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"Oh, no, Betty; you're awfully kind, but—"

"Yes, I shall, too. I'm your nearest neighbour, and it's my right. I suppose you'll give her a luncheon or something, first, and then I'll follow it with a tea, or a dance, or whatever you like. There'll be lots of things for her later on, so I want to get my bid in first. How pretty she is."

"You're a darling, Betty," cried Patty, enthusiastically, touched by her friend's kindness, "but,—well, there's no use mincing matters,—I'm not sure Azalea is quite ready to be presented to society."

"Oh, but your cousin—"

"Indeed she isn't!" put in Farnsworth, "I want you to understand that she's my cousin,—not Patty's. And, also my wife's quite right,—Azalea is not ready for social functions,—of any sort. You see, Betty, we can't blink the facts,—she's of the West, western,—in the least attractive sense. I'm fond of my home, and unashamed of my people, but all the same, I'm not going to have Patty embarrassed by the ignorance and awkwardness of an untutored guest. And so here's where I set my foot down. We accept no invitations for Azalea until we think she is in trim to make a correct appearance in society."

"Oh, Cousin Bill, I overheard you and I think you're just horrid!" Azalea came running back into the room, while Raymond Gale followed, evidently in a dilemma how to act.

"Cousin Patty would let me go, I know, and I want to go to Miss Gale's to a party! Just because I upset a glass of water at dinner, you're mad at me! It isn't fair! I think you're real mean!"

The girl went up to Farnsworth and almost scowled at him as she awaited his response.

But he looked at her steadily,—even sternly.

"Of course it must be as Patty says," he told her, at last, "but I will say, Azalea, that I'm surprised at you—"

"Why should you be surprised at me? You invited me to come and see you. If I'm not good enough to visit you, I'll go home again. You didn't ask me any questions,—you just said come along,—and I came. I ain't a swell,—like these friends of yours,—but I am your cousin, and you've got no right to scorn me!"

"That's so, Bill," Patty said, seriously; "and here's another thing. Betty has met Azalea now,—she knows just what she is. If she still cares to ask her to her house, I shall approve of her going. I want to do all I can for our cousin, and there's no better way to teach people to swim, than to throw them into the water!"

"Bully for you, Cousin Patty!" Azalea cried, her eyes snapping at Bill.

"I'm not so bad as I might be, and I'll do just what you tell me."

"I'm sure you will," agreed Betty, and Farnsworth looked at her appreciatively, feeling a deep sense of gratitude at the way she was helping Patty out.

"It seems hard on you, Azalea," he went on, "to talk of you like this,—as if you were not present,—but it is so. You need,—I'm not going to hesitate to tell you,—you need a thorough training in matters pertaining to polite society. Unless you are willing to accept our teachings and do your best to profit by them,—I am going to send you back home! For much as I want to be kind and helpful to my young cousin,—I will not even try, if it makes my wife any trouble or embarrassment."

"Oh, pshaw, Little Billee,—leave Azalea to me,—I can manage her."

"You can't, Patty, without her cooperation and willingness. Will you promise those, Azalea?"

"Sure I will! I'm a great little old promiser,—I am!"

"And will you keep your promises?"

"You bet! I don't want to go home when I've just got here! And if my learning things is my meal ticket,—then I'm ready to learn."

Farnsworth sighed. He had had, as yet, no chance to talk to Patty alone, since their misfit visitor had arrived. He had been firmly resolved to send her home again,—until now, that Patty and Betty seemed willing to take her in hand. If they were, it would be a great injustice to the Western girl not to give her the chance to learn refinement and culture from those two who were so well fitted to teach her.

And, anyway,—he continued to muse,—perhaps Azalea's worst faults were superficial. If she could be persuaded to amend her style of talk and her gauche manners, perhaps she was of a true fine nature underneath. His Uncle,—so-called,—and his Aunt Amanda, he remembered as kindly, good-hearted people, of fair education, though lacking in elegance.

"Oh, don't take it so seriously," cried the vivacious Betty, as she noted Farnsworth's thoughtful face: "leave the little girl to us for a few weeks,—and you will be surprised at the result! You'll do just as I tell you,—won't you, Azalea?"

"If you tell me the same as Cousin Patty," was the reply, and the strange girl gave Patty a look of loyalty and admiration that won her heart.

"That's right, Zaly, dear," Patty cried, "you're my girl, first, last and all the time! And we'll both do as Betty says,—because she knows it all! She knows lots more than I do."

"Indeed I do!" and the saucy Betty laughed. "Well, then, I'll arrange for a dance for Azalea very soon. Do you dance?"

"I don't know," replied Azalea, "I never tried."

CHAPTER VII
MYSTERIOUS CALLERS

Big Bill Farnsworth came into the nursery, where Patty was playing with the baby. It was the nurse's luncheon hour, and Patty always looked after Fleurette then.

"Take her, Daddy," Patty cried, holding up the soft, fragrant little bundle of happy humanity, and Farnsworth grasped the child in his strong careful way, and tossed her up high above his head.

The baby laughter that followed proved Fleurette's delight in this performance, and she mutely insisted on its repetition.

"Azalea does that," said Patty, in a troubled tone, "she is strong and very athletic, I know, but I can't bear to see anybody toss baby around but you."

"No; Azalea oughtn't to do it,—she is strong, but she isn't careful enough. Don't allow it, Patty."

"I do forbid it, but she comes in here when I don't know it,—or she picks baby out of her carriage, Winnie says, and tosses her clear up and catches her again."

"I'll speak to her about it; why, she'll drop the child some day! She must not do it!"

"I wish you would speak to her," Patty sighed. "Azalea is really a trial. I don't know what to do with her. Sometimes she is so sweet and docile that I think I'm teaching her to be a civilised person, and then she flies off at a tangent and she's as unruly and intractable as she was at first."

"How long has she been here now?"

"Nearly a month. I've tried and Betty has tried,—and, yes, Azalea has tried herself,—but we can't seem to—"

"Camouflage her!"

"That's just it! I want her to look like the background she's against here,—and she doesn't!"

"I should say not! Last night at dinner she threw herself back in her chair and yawned openly—"

"Openly! It was all of that! I saw her,—across the table through the flowers. And, Billee,—she's queer—that's what she is,—queer!"

"Have you noticed that, too? Yes, she is queer,—here take this

Little Flower. She's nearly asleep."

"So she is,—give her to me,—there, there, mudder's pressus,—petty poppity,—yes, she's queer!"

"Who? Fleurette?"

"You know very well I don't mean Fleurette! I mean that Pride of the West,—that stranger within our gates,—that thorn in the flesh,—that awful Azalea!"

"Meaning me?" and Azalea herself popped her head in at the nursery door.

"Yes," replied Farnsworth, imperturbably, "meaning you. Come in, Azalea, I want to speak to you. When have you heard from your father?"

"Let me see—about a week ago, I think."

"Will you show me the letter?"

"Why, how inquisitive you are! What do you want to see it for?"

"I'd like to read it. I suppose it isn't distinctly a private letter."

"N-no, of course not. But, the truth is,—I haven't got it."

"What did you do with it?"

"I—I tore it up."

"Was it unpleasant?"

"No, but as I had answered it,—I didn't need to keep it."

"What was in it? Tell me,—in a general way."

"Oh,—it said—he hoped I was well,—and he—he hoped you were well,—and—"

"And he hoped Patty was well! and he hoped the baby was well,—yes,—and after those polite hopes, what else did he say?"

"Why,—why, I don't know,—I guess that was about all."

"Oh, it was! Why didn't he tell you something about himself? What he was doing,—or going to do?"

"I don't know. Papa isn't very much of a letter writer."

"Well, he used to be! It was his special forte. I've had letters from him a dozen pages long. I don't believe he's outgrown his bent of letter writing. Now, listen, to this, Azalea, the next letter you get from him, I want you to show it to me, see? If there's anything in it you don't want me to know about, cut that out,—but show me at least the beginning and the ending,—and a part of a page. You hear me?"

"Of course I hear you,—not being deaf! And I'll show you the letter,—if I think of it."

"You'll think of it,—I'll see to that, myself. You ought to get one soon, oughtn't you?"

"No,—I haven't answered his last one yet."

"Why, you just said you had!"

"Oh, I meant the one before the last—"

"You meant nothing of the sort. And, mind you, Azalea, this is a direct command,—you must show me his next letter."

"I won't take commands! How dare you? You have no right to order me about so. I hate you!"

"Don't talk so, Zaly," Patty said, gently. "Cousin Bill isn't asking anything out of the way. There's no reason you shouldn't show him your father's letter,—in part, at least,—is there now?"

"N—no,—but I don't want to."

"Of course you don't," put in Bill, "and for a very good reason!"

"What reason?" cried Azalea, her black eyes flashing.

"You know as well as I do."

"I don't!"

"Very well, say no more about it now,—only remember I want to see the next one."

Azalea flounced out of the room, very angry, and muttering beneath her breath.

"What in the world, Little Billee, are you getting at?" asked Patty, as she cuddled Fleurette into her shoulder.

"There's something queer, Patty, something very queer about that girl!"

"You've oft repeated that assertion, Sweet William,—just what do you mean by it?"

"What I say, Faire Ladye! There's something rotten in the state of Denmark,—there is that!"

"But why are you so anxious to see her father's letters?"

"They're part of the queer element. Have you ever seen her get one,—or read one from him?"

"Not that I definitely remember; but she may easily have read them right before me, and I not have known it."

"But wouldn't she be likely to read a word or two,—or deliver some polite message he might send?"

"I should think so,—but she never has."

"That's the queerness."

"Oh, do tell me, dear, what you're getting at! Do you think Mr. Thorpe is dead,—and she never told us? There'd be no sense in that!"

"Not a bit! It's something queerer than that."

"Do you think he's married again?"

"Queerer than that."

"Will-yum Farnsworth, if you don't tell your own wife what you mean, I'll never speak to you again! There!"

"At risk of that awful condition of things, I won't tell you just yet. But you do this. Here's something you can do toward solving the mystery,—and I can't. Find out for sure,—don't ask her, but see for yourself,—if Azalea gets a letter from Horner's Corners addressed in a big, bold Spencerian hand. I remember Uncle Thorpe's handwriting perfectly, and it's unmistakable. I've not seen it since Azalea came."

"Goodness, do you call it a mystery?"

"I do, indeed. You'll find out it's a pretty startling mystery, or I miss my guess."

"Well, Azalea is a handful, I admit, but I think she's good at heart, and she is devoted to my booful little Fleury-floppet! My own Dolly-winkums,—who looks prezackly like her Daddy-winkums!"

"Patty, you'll go to the lunatic asylum some day, if you let yourself talk such gibberish!"

"Listen to him, Baby mine, my flubsy-dubsy,—my pinky-poppy-petal, listen to your dreadful Dads! Isn't he the—"

"The what?" and Farnsworth strode across the room and took his wife and child both into his big bear-like embrace.

"The dearest, sweetest man in the world!" Patty said, laughing but nearly smothered in his arms.

"All right, you're excused," and he let them go.

Nurse Winnie came then and took Fleurette, and the two elder Farnsworths went downstairs together.

They heard voices on the wistaria porch, and soon saw that Azalea was entertaining two guests.

They were strangers, and not very attractive looking people.

"Shall we step out there?" Farnsworth asked.

"No," decreed Patty; "let her alone. It's probably those people she picked up on the train coming here. She has spoken of them to me. Don't let's go out, or we may have to invite them to stay to dinner,—and judging from this long distance view of them, I don't care specially to do so."

"No. I don't either; the man looks like a drummer and the woman like a—"

"A chorus girl!" said Patty, after one more peep at the stranger.

Leaving Azalea to entertain her friends without interruption they went out on a porch on the other side of the house. And soon Raymond Gale sauntered over from his home next door and joined them there.

"Some strong-arm, your Azalea guest," he said, in the course of conversation.

"Yes," agreed Patty, a little shortly.

"She was over in our gym, this afternoon, and she put up as fine an exhibition of stunts as I've seen in a long time."

"What sort of stunts?" asked Bill.

"All sorts, from lariat or lasso work to handsprings and ground and lofty tumbling. That girl's been trained, I tell you!"

"Trained in a school?"

"No: her work is more as if self-taught,—or coached by a cowboy. She hails from Arizona, doesn't she?"

"Yes. Here she is now; I hear you're an athlete, Zaly."

"Only so-so," the girl replied, half-absently.

"Have your friends gone?" asked Patty.

"Yes."

"I recognised them," began young Gale: "they were—"

Azalea turned to him quickly. "Don't you say who they were!" she cried, emphatically. "I don't want you to! Don't you dare mention their names! It's a secret!"

"Oh, all right, I won't. Don't take my head off!" Ray Gale laughed carelessly, and pretended to be afraid of the excited girl.

"Why, why, Zaly," said Patty, "who can your friends be that you won't tell their names? I'm surprised!"

"Their names are—are Mr. and Mrs. Brown," said Azalea, with a defiant look at Raymond, who merely opened his eyes wide and said nothing.

It was quite evident that Brown was not the name of the people who had called on Azalea, and Patty could not imagine what reason there could be for the girl to tell such a falsehood.

"Is that the right name, Gale?" asked Bill, briefly.

But Raymond Gale only shook his head.

"Miss Thorpe says so," he replied, "surely she ought to know."

The subject was dropped and not resumed until after Gale had gone home.

Then Farnsworth asked Azalea who her friends were who had called.

"I told you they were Mr. and Mrs. Brown," she said, glibly. "I met them on the train coming from the West, and we got quite well acquainted."

"But their name is not Brown," Bill said, quietly, "tell me what it is,—or, tell me why you don't want to divulge it."

"It is Brown," persisted Azalea, but the way she spoke and the way her eyes fell before Farnsworth's steady gaze, belied her words.

"I'm sorry, but I can't believe you," he said.

"I can't help that," she returned, pertly, and ran away to her own room.

"What's she up to now?" said Patty.

"Part of the queerness," Bill vouchsafed, and said no more about it.

* * * * *

The next day, Azalea went to her room directly after breakfast, and, locking the door, remained there all the morning.

At luncheon she was quiet, and absent-minded, and as soon as the meal was over she went back to her room.

It was nearly five o'clock, when Patty, puzzled at such actions, tapped at Azalea's door.

"What's the matter, dear?" she called, through the closed door, as there was no response to her knock.

"Nothing; let me alone!" came Azalea's impatient voice.

"Are you ill? Don't you feel well?"

"Let me alone. I'm all right." The tone was ungracious, and there was no mistaking the import of her speech, so Patty went away.

At dinner time Azalea appeared. She wore the same frock she had worn all day, and Patty looked at her in amazement. Apparently she had been working hard at something. Her hair was rumpled, her collar awry, and her whole appearance untidy and unpresentable.

"Have you been busy?" Patty said; "couldn't you get time to dress?"

"Forgot it!" muttered Azalea. "Sorry. Shall I go back and dress?"

Patty hesitated. It would, of course, delay dinner, which was already announced,—and, too, in Azalea's present state of pre-occupation, she might fall to work again, and not come to dinner at all.

So Patty said, "No, come as you are," and she gave Azalea's hair a touch, and pulled her collar straight.

Farnsworth watched the "queer" girl all through dinner. Azalea had improved somewhat in manners, though her notions of table etiquette still left much to be desired.

To-night she was unlike herself. She answered in monosyllables when spoken to, and paid no attention to the conversation of the others.

"I expect my friend Elise Farrington to-morrow," said Patty; "I'm sure you'll like her, Azalea."

"Will she like me?" said the girl, indifferently.

"If she doesn't, it will be your own fault," and Patty took advantage of the opportunity for a word of warning. "Elise is a person of strong likes and dislikes. If you try to be real nice and courteous she will certainly like you, and if you're rude and blunt, I don't believe she will. Do you care, Azalea, whether she does or not?"

"No," said Azalea, calmly, and Patty gave a sigh of despair. What was the use of trying to help a girl who acted like that?

Farnsworth, too, shook his head, and glanced at Patty with a sympathetic smile, and then they talked together to the entire exclusion of Azalea, who was so wrapped in her own thoughts that she didn't even notice them.

Not waiting for coffee, when the others went to the library, Azalea, with the briefest "good-night," went up to her room, and again locked her door.

"What does ail her?" exclaimed Patty, as she and her husband sipped their coffee.

"I don't know,—but I'm going to find out. Any letter from her father to-day?"

"No; I looked over her mail. Oh, it does seem awful, to look inquisitively at another's letters!"

"It's necessary, dear, in this case. There's a big mystery about Azalea

Thorpe, and we must solve it, or there'll be trouble!"

"I wish you'd tell me all about it."

"I will, soon. Trust me, darling, I'd rather not say what I suspect, until I've a little more reason for my suspicion. It's too incredible! And yet,—it must be so!"

"All right, my True Love. I can wait. Now, listen, and I'll tell you of the marvellous achievement of your daughter to-day!"

And Farnsworth listened with all his heart to the amazing tale of

Fleurette's intelligent observation of a red balloon.

The next day Elise came.

"Here I am!" she cried, as she stepped from the motor, and flew into Patty's embrace. "Where's your eccentric cousin I've heard about? But first, where's my godchild? I've brought her the loveliest presents! Let me at her!"

"All right," said Patty, laughing at her impatience, "come right along to the nursery before you take your hat off."

The two went to the nursery, and Patty softly opened the door. But the room was empty.

"That's funny," Patty said, "Winnie always has baby here at this hour.

She takes her morning nap about now. Where can they be?"

The bassinette was disordered, as if the child had been taken from it, and Patty looked at it in amazement. She ran around to several adjoining rooms, and returned, with a frightened face.

"Elise, there's no sign of Baby or Winnie anywhere! What does it mean?"

"Goodness! I don't know! Did the nurse go down to see her beau,—and take the baby with her?"

Just then Nurse Winnie appeared: "Here's the food, Mrs. Farnsworth," she said, showing a bowl of steaming white liquid. "It's all ready."

"What food?" said Patty, mystified.

"Miss Thorpe came here fifteen minutes ago, and said you ordered me to a make a bowl of prepared food,—that Fleurette was not getting enough nourishment."

"Why, I did nothing of the sort! Where is Miss Thorpe? And where is the baby?"

"I don't know," and Winnie looked as if she thought Patty was crazy.

"Don't you know, ma'am?"