“Now, Rosy-Posy, confess.  Who wrote all those absurd autographs in your book?”

“Absurd autographs!  What can you mean?”

“All those Counts and things.  No, it’s no use.  You shan’t wriggle away till you tell me.”

“Oh, Antonio and dear Potemkin, do you mean them?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“And you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“And will swear not to tell?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” bursting into a laugh, “I wrote every one of them myself.”

“Did you really?  When?”

“Day before yesterday.  I thought Lilly needed taking down, she was so set up with her autographs of Wendell Phillips and Mr. Seward, so I just sat down and wrote a book full.  It only took me half an hour.  I meant to write some more:  in fact, I had one all ready,—­

’I am dead, or pretty near: 
David’s done for me I fear’
Goliath of Gath.

but I was afraid even Bella wouldn’t swallow that, so I tore out the page.  I’m sorry I did now, for I really think the geese would have believed it.  Written in his last moments, you know, to oblige an ancestor of my own,” added Rose, in a tone of explanation.

“You monkey!” cried Katy, highly diverted.  But she kept Rose’s counsel, and I daresay some of the Hillsover girls believe in that wonderful album to this day.

It was not long after that a sad piece of news came for Bella.  Her father was dead.  Their home was in Iowa, too far to allow of her returning for the funeral; so the poor little girl stayed at school, to bear her trouble as best she might.  Katy, who was always kind to children, and had somewhat affected Bella from the first on account of her resemblance to Elsie in height and figure, was especially tender to her now, which Bella repaid with the gift of her whole queer little heart.  Her affectionate demonstrations were rather of the monkey order, and not un frequently troublesome; but Katy was never otherwise than patient and gentle with her, though Rose, and even Clover, remonstrated on what they called this “singular intimacy.”

“Poor little soul!  It’s so hard for her, and she’s only eleven years old,” she told them.

“She has such a funny way of looking at you sometimes,” said Rose, who was very observant.  “It is just the air of a squirrel who has hidden a nut, and doesn’t want you to find out where, and yet can hardly help indicating it with his paw.  She’s got something on her mind, I’m sure.”

“Half a dozen things, very likely,” added Clover:  “she’s such a mischief.”

But none of them guessed what this “something” was.