breath of fresh air, or want to believe that the spring has come,
just call Bell Winship in, as she walks with her breezy step down the
street. Her very hair seems instinct with life, with its flying
tendrils of bronze brightness and the riotous little curls on her
brow and temples. Then, too, she has a particularly jaunty way of
putting on her jacket, or wearing a flower or a ribbon; and as for
her ringing peal of laughter, it is like a chime of silver bells.

Elsie Howard, the invalid friend of the girls, was as dear to them as
they were to each other. She kept the secrets of the 'firm'; mourned
over their griefs and smiled over their joys; was proud of their
talents and tenderly blind to their faults. The little wicker
rocking-chair by the bedside was often made a sort of confessional,
at which she presided, the tenderest and most sympathetic little
priestess in the universe; and every afternoon the piazza, with its
lattice of green vines, served as a mimic throne-room, where she was
wont to hold high court, surrounded by her devoted subjects. Here
Geoffrey Strong used often to read to the assembled company David
Copperfield, Alice in Wonderland, or snatches from the magazines,
while Jack Howard lazily stretched himself under the orange-trees and
braided lariats, a favourite occupation with California boys. About
four o'clock Philip Noble would ride up from his father's fruit
ranch, some three miles out on the San Marcos road, and, hitching his
little sorrel mare Chispa at the gate, stay an hour before going to
the post-office.

This particular afternoon, however, was not one of Elsie's bright
ones, and there was no sign of court or invalid queen on the piazza.
The voices of the girls floated out from Elsie's bedroom, while the
boys, too, seemed to be somewhere in the vicinity, for there was a