bel saw an opportunity
for sweet revenge. "Mother, why don't you send it away? You made Graham
give back that Airedale puppy Mr. Saunders sent him; I don't think it's
fair to keep this horrid old mongrel!"

Jerry's face darkened. Graham came hotly to Pepper's rescue.

"He's _not_ a mongrel--he's better'n _any_ old Airedale! He's got more
sense in his _tail_ than Aunt Maria's got in her whole body! If he goes
I'll--I'll--go, too!"

"Children," protested Mrs. Westley, giving way to the laughter that had
been consuming her from the first moment of Aunt Maria's arrival. "Let's
all feel grateful to Pepper. She's a poor, silly, selfish, vain old
woman, and if she ever comes here again I'm afraid that _I_ won't
promise to be good myself! Isobel Westley, dry your eyes--do you think
I'd let any girl of mine go to France with her? She can take her eight
other goddaughters, if they want to stand her quarreling with every
single person in authority--I won't let her have _my_ girl. Why," she
turned to John Westley and her face was very earnest, "she's such a
_waste_--of human energy, of brains--of just breath! How terrible to
grow old and be like--that."

Gyp was furtively feeling of her firm cheeks. "I'd rather be ugly,
mother, than wear those funny things. _Look_, mummy," she ran to her
mother's chair and touched her cheek. "_You've_ got a wrinkle! But--I
love it." With passionate tenderness she kissed the spot.

"I'll take you to France myself some day," laughed Uncle Johnny, patting
Isobel's hand.

"And can we go to see the 'Land o' Dreams'?" asked Graham, anxiously.

"Indeed we will--as a celebration," assented his mother.

CHAPTER XII

THE PARTY

The Christmas holidays brought a welcome respite from the steady grind
of school work. And there was every indication, in the Westley home,
that they were going to be very merry! Mrs. Westley had one fixed rule
for her youngsters: "Work while you work and play while you play." So
she and Uncle Johnny, behind carefully closed doors, planned all sorts
of jolly surprises for the holiday week.

But Jerry had a little secret, too, all of her own. She had written to
her mother begging to be allowed to go home "just for Christmas." She
had had to write two letters; the first, with its burst of longing, had
sounded so ungrateful that she had torn it up and had written another.
Then she waited eagerly, hopefully, for the answer.

It came a few days before Christmas, and