just lost it from her
sash, and we've been hunting everywhere for it."

He held out his hand for the ornament, but the finder clasped it
tightly in her palm.

"It is my sister's," she declared. "The burglars--"

"Botheration!" he cried. "Of course, it isn't the same pin! This one
is Polly's. It was a present to her, and she thinks a lot of it."

"But I scratched the 'B'--"

"Probably somebody else scratched this. Did you, Polly?" turning to
his cousin.

"No," she admitted slowly, "I didn't; but I noticed the 'B,' and
wondered how it came to be there. I don't see how it could have been
your sister's," she said, addressing the girl who still kept the pin
hidden in her hand. "Chris's father bought it for him to give to me."

Those most interested in this little controversy were now surrounded
by the young guests who were eager to know the cause of the dispute.
Floyd and Julian pressed near, but before they reached Polly's side
she had bravely settled the question.

"Keep the pin," she yielded gently. "I should not wish to have it back
again if you think it belongs to your sister. Come, Harold!" and
turning from the little crowd she ran into the arms of Floyd.

He drew her away to a retired spot, followed only by the eyes of a few
curious ones, and the story was told, beginning with little Chris and
ending with Bertha Kingstone.

Polly was close to tears as she finished, and Harold was openly
indignant that she should have allowed Bertha to keep the pin.

"Of course, there are two pins!" he declared vehemently. "This one
never belonged to Tip Kingstone. If you don't get it away from her,
Floyd Westwood, I will!" His flashing eyes emphasized his hot words,
and he would have carried out his threat if it had not been for his
brother's authoritative advice to let things be as they had fallen
until their father could be consulted.

This little episode came near upsetting the party, but Aunt Sally
Calhoun was a diplomat of no mean degree, and under her tactful
management things quickly regained their smooth course. Yet Polly went
to sleep that night wishing with all her heart that she had never
brought her precious pansy pin to New York.

The next morning, just as she was putting on her hat and coat to go to
the station, a maid appeared at her door with a card. She read,
engraved in small script, "Bertha Curtis Kingstone," and she wondered
with a joyful wonder why she had come to see her.

The girl that met her