ely on the
piano--she was still taking lessons in _that_ polite accomplishment--had
only a vague idea of the ordinary rules of English grammar, and couldn't
write a decent letter, or spell words of more than two syllables, to save
her life.

Belle golfed. She did little else just now, for she was a creature of
fads. Occasionally she got a new one, and with kindred spirits played that
particular fad to death.

She might have found a much worse hobby to ride. Getting up early and
starting for the Long Island links, or for Westchester, before her sisters
had had their breakfast, was not doing Belle a bit of harm. Only, she was
getting in with a somewhat "sporty" class of girls and women older than
herself, and the bloom of youth had been quite rubbed off.

Indeed, these three girls were about as fresh as is a dried prune. They
had jumped from childhood into full-blown womanhood (or thought they had),
thereby missing the very best and sweetest part of their girls' life.

They had come in from their various activities of the day when Helen's
telegram arrived. Naturally they ran with it to their father's "den"--a
gorgeously upholstered yet small library on the ground floor, at the
back.

"What is it now, girls?" demanded Mr. Starkweather, looking up in some
dismay at this general onslaught. "I don't want you to suggest any further
expenditures this month. I have paid all the bills I possibly can pay. We
must retrench--we must retrench."

"Oh, Pa!" said Flossie, saucily, "you're always saying that. I believe you
say 'We must retrench!' in your sleep."

"And small wonder if I do," he grumbled. "I have lost some money; the
stock market is very dull. And nobody is buying real estate. I--I am quite
at my wits' ends, I assure you, girls."

"Dear me! and another mouth to feed!" laughed Hortense, tossing her head.
"_That_ will be excuse enough for telling her to go to a hotel when she
arrives."

"Probably the poor thing won't have the price of a room," observed Belle,
looking again at the telegram.

"What is that in your hand, child?" demanded Mr. Starkweather, suddenly
seeing the yellow slip of paper.

"A dispatch, Pa," said Flossie, snatching it out of Belle's hand.

"A telegram?"

"And you'd never guess from whom," cried the youngest girl.

"I--I----Let me see it," said her father, with some abruptness. "No bad
news, I hope?"

"Well, I don't call it _good_ news," said the oldest girl, with a sniff.

Mr. Starkw