iculty in handling her long skirts. Bet watched her with amusement.

"Those gowns may be beautiful to look at, but for comfort, give me my
short dress with no flounces or trains."

"That's what I say, too, Bet, but what can you expect from ladies who
liked to faint?" laughed Kit.

"Did you ever think about it, Kit, how lucky we are to be born in this
age? Girls have such a good time."

Their conversation was interrupted by Colonel Baxter calling, "Come
along, girls!"

As they entered the room he sat at his desk holding a small package in
his hand.

"This is something I bought a few months ago, and I took it out of the
vault to have a photograph made of it. I am not quite _sure_ that it
is worth a lot of money, but I think it is. Here we are."

The Colonel unfolded a piece of silk and placed the treasure on it.

"A fan!" exclaimed Bet. "Oh, Daddy, what a beauty!" She held out her
hand as if to take it, then hesitated. It seemed too pretty to touch.

The sticks and guards of the fan were of ivory, elaborately carved and
pierced. The raised figures and designs were gilded. The mount of the
fan was of parchment, painted with a scene of the Luxembourg gardens in
which a fete was taking place. Young lovers in the dim sunlight under
the trees, paid court to their ladies. There was flirting and teasing
and romping play. Though gaiety and frivolity were expressed yet there
was a certain wistfulness as well, a little heart-throb of haunting
regret.

"It seems as if the artist had told a whole story in that tiny
picture," said Kit quietly.

"That's it, exactly," exclaimed Colonel Baxter, bestowing a smile on
Kit. This young girl had caught the idea of the painting at a glance.

"How can you tell whether it is valuable or not?" asked Shirley.

"We know it is worth a lot of money, for Watteau, a famous painter of
the 18th Century did this work. But there is another detail to be
decided before we can say how valuable it is."

The four girls, sensing a romance, looked on with interest and
pleasure. Colonel Baxter fingered the fan with the touch of one who
loved beautiful things. His hand caressed the carved ivory.

"Whose was it, Dad?" begged Bet. "It couldn't have been an ordinary
person's fan."

"Of course it wasn't!" said Kit emphatically.

"Did it belong to Martha Washington?" asked Bet suddenly.

"We seem to be doing a lot of guessing today."

"No, it did not belong to Martha Washington. A