ed each other could be so particular about everything. "It's only
with our toys and the cart that we do that way. It's a kind of game that
we've played always, and _we_ think it's lots of fun."

So it happened that that afternoon, when the train stopped at Lloydsboro
Valley, the first thing the Little Colonel saw was the pony-cart drawn
close to the platform. Then three little girls in white dresses and fresh
ribbons, smiling broadly under their big flower-wreathed hats, sprang out
to give them a warm welcome home, with enthusiastic hugs and kisses.

Hero's turn came next. Released from his long, tiresome confinement in the
baggage-car, he came bounding into their midst, almost upsetting the
Little Colonel in his joy at having his freedom again. He put out his
great paw to each of the little girls in turn as Lloyd bade him shake
hands with his new neighbours, but he growled suspiciously when Walker
came up and laid black fingers upon him. He had never seen a coloured man
before.

It was Betty's first meeting with the Walton girls. She had looked forward
to it eagerly, first because they were the daughters of a man whom her
little hero-loving heart honoured as one of the greatest generals of the
army, who had given his life to his country, and died bravely in its
service, and secondly because Lloyd's letters the winter before had been
full of their sayings and doings. Mrs. Sherman, too, had told her many
things of their life in Manila, and she felt that children who had such
unusual experiences could not fail to be interesting. There was a third
reason, however, that she scanned each face so closely. She had given them
parts in the new play, and she was wondering how well they would fit those
parts.

They in turn cast many inquiring glances at Betty, for they had heard all
about this little song-bird that had been taken away from the Cuckoo's
Nest. They had read her poem on "Night," which was published in a real
paper, and they could not help looking upon her with a deep feeling of
respect, tinged a little with awe, that a twelve-year-old girl could write
verses good enough to be published. They had heard Keith's enthusiastic
praises of her.

"Betty's a brick!" he had said, telling of several incidents of the house
party, especially the picnic at the old mill, when she had gone so far to
keep her "sacred promise." "She's the very nicest girl I know," he had
added, emphatically, and that was high praise, coming from t