' she said.

"'I think Mr. Hinsdale must really love me "'if he wanted me to be in his little girl's room.' "'There was a short pause while, Anna went quietly on with her arrangements. Then Joy spoke again. You don't remember just how long that little girl was ill, I suppose? Well, no, I don't, exactly. It was a good many years ago, you see. Little Tommy wasn't ill very long, said Joy, with a sudden hopeful recollection. It was only ten days ago that he took the fever, and Mr. Brown says he's quite well now. Quite well and very happy. That was just what he said. I do hope I shall be well by next week. Agie would be so disappointed

if she couldn't go to the mountains, and she's been in the hot city all summer. Oh, I don't want to make people unhappy and be a bother, and... And Joy's sentence ended in a sob. Now, my dear little girl, said Hannah, cheerfully, taking one of Joy's little hot hands in hers. This won't do at all. If you fret, you'll be sure to make yourself much worse. You must try to be very brave, and everything's going to come out all right. I know.

why you may not be going to have the fever at all, and even if you do it may be very light, would it make you happier if your sister could come and stay with you? Oh, yes, yes indeed, cried Joy rapturously. That is, she added with a sudden recollection, if you're quite sure she couldn't take the fever herself, she had it once, but she might get it again, and that would be so dreadful. I don't think there would be the very least danger, said the housekeeper promptly, though of course we could ask,

Dr. Brown. Now, I'll tell you what we'll do. Mr. Hinsdale has gone over to the Wentworth, to let them know where you are, and to ask them to send some of your things. Just as soon as he comes back, we'll ask him what he thinks of our sending a little note to your sister, telling her about your not being very well, and asking her if she wouldn't like to come out here to see you, then, if it turns out that you haven't got the fever and are all right again tomorrow, why, you can go back to New York together and everything will be just, the same as it was before. Wouldn't you like that? I should like it better than anything else in the whole world, said Joy, and then she dropped off into a doze and did not speak again for some time.

When Joy next woke to full consciousness, she was aware of the fact that the housekeeper was no longer the only person in the room. People were talking in low, subdued voices, and she was sure she recognized the tones of Mr. Hinsdale, and also those of Dr. Brown. She made an effort to lift her head, but it felt so dizzy and heavy, she was glad to let it sink back on the pillow once more. Next moment, the housekeeper was bending over her, holding something to her lips. "'Swallow this, dear,' she said kindly. "'It's only some medicine to make you feel better. The doctor wants you to take it.' Joy promptly swallowed the contents of the spoon, wondering vaguely why the mere act of

swallowing should hurt her so much. Then she whispered eagerly, "'Did you ask Mr. Hinsdale about Aggie?' yes indeed said the old gentleman coming forward and answering for himself it's all right and your sister shall come to-morrow with a sudden movement joy put out her hand oh thank you so much she murmured i think i'd like to kiss you please mr hinsdale bent down his head close to joyce and as the child kissed him she heard him whisper in a tone so low that no one else in the room could hear god bless you god bless you god bless you god bless you God bless my own little joy. End of chapter 10, read by Sandra. Chapter 11 of The Little Girl Next Door. This is the Libravox recording.

All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. The Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhodes. Anxious Hours Agnes St. Clair was reading about Old Miss Mrs. Winthrop. The day was very warm and the book was not very interesting. More than once the old lady had nodded in her chair, and she was not making very rapid progress with her knitting, but the young girl read on patiently, solacing herself every once in a while by a glance at the large trunk

in the middle of the room, which Mrs. Winthrop's maid was busy packing. This was Tuesday, and on Thursday Mrs. Winthrop expected to leave the city. to spend a month with her married son at the seaside. It had been a very hot summer, and poor Agnes was very tired. The past three weeks had been specially trying, for there had been no bright little face to make the dull boarding-house bedroom look home like, no joy to gliden the long hot evenings with merry chatter and loving caresses.

The sale of her book had been a great comfort. It is true, and she had spent many an otherwise lonely hour in making bright places, for the future, but even the prospect of possible fame cannot make up for everything, and poor Agnes had been very lonely. But it was almost over now, for tomorrow Joy was coming home. What did it matter that the day was hot, that the book was dull, even that Mrs. Winthrop was more fretful and harder to please than usual? What did anything in the world matter when she remembered that tomorrow she would feel the touch of joy's soft arms around her neck and hear her dear voice saying, Aren't you glad to see me, Aggie? There was a ring at the doorbell, and Mrs. Winthrop started up out of a dose.

Who in the world can that be? she remarked in a tone of interest. The bell doesn't ring at this time of day very often in summer. Perhaps it may be those caps you sent for, Agnes suggested, looking up from her book. perhaps and if so i want to try them on to see if they're all right go and see mary and don't let the boy go until i have looked at them the maid left the room and agnes went on with her reading in a very short time mary returned it's a gentleman to see you miss st clair to see me mary are you sure there isn't some mistake did he give his name or answered the maid handed her a card agnes glanced at her Agnes glanced at it and turned a little pale. Who is it? Mrs. Winthrop inquired sharply. Mr. Whitworth, the father of the little girl my sister is visiting. I am afraid something must be wrong.

Nonsense. Why should there be anything wrong? They probably want the child to make a longer visit, that's all. Agnes said nothing, but hurriedly left the room, and, in another moment, she entered the parlor, which looked a rather forlorn place with the half-blinded tight and closed, and all the furniture done up in muslin coverings. A gentleman was standing by one of the windows, and as she entered, he turned and came quickly forward.

Miss St. Clair, I believe? Although she had often seen him in the street, and had had business relations with him respecting the publication of her book, this was the first time that Agnes had ever spoken to Gladys' father. Yes, she said in a rather tremulous voice. Then, raising her eyes to Mr. Wentworth's face and clasping her hands together nervously, she added in a different tone. Joy, my little sister, she is ill, you have come to tell me.

Now, my dear Miss St. Clair, said Mr. Wentworth very kindly, and he took Agnes's hand as he spoke. There is nothing to be alarmed about. Your little sister is not very well, but we hope. Indeed, we sincerely trust. There may not be any cause for serious anxiety. Won't you sit down and let me tell you all about it? Five minutes later, Agnes was again at Mrs. Winthrop's side. She was very pale, and her lips were trembling, but she made a great effort to speak cheerfully. Mrs. Winthrop, she said, I must go away at once. My little sister has scarlet fever.

her. Mr. Wentworth has come to take me home with him. Joy wants me. Agnes declared afterward that she had never really known Mrs. Winthrop until that day. All the old lady's fussiness and fretful complaints were forgotten in a moment, and she seemed to have but two desires, to hasten the girl's departure as much as she could, and to say all the cheerful, encouraging things that could be said during a few brief moments while Agnes was putting on her hat. Now, my dear girl, don't go worrying yourself into a fever of your own, or her parting words, as she held Agnes's hand for a moment. Remember, we all have our worries in this world, and scarlet fever isn't necessarily dangerous. We've most of us had it, I fancy, and live to tell the

tale. There, run along. I won't keep you. Drop me a line when you get the chance just to let me know how the little girl is getting on. Mr. Wentworth had a cab, and in it they drove straight to Miss Scott's boarding house. Mr. Wentworth waited outside, while Agnes ran up to a room to collect a few necessary things. Miss Scott herself opened the door and accompanied the girl upstairs. She knew all about what had happened, Mr. Wentworth having first called at the boarding house, and been directed by the landlady to Mrs. Winthrop's. the kind-hearted woman was very sorry for her boarder and she too spoke very cheerfully and encouragingly recalling all the cases she had heard of in which people had recovered from scarlet fever with marvellous rapidity and had indeed been scarcely ill enough to be kept in bed But though Agnes was very grateful for the kindly men assurances that there was really nothing to be worried about,

and though she did her best to smile and appear cheerful, her heart was very heavy, and she was conscious of a foreboding of coming trouble, which made her cold and faint with apprehension. Mr. Wentworth was very kind. How kind, Agnes did not realize till afterwards. She did not know that he had given up an important business engagement solely that he might see her, and take her himself to Clam Harbor. He was very thoughtful for her comfort during the short journey, and did his best to entertain her and divert her thoughts. But Mr. Wentworth, himself, was not very happy. He had grown very fond of Gladys's little blind friend during the few weeks that she had been an inmate of his home,

and he had had had a little talk with Dr. Brown that morning, when he had called at Mr. Hinsdale's on his way to the station. At last the Clam Harbor Station was reached, and Agnes, with a wildly beating heart, followed her companion out of the train to where a carriage was waiting, into which Mr. Wentworth helped her. She was trembling so much that she found it rather difficult to help herself. Drive to Mr. Hinsdale's place, Mr. Wentworth said to the coachman, Agnes gave a little start. Mr. Hinsdale's? she repeated. Why, I thought Joy was.

was at your house? No, you did not understand what I told you. When it was discovered that Joy had taken the fever, Mr. Hinsdale insisted on taking her home with him at once. He did not want my little girl to be exposed to the infection. I was sorry to have Joy taken away from my house, but under the circumstances I felt that I could scarcely object. No, indeed, said Agnes earnestly. It would be terrible if Gladys were to take the fever too. This, Mr. Hinsdale has been very kind to Joy. She has often spoken of him in her letters. He is an eccentric old gentleman, said Mr. Wentworth, smiling, but he has certainly taken a wonderful fancy to Joy. I never saw a man more utterly crushed and distressed than he was

when he came to my house yesterday afternoon to tell me about Joy. You know it was while driving with him that they met the doctor, who first discovered her illness. Gladys tells me she had been complaining of a headache all day, but no one else knew anything about it. No, Joy never complains, said Agnes sadly. Oh, Mr. Wentworth, I hope Gladys will escape. She must have been exposed to the infection already if the two children were together all day yesterday. A shade of anxiety crossed Mr. Wentworth's face, but he tried to speak cheerfully. Dr. Brown does not seem to think there is very much danger, as the disease had scarcely reached the contagious point when Mr. Hinsdale took Joy home with him. He has given Gladys a medicine

to take as a preventive, and, of course, the children must not meet again until Joy is entirely well. I can't help feeling a little uncomfortable with the idea of trespassing on this Mr. Hinsdale's hospitality, said Agnes, coloring. He is a perfect stranger, you know. I really don't think you need worry on that score, Miss St. Clair. Is Joy were the old gentleman's own grandfell child, he could scarcely be more devoted to her than he is now. Agnes said no more, and, in a few moments, they had turned in at the gates of Hinsdale Place. What a beautiful old house! exclaimed the girl, struck by the beauty of her surroundings, in spite of her anxiety and suspense. Yes, it is quite the showplace of the neighborhood.

I believe Mr. Hinsdale was born here. It seems rather a pity, though, that he should have no one to share with him now in his old age. I understand the old gentleman has no near relations. Here we are, Miss St. Clair. You will excuse me if I don't go in with you. Dr. Brown thinks it would be more prudent for me to keep away on account of Gladys. Ah, here comes Mr. Hinsdale's housekeeper. She will be able to give us all the latest news. Hannah, who had been watching for them, came hurrying down the steps to meet Agnes, and, in another moment, The young girl found both her hands taken in a warm, friendly clasp, while a kind motherly voice said,

It's all right, my dear. She's doing just as well as we can expect, the doctor says, and she's been asking for you all day. Agnes gave a little gasp of relief, squeezed the old woman's hands hard, and then turned to say goodbye to Mr. Wentworth. I don't know how to thank you, was all she said, but the look that accompanied the words said a great deal more,

and Mr. Wentworth drove away quite satisfied. Hannah led the way into the house and upstairs to a pleasant room on the second floor. Agnes wondered a little where Mr. Hinsdale could be, but did not like to ask. Now you must take off your hat and freshen up a little bit before I take you in to see your little sister, said the old woman cheerfully. Here's a glass of milk and some crackers. I thought you might be hungry after your journey. Agnes was not at all hungry, but she did not want to appear ungrateful, so she made no objections when the housekeeper insisted on placing her in a comfortable rocker by the open window, and she forced herself to swallow the milk and to nibble one cracker.

The housekeeper watched her keenly all the time she ate and drank, and Agnes could not help wondering at the kindly, almost tender expression in the old woman's face. Joy has told me about you and how kind you have been to her. her, she said, trying to smile, as Hannah took away the empty glass. I think my little sister has found some very good friends. Good friends, repeated the old woman. Oh, my dear, you have no idea. She broke off abruptly and the tears started to her eyes. The sight of the tears started Agnes into fresh anxiety. Oh, tell me the truth, she cried nervously, springing to her feet. You are keeping something from me. I know you are.

Joy is worsen. Much worse than you want me to know. No, no, my dear, no, said the housekeeper soothingly. You mustn't be so frightened. She's pretty sick, I won't deny that. But people generally are with scarlet fever, you know. Mr. Hinsdale would insist on having a regular trained nurse, though I told him I could do everything myself just as well as not, but she seems a nice, sensible young woman, and she won't keep us out of the room the way some of them do. There isn't much I don't know about scarlet fever. I can tell you.

Didn't I nurse Miss Joy through it when she wasn't near as old as this one? And didn't the doctor tell me it was one of the worst cases he'd ever seen? Miss Joy? repeated Agnes. She thought she must have misunderstood. Hannah reddened, and looked as if she had said something she had not meant to say. Did I say Miss Joy? "'What ever was I thinking of? It was Mr. Hinsdale's daughter I met. I was her nurse, you see,

nursed her through everything from the time she was three months old, till the day she went away to be buried. "'I didn't know Mr. Hensdale had a daughter,' said Agnes. "'Is she dead?' "'Yes, dear, she's dead. She's been dead these many years, but little Miss Joy is the breathing image of what she was at her age. That's why the child seems to miss. Mr. Hinsdale and me, just as if she was one of our own. Can't I go to Joy now? Agnes asked impatiently. Yes, of course, it's only just across the hall. I thought you would like to have your room near hers.

You mustn't be frightened if she should seem just a little bit of flighty-like. The fever is pretty high just now, the nurse says, but that doesn't amount to anything. As they came out into the hall again, Agnes caught sight of a tall figure, standing rigid and motionless by one of the windows. Is that Mr. Hinsdale? She asked Hannah in a whisper. The housekeeper nodded, and at that moment the figure turned, and Agnes found herself confronted by a tall, handsome old gentleman,

whom she knew must be no other than the kind friend about whom Joy had had so much to say. With a sudden impulse, she went up to him and held out her hand. You are very kind to let me come, she said in a low, sweet voice, cost the old gentleman to start and wince slightly joy has told me a great deal about you and-and i want to thank you for all your kindness to my little sister mr hinsdale did not speak but he took the outstretched hand and held it for a moment in a warm firm clasp while a wave of some painful emotions swept over his face i hope we shall not be very troublesome agnes went on blushing for she was beginning to find the old gentleman's silence somewhat disconcerting. Mr. Winworth has told me how good you have been, but... Never let me hear you say that again.

The exclamation was so unexpected, and the voice so gruff and harsh, that Agnes started and involuntarily drew back a step or two. Don't you know? The old man went on fiercely. Haven't they told you that it was all my fault? I let the child go into the house where that miserable little brat was ill. I ought to have suspected there was something wrong, from what the fool of a mother said, but I never did. She asked me to go in a letter. A proper person I was to have the care of a child,

you will say. There was no doubt as to the fact that Mr. Hinsdale was suffering, keen remorse, even though he might have a rather peculiar way of showing it, and Agnes's tender heart was touched. You must not blame yourself, she said earnestly, raising the blue eyes that were so like joys to his face. It wasn't your fault. You were not used to the care of children. A softened expression crept over the hard, stern, old face. No, said Mr. Hinsdale huskily, I wasn't. God help me, I wasn't. And then he turned, and without another word, walked quickly away. Hannah opened the door on the opposite side of the hall, and Agnes followed her into a large, handsomely furnished bedroom. The

lines were closed, but even in the dim light, Agnes could make out the various objects. The bottles and glasses on the table. The young woman in the costume of a professional nurse, and on the bed, could that be joy? That little motionless figure with closed eyes and crimson cheeks? Dear, bright little joy, whose quick ear had never before failed to catch the sound of her sister's step, whose face had never failed to brighten with a glad, welcoming smile. In spite of all her efforts at self-control, Agnes's knees were shaking so that she could scarcely stand. Old Hannah threw a protecting arm about her, and the nurse hurried to her side. Is she—is she asleep?

Faltered the elder sister, with trembling lips. She's in kind of a stupor, but you mustn't be frightened. It's only the result of the fever. May I kiss her? For answer, the nurse bent over the little figure on the bed. bed and softly touched the burning forehead. Someone has come to see you, she said in a kind, pleasant voice. Can you guess who it is?

The child's head moved restlessly on the pillow, and Joy uttered a faint moan, but that was all. Speak to her yourself, the nurse whispered, moving aside to make room for the newcomer. Next moment, Agnes was on her knees beside the bed, and the two little burning hands in hers. Joy, Joy, darling, don't you know me? It is Aggie. As if the sound of the voice she loved so well had power to rouse her as no other sound could have done, Joy moved again and opened her eyes. Aggie, she murmured feebly. Aggie, dear, I'm so glad you've come. I shall be out right now. And then she nestled her hot cheek against her sister's hand and fell asleep.

End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of the Little Girl Next Door This is a Libravox recording All Libravox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit Libravox.org The Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhodes Gladys tries to be important

Miss Gladys? Yes, Sarah Do you really think it's necessary to scrape all the off the piazza with your shoes? It isn't my fault. The hammock's too low. Seems to me I wouldn't swing in it then till it has been attended to.

I don't think your papa will be very much pleased when he sees the marks of your feet all over the fresh paint. Gladys gave an impatient sigh and sent the hammock flying up into the air again. I haven't got anything else to do but swing, she said. A nice way for a little girl who has so many things as you have to talk. I told you I would take you to the beach if you wanted to go.

I don't want to. There's nobody to play with, and it's no fun all by myself. I'm sure I'm not anxious to go myself. I only suggested it because I thought it might amuse you. There was a short pause. Gladys swung herself back and forth in the hammock, and scraped her shoes against a piazza floor, regardless of Sarah's admonition. Sarah went steadily. on with her work. Then Gladys asked a question. Sarah, how many days is it since Joy took the fever? It'll be two weeks on Monday and today's Saturday. That's more than ten days, isn't it? I heard Dr. Brown tell Papa that if I was going to have it, I should begin to be ill in about ten days. Yes, the ten days were up on Thursday, and we hope that you have escaped this time. You ought to be

very thankful. I'm not, said Gladys, a little defiantly. I should like to have scarlet fever, and I wish I'd caught it. Miss Gladys! Sarah actually put down the stocking she was darning, in her horror and disapproval. I do wish it, Gladys went on, rather pleased than otherwise by the side of Sarah's shocked face. I think it would be very interesting to be ill, and have everyone worried about me. You don't know what you.

you're talking about, said Sarah scornfully, and she picked up her stocking again. Now, when Sarah spoke in that tone, it invariably roused all that was most troublesome and disagreeable in Gladys's nature. She was really very unhappy about joy, who she knew was very ill, more unhappy than anyone, least of all Sarah, suspected. It was this very unhappiness which had made her so much more difficult to manage during the past few days, but no one, not even her father, quite realized this fact, and to Sarah, her conduct had appeared little short of heartless, for Gladys was, unfortunately for herself, one of these proud, sensitive children who find it almost an impossibility to express their deepest feelings.

I don't care, she began again, after a moment's pause, and she gave the hammock a rather vicious push as she spoke. I do wish I had it. Then everybody would be worried about me the way they are about joy, and I should be very important. And how about the pain of being so ill? Sarah inquired dryly.

I suppose that would be very pleasant, too. Bladis thought of rhubarb and soda and other disagreeable medicines, and she hesitated for a moment, but it was only for a moment. I don't believe I should mind, she said, not if everybody petted me and was worried about me. I should love to wake up and see people standing around my bed,

looking dreadfully solemn, and talking in whispers. I know the way they do it. I've read about it in books. Papa would bend over me and ask me if I felt a little better, and I would ask him, please, to read me something out of the Bible, and... Miss Gladys, you are, without exception, the most heartless child I have ever seen in my life,

exclaimed sarah her scanty stock of patience quite exhausted by this last speech of her charge you ought to have seen daisy graham when her little sister violet has scarlet fever it was pitiful to see her she was that heart-broken and distressed she couldn't take an interest in anything and every night and morning she used to say a little prayer of her own accord asking god to make her dear little sister well again perhaps if sarah had stopped to think about it she might have realized the fact that gladys had not taken very much interest in things either during the past week but sarah was not given to thinking very much about her little charge's feelings "'I hate hear about the Graham's,' remarked Gladys, "'giving the hammock of fresh push. "'They're nasty stuck up little prigs anyway. "'Papa said so. "'Your papa never saw them.

"'I told him what you said about them, "'and then I asked him if he didn't think they were nasty, "'stuck up little prigs. "'He laughed and said he was rather glad we didn't know them. "'So there.' "'Sarah looked offended, "'but before she could reply, "'or Gladys make any more remarks.

the screen door was pushed open, and Lizzie, the waitress, looking unusually grave and solemn, came out onto the piazza. Thomas has just come back from Mr. Hinsdale's, she said. Mr. Wentworth said he was to go over at five o'clock to inquire about Little Miss Joy. They say she's much worse this afternoon, and they're afraid she may not last through the night. Sarah uttered an exclamation of dismay, and the tears started to arise. It was quite true, as Gladys had said. Sarah was more fond of joy than she was of most people. Gladys said nothing, but her heart seemed to give one great frightened bound,

and then to sink down, down like a lump of lead. Joy was worse. Joy might not last through the night. What did that mean? She had never dreamed for one moment that her little friend was not going to get well. Lizzie lingered for a moment, and she and Sarah talked in low voices about the set. event, which might take place before the morning. Gladys did not pay much attention to what they said. She was too busy writing down the big lump in her throat, and winking to keep back the tears

she did not want Sarah or Lizzie to see. At last, Lizzie went back into the house, and Sarah began gathering up her work. I'm going in, she said, in a red-a-choked voice. I haven't the heart to stay out here any longer. I should think you'd like to come in, too, but I suppose you won't till you're ready. Gladys could not help wondering why it was more heartless to stay out in the piazza than upstairs in the nursery, but she said nothing, and Sarah went away indoors, closing this green door after her with a slam.

It was rather a comfort to be left alone, and now that there was nobody by to see her, Gladys was not ashamed to let the tears have their way. She cried bitterly for a few minutes. Then she dried her eyes and tried to her eyes and tried to cheer herself with the reflection that what Lizzie had said was probably all a mistake after all. Of course Joy was not going to die.

Little girls never did die. Grown people did sometimes, but only when they were old, or had been ill for a very long time. Joy was very ill, but then children and books were frequently very ill, but they always got well in the end. It was very interesting to be ill,

and have people look and talk about one the way Sarah and Lizzie had been looking and talking about joy. Yes, she did wish she had caught the fever. People would be sorry for her then, and she would be important. Oh, it would be nice to be important and have people really frightened about one. How very disagreeable Sarah was. She was always calling her heartless, just because she didn't sit and cry all day long. If she were ill, would Sarah be frightened about her, and would she see? speak with a catch in her voice, as she did when she mentioned Joy? Oh, dear, why couldn't she be

ill, just to find out how much people really cared about her? Papa would care, of course, but even Papa didn't understand her. Hadn't he gone off fishing for the whole day, never realizing how lonely she was, and how she missed Joy? It was Saturday, too, and he nearly always stayed at home on Saturdays. There were other ways of frightening people besides being ill, running away, for instance. She had once heard of a little girl who ran away to be a beggar and frightened her parents nearly to death. It was a very dreadful story,

for a horrible beggar woman had taken the child home with her and stolen all her clothes and cut off her curls. She had kept her all night, too, and the next day she had taken her out into the street and told her to go home over herself and the little girl had got lost and had a terrible time, until the last a newsboy had brought her home, in rags, and without her curls,

and so dirty that her father and mother scarcely recognized her. Gladys had her private doubts as to the truth of this story. It sounded so much like the moral tales Sarah was so fond of relating, but Sarah herself declared it was true. Gladys did not think she would enjoy being a beggar, but it would be fun just to slip away and hide somewhere to give Sarah a good fright. Of course she would come back before Papa got home, and if she were punished, well, what did it matter? Nothing seemed to matter very much just now, when her heart was aching so.

If people thought she was heartless, why, she might as well go and be heartless and have some fun. The hammock stopped swinging and Gladys jumped out. Her heart was beating very fast, but she had made up her mind. Sarah should be taught a lesson. She would find that she couldn't sit and call people heartless and not expect people to retaliate. She went into the hall and took down her shade hat from its peg. Then she came out again, closing the screen door softly behind her,

and next moment she was walking briskly down the path in the direction of the gate. Nobody saw her. Sarah was indulging in a good hearty cry up in the nursery, and Lizzie and the other servants were all in the kitchen at the back of the house. When she reached the main road, that has paused for a moment, uncertain in which direction to turn. I won't go to the beach, she decided. Sarah would be sure to come straight down there to look for me. I guess I'll go up into the woods.

It's nice and cool there, and I know the way perfectly well. For ten minutes she walked on steadily, without stopping. Then she began to feel rather warm and tired. The sun was hot and the August afternoon very sultry. She paused for a moment, feeling half inclined to turn back and leave Sarah uncunished. But then she caught a glimpse of waving tree-tops just ahead, and decided to go on a little further. Several carriages had passed her on the road, but she had not seen anyone she knew. It was much cooler and pleasanter when she had reached the woods.

She walked along a shady path for some distance, and then sat down on a mossy tree trunk to rest. she wondered how soon Sarah would discover her absence and began to worry about her. She did not want to stay away very long, only just long enough to give Sarah a good fright. She would walk quietly into the house, and then, well, it didn't much matter. She would be scolded, of course, perhaps punished, but she would certainly tell Papa how Sarah had called her heartless. And then all at once, before she had all realized what she was doing, Gladys found her crying. Crying as if her heart would break. A rustling in the bushes nearby caused her to turn her head with a start. It was very still in the woods. She was sure there was not another human being anywhere

about. She listened intently for a moment, but all was quiet again. I guess I'll go home, she said to herself, rising rather hurriedly from her seed, and feeling a little nervous and uncomfortable. She had not taken more than a dozen steps, however, when she heard it again, that same wrestling sound, only this time it sounded much nearer. The little girl's heart began to beat very fast indeed. There's something there, she cried, speaking out loud in her sudden terror. Oh, I know there's something alive there. Next moment she had uttered a piercing shriek, and started on a dead run, for there, not thirty feet away from her, peeping, he piqued. Heeping, out from among the bushes, she had caught sight of a large pair of horns. If there was one thing

in the world, above all others, of which Gladys stood in moral terror, that one thing was a stray cow. On and on she ran, stumbling over tree trunks, tearing her dress on briars, neither knowing or caring in what direction she was going, until at last, quite breathless, and half-fainting from terror and fatigue, she stopped, exhausted, and stood of her. clinging to a tree to save herself from falling. Even then she did not look around to see if that dreadful creature with horns had followed her. She stood still and listened, scarcely daring to breathe. No, everything was quiet. The only sounds to break the utter stillness were a few birds twittering their good-night song. She heaved a long sigh of relief and sat down on the grass to rest.

Her hat was gone. Her hair was flying in wild confusion. and the skirt of her white dress was hanging in ribbons. She was more tired and miserable than she could ever remember feeling before in her life. For several minutes she sat quite still, getting back her breath. Then, when her heart had stopped beating in those great frightened bounds, and her knees had stopped trembling, she took courage to look around and try to find out, if possible, where she was. Everything looked just the same as it had looked when she had sat down on the fallen tree.

tree and heard that dreadful rustling sound. Woods did certainly look very much like, she reflected. She had no idea how far she had run, and she remembered, with rather an uncomfortable feeling, that she had heard her father say that those woods extended for miles. What was she to do? If she started to go back the way she had come, was she not sure to meet that dreadful animal again? But if she took another path, how could she possibly tell where it might lead? and, after all, when she came to think of it, she was not at all sure of being able to find the right path even if she tried. She was not very much frightened at the prospect of being lost, however.

She could see through the branches that the afternoon sun was still high in the heavens, and she did not think she could have run any very great distance. She decided that she would walk on a little way in what she imagined might be the right direction, and then, if things did not begin to the moment, familiar, she would turn back again and try another path. Poor Gladys! She had very little idea of what being lost in the woods really meant. Her heart was still beating uncomfortably fast, and she started at every slight sound,

fully expecting to see another pair of those dreadful horns appear from somewhere among the trees. But she walked on briskly, despite her fatigue, conscious of but one great, overwhelming desire. The desire to get safely out of those dreadful woods before it began to grow dark. As to staying there after dark, the thought was too horrible to be contemplated even for a moment. Why, there might even be wild beasts there, and if not wild beasts, there certainly were cows, and Gladys scarcely knew which animals she dreaded most, a lion or a cow. She walked on for some distance, and was just beginning to comfort herself with her. with a thought that she was really nearing the place where she had entered the woods,

when a sudden turn in the path brought her to the edge of a little brook. She was quite sure she had not seen any brook before, and the awful conviction versed upon her that she must have taken the wrong path, and, in that case, she had probably been walking farther and farther away from home. It really was a terrible conviction, and for the first moment she was almost paralyzed by the thought of it. she was lost hopelessly lost night was coming on and and there were things with horns not so very far away that last thought was too awful to be born in silence and in a wild outburst of terror and despair gladys flung herself on the ground at the foot of a big tree lifted up her voice and wailed How long she lay there, shivering and sobbing, Gladys never knew.

I think she must have cried herself to sleep at last, for she was quite worn out from excitement and fatigue. At any rate, when she finally did lift her head, it was to make the dreadful discovery that the sun had entirely disappeared, and that it was almost dark. It was really going to happen, then. She was going to be in the woods all night. Night was a time when all sorts of dreadful, things happened, especially in the woods. Gladys had never been a brave child. She would never go to sleep, even at home, without being sure that Sarah, or someone, was in the next room. And as for being left alone in a room all night, the very thoughts sent chills of horror running up and down her back. But there was no Sarah in the next room now. There wasn't even a room, nothing but trees,

trees, trees all around, and it was getting darker and darker every minute. Oh, for the sight of Sarah's face, for the sound of Sarah's voice. Gladys sat up and leaned her back against a tree. There was no use in walking any farther. She was too tired to walk, even if she had had any hope of reaching a human habitation at the end of her journey. Besides, if she moved, she might meet things. Then came a terrible recommendation. collection. She remembered a story she had been reading aloud to joy only the other day. It was one of Kipling's jungle stories, and it told how the beasts used to gather at the pools at night to drink. A brook was not a pool, but it was about the same thing, and she had certainly

seen cows drinking out of brooks. With a little frightened sob, she sprang to her feet and plunged once more blindly along the unfamiliar path. It was not so easy walking now. as it had been before it grew so dark, and she had not gone far when she fell down, grazing the skin off her knee against a sharp stone. This time she made no further effort to rise. The pain in her knee was bad enough, but that was nothing to the pain at her heart. She was quite sure, now, that she was hopelessly lost, and if she had to stay in that dreadful place all night, she would certainly die of fright. She used to think that little girls never died, but people said joy was going to die. And if joy died, why should not she? When people died,

they went to heaven, that is, good people did. Joy was good. She would go straight to heaven, of course, but she, Gladys, was not good. She had run away on purpose to frighten Sarah. She had been a coward that day of the thunderstorm, and she had done a great many other bad things besides. sarah said god didn't love people who objected to going to church on hot sundays and she had objected a great many times if god did not love her and she died what would become of her in those dreadful moments in the solitary woods little gladys was thinking perhaps the very first serious thoughts of her life she began to cry again and sobbed until her head ached she was so frightened so utterly helpless and alone if she could only feel sure that god would take care of her she thought she would not be quite so frightened but she had been so very very wicked she was afraid he might not be able to take any interest in her suddenly there came a new thought which brought with it a faint ray of comfort god sometimes forgave people if they let him know how sorry they were and that they wanted to be better it must be getting near her bedtime anyway and she ought to say her prayers though it would seem very strange to say them out there in the woods,

instead of beside her own little bed. She could not kneel down because her knee hurt her so much, but she folded her hands and raised her eyes to the darkening sky, in which the first stars were beginning to show themselves. Oh, dear God, she said softly, do you think you could possibly take care of me, and let me get safe home again to Papa and Sarah? I've been very, very naughty, I know, and perhaps you can't.

But if I only get home again, I'll try to be a better girl. Indeed, I will. And, oh, dear God, please don't let Joy die. She's so good and sweet, and I love her so. Sarah says I'm heartless, but I don't really think I am. I do want to be good, and I don't want Joy to die. Oh, dear God, please, please see. let someone come and find me before it gets any darker.

Hark! What was that? Surely. Surely it was the sound of approaching wheels. Gladys sprang to her feet, her heart beating so fast she could scarcely breathe. Was somebody coming after all? Perhaps it was gypsies. She had read in books that gypsies traveled about the country in wagons, and had also heard somewhere that they occasionally stole little children. But even to be stolen by gypsies would be better than to be caught by things with horns, she decided. Nearer and nearer came the wheels, and now she could hear the sound of men's voices. Then she saw the flash of a lantern. The wagon, or whatever it was, was coming very near indeed. In another moment, the occupants of an open carriage drawn by a pair of fine bay

horses were considerably startled by the sound of a child's voice, calling imploringly from somewhere in the darkness. Oh, will you please stop? I'm a little girl, and I'm lost. Oh, please, please, do take me home. I'm so dreadfully, dreadfully frightened. There was an exclamation of astonishment. The bay horses were brought to a sudden stand,

and one of the occupants of the carriage sprang hastily to the ground. Gladys, my little Gladys, cried a well-known voice. Where did you come from? What in the world this is? mean? One glance, and then, with a shriek of uncontrollable relief and delight, Gladys flung herself into the arms of the astonished gentleman, and was clinging around his neck in an almost drangling embrace. Oh, Papa, Papa, she wailed. I've been so awfully, awfully bad. I was angry with Sarah because she said I was heartless, and didn't mind about

joy's going to die, and I ran away just to frighten her, and I got lost in the woods and couldn't find my way home again. I was afraid the beast would come and eat me up, but I asked God please to take care of me and to send someone, and I guess he heard me, for you came right away after that. Oh, Papa, Papa, please take me home. I'm so very, very sorry. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of the little girl next door. This is a Librevox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. The Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhodes

Mr. Hinsdale's Secret It was very, very quiet in Mr. Hinsdale's big house. A hush seemed to have fallen over the whole place, and even the serpents moved about softly and spoke in low, awestruck voices. All through the long summer's day, the old gentleman had sat alone in his library, sometimes trying to read, sometimes pacing the floor and restless impatience, but most of the time sitting idly, with his elbows resting on the table before him, and his face between his hands. Every little while he would rise and steal softly upstairs

to listen outside of the closed door of Joy's room, but his ears never caught any other sounds, save an occasional low-spoken question or answer from those within, and the heavy labored breeding of the sick child. On the other side of that closed door, three women sat and watched. They were Agnes, Old Hannah, and Miss Clark, the trained nurse. For many days now, that same unbroken stillness had pervaded the old house. It was more than a week since one intelligible word had passed the lips of the little blind girl,

and every day the pain at the elderly. her sister's heart had been growing sharper and sharper. Four times that day had Dr. Brown's carriage stopped before the door, and four times the doctor's kind, grave face had bent over the little flushed face on the pillow. On his last visit he had said a few words in a low voice to the durs, words which Agnes, whose ears were sharpened by anxiety, had not failed to catch. I think tonight we'll decide the question one way or the other. Agnes had said nothing then, but when the doctor left the room, she had followed him softly to the head of the stairs. Doctor, she said, and her voice was brave and steady in spite of the misery in her blue eyes.

Tell me the truth. Is there any hope? And the kind doctor, unable to meet that look of suffering, had taken the young girl's hand in his and answered a trifle unsteadily. My dear child, while there is life, there is always hope. that was at five o'clock in the afternoon and now it was after seven and still there was no change no movement of the little motionless form for more than two hours agnes had not moved from her seat by the bedside but now she gave a slight start roused by a touch on her shoulder my dear whispered the old housekeeper don't you think you'd better go downstairs and take a little dinner with mr hinsdale it's been ready for more than half an hour but he's never even gone into the dining room, though he's usually so punctual about his meals. Agnes made an impatient movement.

I couldn't eat anything, she said. Yes, dear, I know how you feel, but it's for Mr. Hinsdale's sake I ask you to do it. It isn't good for him to go without his regular meals, and he won't eat unless you come down to eat with him. Still, Agnes shook her head. Hannah glanced appealingly at the nurse. I think you'd better go, Miss St. Clair, Miss Clark said with cheerful decision.

I don't expect any change for some time yet, and I could send for you at any moment if I wanted you. You'll break down yourself, you know, if you don't take some rest. And then, what will your little sister do when she begins to get better and asks for you? When she begins to get better and ask for you, how those hopeful words thrilled by, poor Agnes's aching heart. They were almost the first hopeful words she had heard in days. Dr. Brown and Hannah had both been very kind, but neither of them had spoken of the time when joy would be getting better. Miss Clark was a bright, sensible young woman, and stranger though she was, Agnes had come to rely upon her more than upon any of the others. Now, she rose almost involuntarily.

You will surely call me if there is the slightest, change, she whispered. The nurse nodded, and with one more loving glance at the little figure on the bed, Agnes left the room, followed by old Hannah. Mr. Wentworth's coachman has just been here, she said, more for the sake of saying something than for any real interest she felt in the subject. They are in great trouble there. The little girl is lost. Lost? Agnes repeated, pausing on the threshold of our own room. Little Gladys lost? How very dreadful! Are you sure it's true? Yes, it seems she disappeared sometime this afternoon, and no one has been able to find her since, though they've been looking everywhere. The nurse is in a terrible fright, and they sit here to see

if by any possibility we knew where the child was. The worst of it is, Mr. Wentworth is away. He went over to the south side, fishing for the day, and they'd don't expect them back till sometime this evening. Gladys lost, the little friend of whom joy was so fond. It was very dreadful, and yet Agnes found herself wondering, as she washed her hands and smoothed her hair, why it was that she did not feel more distressed over this sad news. Perhaps she was growing cold and heartless. She had fancied sometimes lately that she must be. Why, it was days and days since she had shed a single tear, and yet joy was going to die. She went straight to the dining-room, but found it empty save for the solemn-faced butler,

who stood rigid and silent, behind his master's chair, the picture of patient submission to fate. Where is Mr. Hinsdale? Agnes inquired. In the library, miss, I've spoken to him twice, and I don't like to do it again, for I'm afraid his temper won't stand it. Perhaps you would object to reminding him yourself, Miss, as how dinner's been on the table this half hour. Agnes made no answer, but walked across the hall to the library door. There, she paused. Mr. Hinsdale was certainly very kind, but she suddenly remembered the fact that she had never exchanged

more than a dozen words with him each day, since her arrival at Clam Harbor. They had met at meals. It is true, but Mr. Hinsdale never talked very much when he ate. and except for an occasional remark about joy and the ordinary civilities of good morning and good night they had sat together at the table in almost unbroken silence the library door stood partly open and agnes could see the old gentleman sitting by his table his head buried in his hands he looked very miserable and very lonely and for the first time the thought flashed into her mind that there might possibly be other people in the world almost if not quite as miserable as herself hannah had told her that joy was the image of mr hinsdale's daughter could it be that he had really learned to love the child very dearly and that it was not a lone remorse for having been the unwilling cause of her illness that was grieving him so deeply It was a sudden thought, and it brought with it the very first sensation of pity that she had felt for anyone but herself in days. Next moment, Mr. Hinsdale felt a light touch on his arm, and lifting his head with a start, sat staring for an instant at the young girl beside him. Almost, Agnes thought, as if he did not recognize her.

"'What do you want?' he asked in a strange low voice. "'What's the matter?' Nothing. I only came to tell you that dinner is ready. How is she? Just the same. Miss Clark, the nurse, says she doesn't expect any change for some time yet. With a sigh, Mr. Hinsdale rose slowly to his feet. He walked a few steps towards the door, then came back, and laid his hand heavily on the young girl's shoulder. You're very pale, he said, in his harsh, abrupt way. You ought to take rest and exercise. "'Oh, I am quite well,' said Agnes,

with a faint attempt at a smile. "'I should be all right if only joy were better.' "'Did Brown tell you that he has telephone to the city for Dr. Hastings, the great specialist in children's diseases?' "'No,' said Agnes, looking rather startled. "'Well, he has. I told him to. "'Hastings will be here this evening. "'Between them they ought to be able to do something.'

With a sudden impulse, Agnes held up both her hands to the old man, as she had done on the first afternoon of her arrival. "'Oh, how good you are,' she said unsteadily. "'How can I ever thank you?' She had scarcely uttered the impulsive words when she wished she had left them unsaid, for the old gentleman had turned upon her, an almost savage light in his grey eyes. "'Did not tell you before you were never to speak to me in that way? I suppose you think because I'm a crotchety, selfish old man, that I must have lost all the affection I ever had?

I tell you again that I won't be thanked. Now, do you understand me? Yes, sir, yes, faltered Agnes. I'm very sorry if... There, that will do. There's nothing to be sorry about. Now come in to dinner. Dinner passed off in the same unbroken silence as usual.

Neither Agnes nor her strange heart. host ate very much, and Agnes, at least, was thankful when Mr. Hinsdale at last pushed back his chair and rose from the table. They were just leaving the dining room when the butler gave a rather deprecating little cough. Mr. Hinsdale, sir, excuse me, but had you heard about Mr. Wentworth's little girl being lost? No, snapped the old gentleman. And what's more, I don't want to hear either. "'What's the Wentworth Child to me?' "'And Mr. Hinsdale stalked impatiently out of the room, "'but Agnes lingered behind to inquire.

"'Has anything been heard of the little girl yet?' "'Yes, Miss, she's found all right. "'The coachman's just run in to let us know. "'The poor thing about it is, "'it was her own father who found her, "'and he never even knew she was lost. "'Him and another gentleman were driving home through the woods. "'They'd been over to-day.

the south side to fish, and what should they see all of a sudden, but the little girl right in front of their horse's feet, crying fit to break her heart. Of course, Mr. Wentworth brought her straight home. Agnes was conscious of a feeling of something like relief. The Wentworths had been very good to Joy. It would be terrible if any sorrow were to come to them, too. But, once back in Joy's room, the elder sister had eyes and ears and thoughts for nothing in the world except that little motionless form on the bed. It seemed to her that the child lay even quieter than before. She did not even move her hands now, as she had been doing all day, and, oh, how heavily she was breathing. But when she whispered her fears to Miss Clark, the nurse still spoke encouragingly.

We can't tell anything yet, she said. It's only the natural course of the fever. She must naturally grow weaker as time goes on, you know, but I am all. almost sure the crisis will come tonight. It was after nine o'clock before Dr. Brown appeared. This time he was accompanied by a gentleman with gray hair and a kind, clever face, whom Magnus Dut at once must be the city doctor, of whom Mr. Hinsdale had spoken. The great child specialist might be able to do something for joy. Now, my dear Miss St. Clair, said Dr. Brown kindly,

we shall have to ask you and Hannah to leave the room. Dr. Hastings and I are going to make an examination of the little patient, and Miss Clark will help us. Agnes rose obediently. Let me kiss her just once more before I go, she whispered. The doctor nodded, and Agnes pressed her lips long and passionately to the little burning forehead. Then she turned, and with a heart that was almost breaking, she left the room, closely followed by the old housekeeper. outside the door the young girl tottered and sank against the wall, feeling suddenly very weak and faint. It seemed to her as though, in those next few moments, her little sister's fate was to be decided.

With an exclamation of pitting tenderness, Hannah gathered the swaying figure in her arms. My poor dear, my poor dear, she murmured, as Agnes, with one great tearless sob, later aching head down on the good old woman's motherly breast. If you could just cry now, it would do you no end of good. I can't, said the girl, in a hoarse whisper. I've tried, but I can't. She's all I have in the world, and when she is gone, I shall be so terribly, terribly alone.

The clasp of the old housekeeper's arms tightened perceptibly. My dear, she said, very tenderly, have you asked God to help you to bear this trouble and to make your little sister well? Oh, yes, but he seems so very far away, and sometimes I am afraid I don't deserve to have my prayers answered. So many good people have terrible sorrows in this world, and I am not very good. I can't always feel sure that God hears when people pray to him for things. I am sure he hears, said Anna, softly stroking the girl's forehead as she spoke. We don't always understand, and it isn't always best for us that our prayers should be granted,

but he always hears, and now I'm going to ask you to do something. I will do anything I can, said Agnes, raising her head with sudden eagerness. You have been so good to me, I shall be so glad to do something for you. Well, it isn't exactly for me, said Hannah, smiling. That is to say, in one way it is, and in another way, it isn't. I want you to go downstairs and try to comfort poor Mr. Hinsdale. To comfort Mr. Hinsdale, exclaimed Agnes, looking rather frightened. Oh, Hannah, I don't think I could do that. He might not like to have me. Only try and see whether he likes it or not, said the housekeeper

reassuringly. I've lived in Mr. Hinsdale's family for more than 40 years, and I think I know him better than most folks do. He's gruff and short in his manner sometimes. But, bless you, he doesn't mean anything by that. He's got one of the kindest hearts in the world, and he just about worships little Miss Joy. You told me once that Joy looked very much like Mr. Hinsdale's daughter who died. Is that why he is so fond of her? Yes, it's partly that, and partly other things. The name of Mr. Hinsdale's daughter was joy, too. Mr. Hinsdale was sitting by the library table, just as he had been sitting nearly all day, with his face between his hands. He, too, felt that the next hour might decide the fate of the little life he had grown to love so well. There was a slight sound behind him, and for the second

time that evening, the old gentleman raised his head to meet the gaze of a pair of tender blue eyes, filled with a nameless grief and misery. This time he did not stare at the intruder, but rose at once to his feet. Is there anything I can do for you? He asked in the tone that Agnes scarcely recognized it was so low and gentle. No, said Agnes, in a rather unsteady voice.

It isn't that. I didn't come for anything, but, but I am very lonely and unhappy, and I thought you might be lonely and unhappy too. You seem so fond of her. Fond of her, the old man repeated slowly, and there was a strange ring in his voice, and a strange gleam in his eyes.

I think I am fonder of her than I have ever been of any other human being but one. Agnes came a step nearer. She was not afraid of Mr. Hinsdale any longer. Was that one your little daughter, Joy? She asked softly. Mr. Hinsdale gave a violence, start. What do you know about my little daughter? He demanded sharply. Not much, only that her name was

joy, and that my little sister is like her. Hannah told me that, and I thought, perhaps, it was why you cared so much for joy. Hannah told you that, did she? What else did she tell you? There was no evading the steady gaze of those keen, grey eyes, but Agnes fed the gaze, unflinchingly. She had nothing to fear. "'That is all,' she said quietly. "'She didn't tell you I was a heartless brute, "'who turned his only child out of doors "'because she chose to fall in love with a man I didn't particularly fancy? "'She didn't tell you I refused to forgive my daughter,

"'even after years had passed, "'and returned all her letters unopened?' "'No,' said Agnes. "'She never told me that.' "'Well, if she had, it would have been nothing but the simple truth. "'There are some things that won't bear talking about, and that a man can never forgive himself for. With one of her sudden impulses, so like joys, Agnes held out both her hands to the old man.

I'm so very sorry, she said. I wish I could say something to comfort you. Sit down, said Mr. Hinsdale abruptly, waving her towards a chair. Now then, suppose you tell me something about yourself. If Joy, if she shouldn't get well, you say you will be alone in the world. Agnes nodded. She dared not trust herself to speak. You must have some relations, surely. I have a few cousins in the South, but there is no one who cares much for me, or for whom I care. Joy and I have been all alone ever since our father died. Joy told me your father was a southerner. How about your mother's people? Have you nothing to do with

them? I don't know very much about them, said Agnes, with a slightly heightened color. My mother was an only child. I believe she had very few near relatives. Grandfather and grandmother both dead, I suppose. My grandmother died when my mother was a little girl. I am not sure about my grandfather. He may be dead, too. Hmm, like she, I suppose.

No, oh, no, my mother was very fond of him, but, but I believe there was some trouble at the time of her marriage, and we have never heard very much about her family. there was a short pause mr hinsdale drummed rather nervously with his fingers on the table he was the first to speak what was her mother's name before she married he asked abruptly agnes hesitated I suppose you will think it very strange, she said, but I really do not know. My mother died when I was only eleven, and I don't think I ever heard her mention her maiden name. I never liked to ask my father about it, knowing this subject to be a painful one to him. Don't know your mother's maiden name?

Well, that is a queer state of things. She didn't often mention her family, then? She very often spoke of her father. She loved him very dearly. A wave of some strong emotion swept over Mr. Hainesdale's face, and for a moment the hand resting on the table trembled visibly, but Agnes was too preoccupied with her own sad thoughts to notice it. Then he spoke, and his voice shook, in spite of all his efforts at self-control. She loved him, you say? Loved him dearly to the last, in spite of everything? Agnes started. Something in the old man's manner suddenly struck her.

as decidedly odd. She gave one quick glance into his white, set face, and next moment had started impulsively to her feet. You are ill. Let me do something for you. Oh, I am so sorry if I have said anything to hurt you. I forgot you had lost a daughter. Oh, please forgive me, and let me do something to help you. You haven't hurt me, and I'm not ill either, so you needn't worry about that. Sit down again, and tell me some more about your mother. I've got an idea that I used to know her long ago. You knew my mother? I knew a girl who answers pretty well to her description.

She married a southerner by the name of Ernest St. Clair. Yes, yes, that was my father's name. Oh, how strange it seems that you should have known them. Why did you never tell me before? Because, said Mr. Hinsdale slowly, many years ago I made a vow. I vowed to myself that as long as I might live, I would never forgive Joyce St. Clair. Never have anything to do with her or hers.

You made that vow? Gasped Agnes, growing very pale. You must have known my mother very well, then. Oh, Mr. Hinsdale, tell me, what does it mean? It means that I have been a brute, a hard-hearted, selfish brute. my wicked pride and the memory of that vow might have kept me from speaking the truth even now if it were not for that little child. I have known who you were, and who Joy was too, from the first day I saw her, the likeness was unmistakable, and then there was the name.

Were it not for the poor child's sad affliction, she might have passed for the living image of her mother, Joy Hinsdale, at her age. Hensdale, repeated Agnes in growing bewilderment. My mother's name was Hensdale? You knew her long ago. Was she... Was she any relation of yours? She was my only child, said Mr. Hinsdale solidly.

I drove her from my doors. I refused to see her. I returned her letters unopened. I almost broke her heart, but I think I broke my own at the same time. Agnes? Can you ever forgive me the wrong I did your mother? I am your own grandfather, and—and I am very lonely. There was a sound outside the door, and Dr. Brown entered the room. Without noticing the agitation on the two faces, or else mistaking its cause, he walked straight

up to Agnes and took her hand in his. Miss St. Clair, he said very gently, I want you to prepare yourself for a great surprise. A great joy. Dr. Hastings and I both think that the crisis has passed. Your little sister is sleeping quietly. The fever has gone down, and, provided no unforeseen complications arise, we see every reason to believe that she will entirely recover. Mr. Hinsdale sank back in his chair, with a murmured, Thank God! And then cover his face. with his hands. Next moment he had lifted his face again, with a violent start, for a pair of warm young arms were round his neck. A soft, tear-wept face was pressed to his. Grandfather, whispered the sweet young voice, Dear grandfather, I think I understand it all, and I want to tell you something

that mother said to me just before she died. If you should ever see your grandfather, Aggie, it isn't very likely that you ever will, for he and your father were not good friends, but if you ever should, love him for my sake, and teach little joy to love him too. I will love you, indeed I will, and so will joy, and you will never be lonely anymore. End of Chapter 13, Chapter 14 of the little girl next door. This is a Librevox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. The Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhodes. Mr. Wentworth settles the difficulty.

Oh, Grandpa, isn't Little Prudy the very loveliest story you ever read? Joy closed a big book as she spoke, and turned her radiant face upon her companion. It's a beautiful story, Mr. Hinsdale agreed heartily, but I'm afraid you must be tired. you've been reading to me for a good part of the afternoon, you know. I'm not a bit tired, said Joy, leaning back in the big easy chair by the fire, with a little sigh of utter contentment. I never get tired reading. I'm so glad you like being read, too.

You really do like it, don't you, grandpa? Better than most things in the world, I fancy, but you mustn't let me be a selfish old fellow, and keep you to myself all the time. You, selfish? Laugh, joy. The very idea of such a thing. As if you weren't the very dearest kindest grandpa in the world. There, there, that will do, interrupted the old gentleman, looking immensely pleased, nevertheless. You mustn't flatter the old man so much, or you'll be turning his head. Where's Aggie this afternoon?

I haven't seen her since lunch. Gone driving with Mr. Wentworth. He came for her right after luncheon. I guess she'll be back soon now. seems to me mr wentworth comes pretty often to take aggie to drive doesn't it strike you in that light oh he's so kind to aggie and she likes him so much he's taking ever so much trouble about her book it's coming out very soon now you know and i suppose he likes to talk to her about it mr hinsdale looked a little amused but he said nothing and there was a short silence while joy stroked the big book in her lab with leaven fingers joy was still a little paler and thinner than in the old days but the bright color was fast coming back into her cheeks and the old elasticity to her step it was october now and more than two months had passed since that strange anxious night when mr hinsdale had revealed a secret to agnes it was only that very morning that joy had told her sister that she believed those two months had been the very happiest of their lives and aggie had laughed and kissed her with a very bright color in her cheeks and the light in her eyes that the little blind girl could not see what are you thinking of joy mr hinsdale asked breaking the pause in his old abrupt way joy smiled i was only thinking how very beautiful the world must be she said A shadow crossed her grandfather's face, and he laid his hand tenderly on the little golden head.

Do you often wish you could see, Joy? No, said Joy, with cheerful alacrity. I hardly ever think about it now. I used to wish it sometimes, because I thought that if I could see, I might be able to help Aggie so much more. And why shouldn't you wish to see now just as much as you did then? Oh, because I know Aggie has everything in the world that she should. she wants, and because I'm so happy that I couldn't possibly be any happier no matter what happened. You are easily satisfied, little girl, Mr. Hinsdale said, suppressing a sigh. I wish there were more people in the world with your disposition. It would be a happier

and a better place, I'm thinking. Joy took her grandfather's hand and laid her cheek against it. I don't think you quite ought to say that, Grandpa, she said slowly. I don't think I've really got a good disposition at all. I'm afraid I used to be pretty horrid sometimes. Mr. Hinsdale laughed. Pretty horrid, were you? Upon what special occasions, if one may ask? It was when we lived at Miss Scots, said Joy gravely, and Aggie used to come home so tired, especially on rainy nights. I could always tell by her voice when she was tired, though she used to try and pretend she wasn't. Then I used to remember how different it all was before Papa died, and how people used to tell me she was so pretty, and such a bell.

It didn't seem fair that she should have to work so hard. Yes, I'm afraid I did have very horrid thoughts sometimes. And how about yourself? Her grandfather inquired with a smile. Did you never think it unfair that you should be deprived of things too? Oh, I was all right, said Joy innocently. I always had everything I needed, and I never had to work. Mr. Hinsdale said nothing, but he put his arm around their little figure and drew her very close.

There was a moment's happy silence, and then Joy lifted her head from her grandfather's shoulder with a little start. "'Dearst a doorbell,' she exclaimed, "'I guess it's Gladys. She said she was coming over this afternoon. "'All right, run along and meet her, but give me a kiss first and leave your book down here. perhaps by and by you may feel like reading me another chapter yes indeed i shall feel like it said joy looking much pleased at the suggestion and agi and i have learned a new duet to play for you this evening before i go to bed and bestowing upon the old gentleman a very hearty embrace the little blind girl tripped away humming a verse of one of the simple old ballads her grandfather loved as she went in the front hall she encountered Gladys and Sarah. I'm so glad you've come, said Joy, kissing her friend affectionately. I want to show you the new letter game Grandpa got me.

The letters are all raised, you know, and it's such fun playing it. Won't you come upstairs too, Sarah? No, thank you, not this afternoon. I have some work to do at home, but I shall be back for Miss Gladys at half-past five. Now, Miss Gladys, mind you don't get into any mischief. while I'm away. Sarah's tone was severe, and Gladys began to look rebellious,

but peace-loving joy hasten to make everyone comfortable. We'll both promise not to get into any mischief. Won't we, Gladys? She said, slipping an arm around her friend's waist. So don't worry one bit about us, Sarah. Hannah's upstairs, and my sister will be at home in a little while. Sarah made no more unpleasant remarks,

but took her leave at once, and the two little girls, went upstairs together to Joy's room. It was the same room in which the little blind girl had laying ill for so many weary days and nights, but no one who saw it for the first time on that bright autumn afternoon would have suspected that fact. The October sunshine was pouring in at the windows, lighting up every object, from the canary in his cage to the rows of big books on the shelves, which ran all around one side of the big room. There was no lack of new books for joy in these happy days. Even the carpet and wallpaper had been changed since Joy's illness, and a brighter

pretty room it would have been difficult to find. Joy used to declare that she felt just like a princess, living in such magnificent quarters. Wasn't Sarah horrid? said Gladys, tossing her hat onto the bed in the manner that the prim Sarah would scarcely have proved out. She's always saying disagreeable things, and reminding people of things. Even Papa notices it, and he told her quite crossly the other day that he thought it might be just as well to let bygones be bygones. She isn't always very pleasant, Joy admitted, but I suppose she can't help it. It's only just her way. Well, I wish it wasn't her way, said Gladys Crossley, for it's a very disagreeable one, and when she says those horrid things, it always makes me

bad, and I don't want to be bad. There was a pathetic little quivering Gladys's voice, and Joy hasten to say, sympathetically, perhaps if you could just make her understand that you really do want to be good, she might be different. Why don't you try it anyway? It wouldn't be any use, said Gladys mournfully. I guess she was born horrid. She doesn't like me. She only likes good people, like you, and the Graham's and Miss Agnes. Joy laughed and flushed a little, too. I don't know anything about the Graham's, she said. Aggie's good, but I'm not. But Gladys, I do think Sarah loves you. Hannah says your cook told her Sarah was dreadfully frightened about you the day you were lost. It was Gladys's turn to blush now. She did not like to have the events

of the day mentioned by anyone, even Joy. Still, she was a good news. She was a lot of her. She was an honest, truthful little girl, and it was not fair to be unjust to Sarah. She did cry when Papa brought me home that night, she said, and when I told her how very, very sorry I was, and asked her please to forgive me, she kissed me and said it was all right. But I don't think she need have mentioned it every single day since. She keeps talking about it the whole time, and it does make me very uncomfortable. Oh, Joy, if only I had a sister like Miss Agnes, I know I should be good. Joy's face brightened. It was always a great pleasure to her to hear her adored Aggie praised. But I haven't got any nice relations except Papa. Gladys went on in a

rather grieved tone, and I've got to go back to that horrid New York next week, and to begin going to school. Oh, dear, how I do hate it all. I don't see why some people have all the nice things, and other people have all the horrid ones. You've got lots of nice things, said Joy soothingly. Just think of all your toys, and I guess you'll like going to school when once you begin. I'm to have a governess, too, you know. Grandpa has written to the superintendent of the blind school about one. Toys aren't everything, said Gladys, ignoring the latter part of her friend's speech.

You've got ever so many more nice things than I have. There's Miss Agnes. I really do think Miss Agnes is the loveliest young lady in the world. And there's your grandpa. He's quite nice, too, though I did used to be afraid of him. And there's Hannah. She never scolds like Sarah, and she lets you do everything you want to. Oh, no, she doesn't, said Joy, laughing.

She makes me go to bed every evening just when I want to read, and she's always so dreadfully afraid of my taking cold. Aggie says she worries a great deal more about me than there's any necessity for, but we wouldn't tell her so, for we love her very much. She used to be my mama's nurse, you know, when she was a little girl. I wish I could have the nurse my mama had, said Gladys with a sigh. She might be nicer than Sarah. I wouldn't mind about Sarah so much if I could only stay here all the time

and see you and Miss Agnes every day, but when I go back to New York, it'll be so horrid, and I shall be so lonely. We're going to New York, too, by and by, you know, put in joy cheerfully. Grandpa went yesterday to look at houses. He wants Aggie to have nice times, and to go to parties again, the way she used to before Papa died. Oh, Gladys, want to be beautiful? Aggie's so pretty and so sweet.

I know everybody will love her. She's one of the very prettiest people I've ever seen, Gladys agreed. I'd just like to sit and look at her, and so does Papa. Joy looked much pleased. I'm glad your Papa thinks are pretty, she said, because I like him so much, and I heard a lady who came to see Aggie the other day, say she thought Mr. Wentworth had such very good taste about everything. Well, he does admire Miss Hagnis very much, said Gladys.

you know I coaxed her to give me one of her photographs, and I put it into a little frame on my bureau, so I could see it all the time. I've seen Papa looking at it every time he came into the nursery, and this morning he stood in front of my bureau ever so long, and when I spoke to him he didn't seem to hear. I had to pull his coat to make him look around, and then he jumped like anything, and when I asked him why he kept staring at his sadness' picture all the time,

he got quite red and said little girls mustn't ask foolish questions. I think it was rather unkind, for I didn't mean to say anything I oughtn't to have. What shall we play? Joy inquired rather hurriedly. She had noticed the fretful sound in Gladys' voice, and was anxious to change the subject as soon as possible. I don't care, said Gladys, indifferently. Joy proposed a new letter game, but though Gladys consented and even let Joy teach her how to play, her interests soon flagged, and before they had finished the first game, she pushed the letters away,

saying that she hated spelling games, and never could learn to play them right. Joy looked a little distress. Let's play something else, then, she suggested, as she gathered up the precious letters and put them back into their box. I guess I'd rather talk, said Gladys. I don't feel a bit like playing this afternoon. And besides, I want to talk to you about something. Do you think we might shut the door? It's something very private.

Joy, feeling very much surprised, and not a little curious as well, hastened to close the door, and then came and sat down by Gladys, who was looking both worried and excited. It was something Lizzie said, began Gladys in a rather unsteady voice. It was this morning, and I've been thinking about it all the time ever since. Tell me all about it, said Joy, in a tone of deep interest. Well, it was just after breakfast,

and I went into the pantry for a drink of water. Sarah and Lizzie were both there, and Sarah said I couldn't have any, because water wasn't good for me. I told her she was mistaken, and that Papa said cold water was very good for people. She said she didn't care to hear about any newfangled notions, and that Mrs. Graham never allowed her children to touch a drop of water between meals. She really was very disagreeable, and she took the glass away from me, which was horrid because I was very thirsty indeed. Then I suppose I was horrid too, for I told her I'd tell Papa,

and I said she was a nasty thing. She didn't say anything. She never does, you know, but just walked out of the pantry. I stayed to try and coax Lizzie to give me some water, but she wouldn't either, and when I told her how hard she was, she just shrugged her shoulders and said, in the most disagreeable way you can possibly imagine, Just you wait till you get a stepmother miss, and see if she'll put up with your tantrums. I guess you won't have to wait very long, either, from the look of things.

I was so angry I wouldn't stay there in your life. longer, but when I asked Sarah what Lizzie meant, she only said little girls shouldn't talk about things they didn't understand, and that Lizzie ought to have more sense. Gladys paused to note the effect of her story. Joy was looking very great. She took her little friend's hand and squeezed it sympathetically. Do you know anything about stepmothers? Gladys inquired after a pause. Joy shook her head. I've read about them, she said, but I never really knew any. In stories, they're generally very cruel, said Gladys, with a catch in a voice. Oh, Joy, I don't want a wicked, cruel stepmother. I don't, I don't.

And poor little Gladys burst into a passion of tears. Tender-hearted Joy was terribly distressed. She had both arms around her friend in a moment, and was kissing and soothing her as best she could. could. Don't cry so, Gladys dear. Please don't, she pleaded, the tears of sympathy streaming down her own cheeks. Why, you don't even know yet that it's really true. Your papa is so good and so fond of you. I don't believe he'd ever let anyone be cruel to you. He couldn't help it. Oh, he couldn't help it, willed Gladys. They never can. Mary, the waitress we had before Lizzie came. had a stepmother, and she told me all about it. She was dreadful. She had three children of her own,

and she gave them everything that was nice, and Mary and her little sister sometimes didn't get enough to eat. At last, Mary couldn't stand it any longer, and she ran away and came over to this country. She said her father was very good, but he was afraid of the stepmother, and, Oh, it was terrible. But I'm sure Mr. Wentworth wouldn't marry anyone like that, urged Joy. I don't believe all stepmothers can be so bad, and if you had a real nice one, who was very kind to you, you might like her better than Sarah. I don't believe there are any nice ones, said Gladys, mournfully.

Oh, Joy, how lovely it would be if you and Miss Agnes could come and live with us. Miss Agnes is so nice and so pretty. She could talk to Papa in the evening. and play on the piano for him, and then he wouldn't want to bring any horrid old stepmother's home, and we could all be so happy. Before Joy could answer, someone turned the handle of the door. What in the world are you children doing with the door shut? inquired a well-known voice,

and Agnes, an unusually bright color in her cheeks, and still wearing her hat at jacket, came hurriedly in. She gave one glance at the two little solemn faces, and then her manner changed and she added in a different tongue why what is the matter has anything happened gladys is very unhappy said joy solemnly unhappy my poor little gladys but she will surely tell me all about it agnes had hastily thrown aside her jacket and sitting down on the sofa between the children she drew gladys to her side at the side at the last night she drew gladys to her side at the the sound of the sweet, sympathetic voice, and the touch of the kind arm around her, Gladys broke down once more, and bearing her face on Miss Agnes's shoulder, began to cry again as if her heart would break.

It's about something Lizzie, our waitress said, she sob. She says I'm going to have a... A step... Stepmother. There was a pause. Some of the bright color had gone out of Agnes' face, but her arm, had tightened about the quivering child, and when she spoke, her voice, the low and not quite steady, was very kind. Would that make you so very unhappy, Gladys, even if it were true?

Of course it would, said Gladys, lifting her head, and speaking rather indignantly. Stepmothers are dreadful things. I've read about them in books, and I knew someone who had one, too. Oh, Miss Agnes, don't you think you might be able to? to persuade Papa not to do it? He likes you so very much. I might try, said Agnes, smiling, but perhaps it wouldn't be of any use.

Oh, yes, it would. I'm sure it would, said Gladys eagerly. That is, it would if you could tell him you'd come and live with us yourself. Oh, dear Miss Agnes, I do love you so very much. If you'd only come, I know I should be good, and I'd try not to give you any trouble. Indeed I would.

Miss Agnes laughed, and all the pretty color came back into her cheeks. You funny little girl, she said, kissing the flushed, tear-stained face. Suppose her papa were to say he would only let me come to live with you on one condition. What would happen then? What kind of a condition? inquired Gladys, anxiously. the condition that and now it was Agnes's turn to hide her happy blushing face on Gladys's shoulder. Oh, Gladys, darling, don't you understand?

The condition that I should be your stepmother. For one moment Gladys sat and stared in blank amazement, but Joy, who was a year older, and who had caught the note of gladness in Aggie's voice, had already grasped the situation, and flung both arms around her sister's neck. Oh, Gladys, she cried, half laughing and half crying. Don't you understand what she means?

You're going to have a stepmother, but not a horrid, cruel one, only the dearest, sweetest one in the whole world. Oh, Gladys, aren't you happy? Happy, repeated Gladys, still somewhat bewildered. You mean that it's true, that you're really going to marry Papa to be my stepmother? Agnes, who now had an arm around each child, and was hugging them both tight, only nodded. But you're so, so young and so pretty, and I thought stepmothers were always old and ugly. Oh, Miss Agnes, are you quite sure it's true? Quite sure, said Agnes, kissing her. You will love me,

won't you, darling? And I'll try to be a good little mother to you, though I know I'm not half old. or half-wise enough. Agnes got no farther, for with a shriek of uncontrollable delight, Gladys had seized her in an embrace of such fervent enthusiasm that she was, for the moment, rendered quite breathless. Ten minutes later, Agnes, looking extremely happy, though her eyes were red, and with a little girl clinging to each hand, entered the library, where Mr. Hinsdale and Mr. Wentworth were sitting together, engaged. in earnest conversation. At sight of her father, Gladys dropped Agnes's hand, and, springing forward, threw herself impetuously into his arms. "'Oh, Papa, Papa!' she cried, half-smothering him with kisses.

"'I'm so glad, so glad. I don't know what to do. I feel as if I'd like to fly.' "'And what has my little joy to say to me?' said Mr. Wentworth, drawing the little blind girl to him after he had kissed Gladys. heartily. Is she willing to have me for a big brother, and let me help Agie to take care of her? Yes, indeed, said Joy, raising her face to be kissed. I can hear in Aggie's voice that she's very, very happy, and of course that makes me very happy too. How funny to think of your being Joy's brother, cried Gladys, clapping her hands, and skipping about the room in the excess of her excitement and delight. Why, if Miss Agnes is my Mama, that will make joy my aunt. Oh, what fun! What fun! And she went off into peals of laughter,

in which she was joined by all the others. There's just one difficulty in this matter, said Mr. Hinsdale, who did not look quite so radiant as the rest of the party, and as he spoke, he slept an arm about joy, who had left Mr. Wentworth's sight, and was now leaning lovingly against her grandfather's knee. and that is who is to have joy i hope i'm not going to be asked to give her up for i may just as well say in the beginning that i shan't do it a slight shadow crept over every face except gladyses i think joy must decide that question for herself said mr wentworth though i am afraid i shall have a good deal of trouble to persuade aggie to come and live in my house unless joy comes to what do you say joy Joy's only answer was to slip one hand into Mr. Hinsdale's and the other into her sisters, for Agnes, looking suddenly pale and troubled, had come quickly to her side, as if unable to bear even the thought of a possible separation.

"'What do you say, Joy?' repeated Mr. Wentworth, looking anxiously at the child. "'Every one wants you, you know.' "'I couldn't leave, Aggie,' said Joy slowly. We've always been together, and I love her so, but I don't want to leave Grandpa either, for I love him, too. Let's all live together, proposed Gladys. Our house is big enough for everybody. Even for the terrible Mr. Hinsdale? said the old gentleman, laughing.

I thought you were under the impression that I was fond of making my dinner of the loasted girls. Gladys blushed and hung her head. I never thought that, she said in. indignantly. You know I couldn't have been so silly. I was afraid of you once, but that was before we knew you, and found out how nice you really are. Mr. Hinsdale laughed again, and so did Mr. Wentworth, but Agnes and Joy still look troubled. I'll tell you something, exclaimed Mr. Wentworth, with a sudden inspiration. I have thought of a solution of the difficulty. You have been looking for a house in town, Mr. Hinsdale.

i met my next-door neighbor miss scott in the street yesterday and she told me that she had decided to retire from business and to spend the rest of her days with some relations in the country the house is now for sale so what is to prevent your buying it and having a door cut between the two houses then we can all live together as gladys proposes and yet every one will be independent and we can each retire to our own premises whenever we feel like it good exclaimed mr hinsdale looking immensely relieved i'll go to town to-morrow and have an interview with the agent so the matter was settled much to the satisfaction of every one and two days later mr hinsdale returned from the city bringing the delightful news that he had become the possessor of what formerly had been miss scott's boarding-house and that workmen were soon to set about the task of converting the house into a very desirable residence. Gladys jumped for Joy when she heard the news, and Agnes and Joy were almost too happy for words. "'I couldn't have left you, Aggie, even to please Grandpa,' Joy whispered. "'And I couldn't have left you, my pet,' was her sister's proper plight. "'And so it is all settled,' said Mr. Wentworth, lifting Joy onto his knee, and as Mr. Hinsdale

insists that Joy's Hall must be under his own roof, she will still continue to be the little girl next door. End of Chapter 14. End of the Little Girl Next Door by Nina Rhodes.