Dorothy Dainty at the Mountains Part 6

"Once more, once more!" cried an eager voice, and then more clapping, and even a few shrill whistles from some very young men begged her to respond.

She extended her arms for a second, then whirling rapidly, she repeated the last half of the dance, courtesied again, and when she ran back to the little room, Dorothy embraced her tenderly.

"Oh, Nancy darling!" she cried, "you never danced finer. Do you know how pleased every one is?"

"I danced to please and surprise them," said Nancy. "I _do_ love to see people look happy. They couldn't remember how hard it was raining while I was whirling and dancing for them."

Floretta, now more unhappy than before, turned so that she might not see Nancy, nor note the shimmer of her spangles.

Mrs. Paxton, who had been talking with a friend, now turned toward Floretta.

"Come!" she said, "now run out, and do your very best, Floretta."

"I'm not going out!" said Floretta.

"What an idea!" cried Mrs. Paxton. "Of course you'll run out, and show every one how cute you are. Why, I planned this entertainment just to give you a chance to show off!"

"And made me the last one on the whole list!" snarled Floretta.

"Come, come!" cried her mother, "every one couldn't be first. I thought I'd have the others perform first, and then _you_ could show who was the smartest! Come! They're just wild to see what you can do, and they're waiting."

"They'll _have_ to wait!" hissed Floretta, like a cross little cat.

It was no use to urge, plead, or insist. Floretta was stubborn, and when once she had determined what she would, or would not do, nothing could move her.

Prayers and threats were equally useless.

Dorothy sang very sweetly, and was cordially received.

Uncle Harry and his wife sang a charming duet that delighted all, the orchestra played a military caprice, and then the remainder of the evening was spent in a little, informal dance.

All was light, laughter, and music, and there were two kinds of music that gladdened their hearts,--the sweet music of the violins, and the still sweeter melody of happy voices!

Silly little Floretta had ruined the evening for no one save her own jealous little self.

Because she could not be the first on the program, she would not appear at all, although, at heart, she longed to show her really clever mimicry. Later, after having sulked during the early part of the evening, she refused to join the dancers, and ran away to her room, angry, very angry with every one save the one person who was really at fault,--herself.

Her efforts at imitating would surely have amused, and would, doubtless, have been well received. She was rather a graceful dancer, in any of the ordinary ballroom dances, and she thus might have joined the other children when the concert was over. She had needlessly spent a most unhappy evening.

Now, in her room, she heard the strains of the orchestra, and for the first time realized how foolish she had been.

"I _had_ a chance, and I lost it," she sobbed, but her tears were not tears of grieving. They were angry tears, and the droll part of it was that while she alone was at fault, she was angry with every one but herself.

For a few moments she lay, her face hidden in her pillow. Then, she turned over into a more comfortable position, and softly she whispered, "I'll do enough to-morrow to make up!"

She did not say _what_ she intended to do, but the idea evidently pleased her, for she laughed through her tears.

She sprang from her bed, found a box of bonbons that her mother had won as a prize in an afternoon whist party the day before, and crept back into bed. When she had eaten nearly all of the candy, she sat up and in the softly shaded light, looked at the box with its few remaining bits of candy. She was wondering where she could hide it.

"Ma will surely notice the empty box, or anyway, I've made it _almost_ empty," she said. "She might not miss it if I hid it!"

She had never been taught to be honest, so whenever she did a naughty thing, her first thought was to hide, or cover up the act. She never felt regret.

No one ever heard her gently say, "I'm sorry."

Softly she crept from her bed, and made her way across the floor to the dressing-case.

She put the box upon the floor, and pushed it well under it, and wholly out of sight.

"There!" she whispered. "That's all right. I would have finished the candy, but I didn't want the whole of it. I ate the best of it. The others weren't very nice."

Down in the long parlor the guests were no longer dancing.

They were resting, and listening to a lovely barcarolle played softly by the orchestra.

Flossie, clinging to Uncle Harry's hand, drew him toward the window.

"Look!" she said, as she parted the curtains. "It isn't raining now, and the moon is coming out. It will be pleasant to-morrow! And it has been lovely in here to-night."

"Dear little Flossie, dear little niece, it was your cheery, loving nature that led us to give your name to our baby. She has two fine names, she is Beatrice Florence. The first is Vera's mother's name, the second, dear, is yours."

CHAPTER IV

IN A BIRCH ARBOR

THE storm had cleared the air, no mist veiled the mountains, the sunlight lay everywhere, gilding valley and stream.

Many of the guests had started early in the morning for a trip to a distant mountain from the summit of which a delightful view might be enjoyed.

They were to ride over in the barge to the base of the mountain, have a picnic lunch under the trees, and then climb the rugged path up the mountain side.

It would occupy half the day and it would be afternoon before the barge would return with its merry, tired party.

Floretta Paxton and Jack Tiverton were usually in sight, or, as they were always noisy, within hearing might be nearer the truth, but they had gone over to a spot that the children called "The Pool," a bit of water not much larger than a big puddle.

It existed only after a heavy rain, but near its edge the slender birches grew, and their silvery white trunks and the bright, blue sky were clearly reflected on its surface.

Jack had decided to launch his toy boat there, and, as Floretta had hemmed the tiny sails, he had felt obliged to listen to her coaxing, and permit her to go with him.

"I'll let you christen her," he had said, in a moment of generosity, and then regretted it.

Floretta's idea of a christening ceremony was very elaborate, while Jack thought that shouting the vessel's name, and shoving it into the water was all that was necessary.

Nancy was helping Aunt Charlotte, so when Dorothy ran out to the piazza, she found it deserted, and she stood looking in surprise at the rocking chairs and hammocks that were swaying in the wind.