ccurrence, and neither of them ever cherished the least grudge
toward the other when they were over. Not a word was said in reference
to it by either, but Cynthia noticed Joyce looking at her rather
curiously several times. Finally she asked:

"What are you staring at me so for, Joyce?"

"Oh, nothing! I wasn't staring," Joyce replied, and began to talk of
something else.

"By the way, Cyn, why wouldn't it be a good idea to wait till next week
before we have our illumination? Perhaps we could get more candles by
that time, too. I vote for next Saturday instead of to-day."

"I can't see why you want to wait," replied Cynthia. "To-day is just as
good a time as any. In fact, I think it's better. Something might happen
that would entirely prevent it next week. No, let's have it to-day. My
heart is set on it."

"Very well then," assented Joyce. "But, do you know, I believe, if this
time is a success, we might have it again next Saturday, too."

"Well, you can have it if you like, and if you can raise the money for
candles," laughed Cynthia; "but you mustn't depend on me. I'll be
'cleaned out' by that time!"

That morning they carefully dusted the drawing-room and library of the
Boarded-up House.

"We'll put the candles in the drawing-room, in the big candelabrum. That
will take about forty--and we'll have enough for the library too," said
Cynthia, planning the campaign. "And the rest of the candles we'll put
in the 'locked-up room.' Let's go right up there now and dust it!"

"Oh, what do you want to light _that_ room for!" cried Joyce. "Don't
let's go in there. It makes me blue--even to think of it!" But Cynthia
was obdurate.

"I want it lit up!" she announced. "If you don't feel like going up,
I'll go myself. I don't mind. But I want candles there!"

"Oh, if you insist, of course I'll go! But really, Cynthia, I don't
quite understand you to-day. You want to do such queer things!"

"I don't see anything _queer_ about that!" retorted Cynthia, blushing
hotly. "It just seemed--somehow--appropriate!"

But Joyce, in spite of her protests, accompanied Cynthia up the tiny,
cramped stairway, the entrance to which they had not blocked by
restoring the book-shelves.

"What a strange thing it is,--this secret stairway!" she marveled aloud.
"I'm sure it _is_ a secret stairway, and that it was long unused, even
before Mrs. Collingwood left here. I even feel pretty certain that she
never knew it was here."

"How do you f