and stood at the entrance of the driveway, looking curiously down the wide village street, shaded with its avenue of spreading trees.
“Come on, Sue,” said Becky. “Don’t be cross to-day, anyhow. Let’s go and talk to our neighbors.”
But Sue drew back, shaking her curls, positively.
“I don’t like ’em, Becky. They – they’re not our style, I’m ’fraid. You can go – if you dare.”
One thing Becky couldn’t do, was to “take a dare.” She was not really anxious to make the pilgrimage alone, but having suggested it, she turned a comical look upon the others and said:
“All right. Here goes.”
Don gave a snort of disdain and Sue laughed. It would be fun to watch their reckless sister and see what she did.
Becky Daring was not the beauty of the family, by any means. Her hair was a glaring, painful red; her face long, thin and freckled; her nose inclined to turn upward. But Becky’s hazel eyes were splendid and sparkled so continuously with humor and mischief that they won for her more smiles and friendly words than she really deserved. Auntie had despaired long ago of trying to make Becky look neat and tidy, and at fourteen she was growing so fast that she shot out of her gowns as if by magic, and you could always see more of her slim legs and sunburned wrists than was originally intended. She was not dainty, like little Sue, nor calm and composed like beautiful Phœbe; but Becky enjoyed life, nevertheless, and had a host of friends.
One of her shoes became untied as she crossed the road to where the Randolph children stood. She placed her foot on the stone coping at the sidewalk and, as she fastened the knot, said with her slow Southern drawl:
“Good mawnin’. I s’pose you’re our new neighbors.”
The boy and girl, standing side by side, looked at her solemnly.
“Come to stay, I guess, haven’t you?” continued Becky, inspecting them carefully at close range.
“Come away, Doris,” said the boy, taking his sister’s hand. “It is some common village child. I am sure mamma won’t care to have us know her.”
Becky threw back her head with a merry laugh.
“Don was right, you know,” she said, nodding. “He sized you up in a jiffy, an’ from ’way over there, too,” indicating the porch from whence she had come.
“Who is Don, pray?” asked Doris, in quiet, ladylike tones; “and in what way was he right?”
“Don’s my brother,” was the reply; “an’ he jus’ gave one squint at your brother an’ said he was a snob.”
“Me – a snob!” cried the boy, indignantly.
“That’s what he said. Funny how he spotted you so quick, isn’t it?”
“Come, Doris. It is an insult,” he said, his face growing red as he tugged at Doris’ hand.
“Wait a moment, Allerton; we must return good for evil. Evidently the poor child does not know she has been rude,” remarked the girl, primly.
Becky gave a gasp of astonishment.
“Child!” she echoed. “I’m as old as you are, I’ll bet a cookie.”
“In years, perhaps,” answered Doris. “But, permit me to state that your brother was wrong. Having been bred in this simple, out of the way village, he does not understand the difference between a gentleman and a snob. Nor do you realize the rudeness of accosting strangers without a proper introduction, repeating words designed to injure their feelings. I am not blaming you for what you do not know, little girl; I am merely trying to point out to you your error.”
Becky sat plump down upon the sidewalk and stared until her great eyes seemed likely to pop out of their sockets. Then, suddenly seeing the humor of the situation, she smiled her sunny, amiable smile and hugging her knees with both arms said:
“I got it that time – right in the Adam’s apple, where it belonged. My compliments to Miss Doris Randolph,” rising to drop a mock curtsy. “I’ve mislaid my cardcase somewhere, but allow me to present Miss Rebecca Daring, of Riverdale, who resides on the opposite corner. When you return my call I hope you’ll find me out.”
“Wait!” cried Doris, as Becky turned to fly. “Did you say Daring?”
“I said Daring, my child,” with great condescension.
“The Daring family that used to live here, in this place?”
“The same Darings, little girl.”
“Forgive me if I seemed supercilious,” said Doris, earnestly. “I – I mistook you for a common waif of the village, you know. But mamma says the Darings are an excellent family.”
“Score one for mamma, then. She hit the bull’s-eye,” returned Becky, lightly. But, the recognition of her social position was too flattering to be ignored.
Said Allerton, rather sourly:
“Is that fellow who called me a snob a Daring, too?”
“He is Donald Ellsworth Daring,” replied Becky, with pride. “But he may have been wrong, you know. You’ll have a chance to prove it when we know you better.”
That gracious admission mollified the boy, somewhat.
“You see,” continued Becky in a more genial tone, “I can’t stay dressed up all the time, ’cause we’re slightly impecunious – which means shy of money. If it hadn’t been for that we’d not have sold our house and moved over to Gran’pa Eliot’s. In that case, you’d never have had the pleasure of my acquaintance.”
Doris looked across the street to the rambling old mansion half hid by its trees and vines. In front were great fluted pillars that reached beyond the second story, and supported a porch and an upper balcony.
“You live in a much more beautiful house than the one papa has bought,” she said, rather enviously.
“What! that old shack?” cried Becky, amazed.
“Yes. Mamma and I hunted all over this part of the state to find one of those old Colonial homesteads; but none was for sale. So, we were obliged to take this modern affair,” tossing a thumb over her shoulder.
“Modern affair! By cracky, I should think it was,” retorted Miss Daring, indignantly. “It cost a lot more money than Gran’pa Eliot’s place ever did.”
“Of course,” agreed Doris, with a slight smile. “The accident of wealth will enable anyone to build a much more palatial house than this. But only the accident of birth, it seems, enables one to occupy a splendid old Southern homestead.”
Becky regarded the speaker with wonder.
“You’re from the No’th?” she inquired.
“Yes. Our family is old, too; perhaps as aristocratic as that of your Grandfather Eliot. We are from Boston.”
“L-a-w – zee! I believe you are,” declared Becky. “I knew a Boston girl once, who was even more proper an’ ridic’lous in her
