was not yellow, buff nor brown, but suggested all three. Polly's was blue—Polly was to help serve if need were—as they hoped it would be. They were gowns with a full, tucked skirt, simple tucked waists, and fluffy point d'esprit fichus that turned the little costumes into something between a suggestion of Marie Antoinette at the Petit Trianon, and of Priscilla, the Puritan maiden, when she had attired herself becomingly in the demure hope that John Alden might at last come to "speak for himself."

A card, not so bad as Bob's proposed sign, stood in the window stating that here was "A Tea Room and Library, Conducted by Six Girls."

"We may as well count in Penny for good measure, and to please her," Happie had said, so "Six Girls" they announced themselves to be.

"I wish we knew what to do next," said Laura. "Has it opened?"

"Yes, I think so," said Margery with a hasty glance around her. "People look as they go by, and some don't go right by; they stop to stare in and to read our card. They don't come inside."

"Too early," said Happy. "No one would want tea at this hour of the morning, unless it were a foreigner. There's some one now who certainly doesn't look American."

A man in a heavy caped cloak, with a broad brimmed soft felt hat drooping over his eyes, and with long moustaches and an imperial, was looking in at the window. He was tall and large of frame, yet the hand that pulled at the moustaches was supple, white and thin. He carried himself in soldierly fashion, yet had an air of uncertainty, an absent-minded effect that was at variance with the bearing. Altogether, as he lingered long, and then walked slowly past the door, looking in hard as he went, the three Scollards decided that they objected to him; he made them nervous. It was a relief when one of the many ladies who read their sign turned crisply, right about face, and descended their low steps.

"Our first customer!" exclaimed Margery.

"Our first visitor, at least," added Happie.

She was a resolute-looking personage, exceedingly well attired, with such an effect of having found the world her oyster,—already opened at that,—that it was surprising to discover she could hardly be an inch above five feet tall.

"What have you here?" she said by way of reply to Margery's faintly murmured, "Good-morning."

"A tea room and a circulating library," Margery said unnecessarily, for the card had told her as much as that.

"Why do you say: 'Conducted by six girls'?" demanded the little lady.

"There are six of us," said Happie, coming to Margery's aid at a glance from her. "But, to be truthful, the youngest is only a silent partner."

"Are you the proprietors?" cried this first visitor.

"We, with another girl my age and my little sister to help us," said Happie with pardonable pride.

"Ridiculous! I don't want tea now, but I shall want it later. I live near here. I will come in again at noon and see what absurd tea you have. Are you poor? You look like ladies," said this candid person.

"That is our only fortune," replied Happie demurely. Margery was too annoyed to speak, but Happie's sense of humor made this form of impertinence seem to her merely amusing.

A shadow darkened the doorway, and before the first visitor could carry on her catechising further Mrs. Scollard's old friend, Mrs. Charleford, the "Auntie Cam" who had taken Margery away with her to Bar Harbor the previous summer, came into the room, followed by her daughter Edith, Elsie Barker, and Eleanor Vernon, Happie's three best friends, whom she had not seen since April had taken her away from New York into the mountains.

The girls rushed upon Happie and nearly devoured her. "Oh, I am so glad!" "Oh, Happie, we have missed you so!" "Oh, you funny, darling old Happie, if this isn't the queerest scheme, and just like you!" they cried in a trio.

The first visitor stalked out. "I shall return for my tea," she said in going.

"Who's your friend?" asked Elsie Barker.

"We hoped that she was to be our first customer, but that's all we know," Margery answered.

"She is Mrs. Jones-Dexter," said Mrs. Charleford. "Eccentric, said to be a most determined person, very wealthy, and wrapped up in her grandchild, who is a little pupil of your Aunt Keren's friend up-stairs, Mrs. Stewart."

"Well, we shall never see her again," said Happie. "She doesn't matter. Oh, girls, tell me all about yourselves before any one comes."

There was not time for this, however. It lacked but a week of shopping days to Christmas, and the street was soon crowded. Happie did not get her talk. The tea room began to fill. In an hour there were more people than the girls could look after, and pretty Edith Charleford offered to attend to the library end of the business till Gretta and Polly arrived. Elsie and Eleanor departed with Mrs. Charleford, with only a whispered hint from Happie that she had a plan for a good time all together very soon, to content them.

It was not long before all the books, twenty-five, had been given out and Margery had their value deposited with her, neatly entered against the name of the person to whom each had gone.

"We haven't one book left!" she said to Happie. "And we thought twenty-five almost too many to buy! What shall we do?"

"Invest the deposits in as many more books," said Edith Charleford promptly. "Let me run over to the book department at Hauss'—it's so near!—and do the investing. I love to buy books. I'll get a messenger to carry them, so they'll be here as soon as I am."

"All right," said Happie. "You'd better put all the money into 'The Infusion of a Soul,' and the other two everybody asks for. Oh, dear, if Gretta would only hurry!" Edith ran off to buy the books, and when she came back Gretta had arrived. Polly was already serving tea in the steadiest, most capable manner, and Gretta was behind the screen, taking Margery's place at the gas stove, dismayed at the prospect of facing so many customers.

Edith went home at last, looking tired but bearing the blessings of the girls who had needed her help.

Happie looked up from the fudge she was weighing and saw Mrs. Jones-Dexter unexpectedly returning down the steps.

"She's a man of her word, whatever else she is," thought Happie, tying the gold and blue cord on which she prided herself, around the box of fudge. "I'd better wait on her; she would crush Margery."

She hastened to the table which the great little lady had appropriated.

"Formosa Oolong," she said severely. "I hope that you are sure there's no green tea in it!"

"Only green little tea-maidens," smiled Happie, and her customer said: "Humph!"

The tea proved to be too strong, the crackers too sweet, both of which errors Happie corrected philosophically.

"No lemon!" ejaculated the amiable Mrs. Jones-Dexter. "No sane person takes lemon in his tea. It is a Russian fad. I never read Russian novels. You don't expect to succeed here, do you?"

"We hope to," said Happie.

"You won't. However, your tea is passable. I shall come again. I want a book. Come and get me one. Your sister is prettier than you, but I like you better. What is that girl doing at the piano? If you are going to have music with your tea I shall never come again. How can one be expected to digest—even a liquid—to syncopated rag-time, or possibly a fugue? Ruinous to digestion, profanation to music, execrable bad taste, this music in all eating places."

"We shall not have music here, Mrs. Jones-Dexter. My sister Laura is so fond of it that she can hardly resist the piano. I wish she would help Margery with that party of four," said Happie involuntarily.

"Always so in every