The Danger Mark. Chambers Robert William

respectful.

      "I wish they'd let me dress like a boy," she said. "It's fun, isn't it?"

      "Yes. They don't let me do it; I just did it," replied Geraldine. "I'll get you a suit of Scott's clothes, if you like. I can get the boxing-gloves at the same time. Shall I, Scott?"

      "Go ahead," said Scott; "we can pretend there are four boys here." And, to Duane, as Geraldine sped cautiously away on her errand: "That's a thing I never did before."

      "What thing?"

      "Play with three boys all by myself. Kathleen—who is Mrs. Severn, our guardian—is always with us when we are permitted to speak to other boys and girls."

      "That's babyish," remarked Duane in frank disgust. "You are a mollycoddle."

      The deep red of mortification spread over Scott's face; he looked shyly at Naïda, doubly distressed that a girl should hear the degrading term applied to him. The small girl returned his gaze without a particle of expression in her face.

      "Mollycoddles," continued Duane cruelly, "do the sort of things you do. You're one."

      "I—don't want to be one," stammered Scott. "How can I help it?"

      Duane ignored the appeal. "Playing with three boys isn't anything," he said. "I play with forty every day."

      "W-where?" asked Scott, overwhelmed.

      "In school, of course—at recess—and before nine, and after one. We have fine times. School's all right. Don't you even go to school?"

      Scott shook his head, too ashamed to speak. Naïda, with a flirt of her kilted skirts, had abruptly turned her back on him; yet he was miserably certain she was listening to her brother's merciless catechism.

      "I suppose you don't even know how to play hockey," commented Duane contemptuously.

      There was no answer.

      "What do you do? Play with dolls? Oh, what a molly!"

      Scott raised his head; he had grown quite white. Naïda, turning, saw the look on the boy's face.

      "Duane doesn't mean that," she said; "he's only teasing."

      Geraldine came hurrying back with the boxing-gloves and a suit of Scott's very best clothes, halting when she perceived the situation, for Scott had walked up to Duane, and the boys stood glaring at one another, hands doubling up into fists.

      "You think I'm a molly?" asked Scott in a curiously still voice.

      "Yes, I do."

      "Oh, Scott!" cried Geraldine, pushing in between them, "you'll have to hammer him well for that–"

      Naïda turned and shoved her brother aside:

      "I don't want you to fight him," she said. "I like him."

      "Oh, but they must fight, you know," explained Geraldine earnestly. "If we didn't fight, we'd really be what you call us. Put on Scott's clothes, Naïda, and while our brothers are fighting, you and I will wrestle to prove that I'm not a mollycoddle–"

      "I don't want to," said Naïda tremulously. "I like you, too–"

      "Well, you're one if you don't!" retorted Geraldine. "You can like anybody and have fun fighting them, too."

      "Put on those clothes, Naïda," said Duane sternly. "Are you going to take a dare?"

      So she retired very unwillingly into the hedge to costume herself while the two boys invested their fists with the soft chamois gloves of combat.

      "We won't bother to shake hands," observed Scott. "Are you ready?"

      "Yes, you will, too," insisted Geraldine; "shake hands before you begin to fight!"

      "I won't," retorted Scott sullenly; "shake hands with anybody who calls me—what he did."

      "Very well then; if you don't, I'll put on those gloves and fight you myself."

      Duane's eyes flew wide open and he gazed upon Geraldine with newly mixed emotions. She walked over to her brother and said:

      "Remember what Howker told us that father used to say—that squabbling is disgraceful but a good fight is all right. Duane called you a silly name. Instead of disputing about it and calling each other names, you ought to settle it with a fight and be friends afterward.... Isn't that so, Duane?"

      Duane seemed doubtful.

      "Isn't it so?" she repeated fiercely, stepping so swiftly in front of him that he jumped back.

      "Yes, I guess so," he admitted; and the sudden smile which Geraldine flashed on him completed his subjection.

      Naïda, in her boy's clothes, came out, her hands in her pockets, strutting a little and occasionally bending far over to catch a view of herself as best she might.

      "All ready!" cried Geraldine; "begin! Look out, Naïda; I'm going to throw you."

      Behind her the two boys touched gloves, then Scott rushed his man.

      At the same moment Geraldine seized Naïda.

      "We are not to pull hair," she said; "remember! Now, dear, look out for yourself!"

      Of that classic tournament between the clans of Mallett and Seagrave the chronicles are lacking. Doubtless their ancestors before them joined joyously in battle, confident that all details of their prowess would be carefully recorded by the family minstrel.

      But the battle of that Saturday noon hour was witnessed only by the sparrows, who were too busy lugging bits of straw and twine to half-completed nests in the cornices of the House of Seagrave, to pay much attention to the combat of the Seagrave children, who had gone quite mad with the happiness of companionship and were expressing it with all their might.

      Naïda's dark curls mingled with the grass several times before Geraldine comprehended that her new companion was absurdly at her mercy; and then she seized her with all the desperation of first possession and kissed her hard.

      "It's ended," breathed Geraldine tremulously, "and nobody gained the victory and—you will love me, won't you?"

      "I don't know—I'm all dirt." She looked at Geraldine, bewildered by the passion of the lonely child's caresses. "Yes—I do love you, Geraldine. Oh, look at those boys! How perfectly disgraceful! They must stop—make them stop, Geraldine!"

      Hair on end, grass-stained, dishevelled, and unspeakably dirty, the boys were now sparring for breath. Grime and perspiration streaked their countenances. Duane Mallett wore a humorously tinted eye and a prehensile upper lip; Scott's nose had again yielded to the coy persuasion of a left-handed jab and the proud blood of the Seagraves once more offended high heaven on that April day.

      Geraldine, one arm imprisoning Naïda's waist, walked coolly in between them:

      "Don't let's fight any more. The thing to do is to get Mrs. Bramton to give you enough for four to eat and bring it back here. Scott, please shake hands with Duane."

      "I wasn't licked," muttered Scott.

      "Neither was I," said Duane.

      "Nobody was licked by anybody," announced Geraldine. "Do get something to eat, Scott; Naïda and I are starving!"

      After some hesitation the boys touched gloves respectfully, and Scott shook off his mitts, and started for the kitchen.

      And there, to his horror and surprise, he was confronted by Mrs. Severn, black hat, crape veil, and gloves still on, evidently that instant arrived from those occult and, as the children supposed, distant bournes of Staten Island, where the supreme mystery of all had been at work.

      "Oh, Scott!" she exclaimed tremulously, "what on earth has happened? What is all this that Mrs. Farren and Howker have been telling me?"

      The boy stood petrified. Then there surged over him the memory of his brief happiness in these new companions—a happiness now to be snatched away ere scarcely tasted. Into the child's dirty, disfigured face came a hunted expression; he looked about for an avenue of escape, and Kathleen Severn caught him at the same instant and drew him to her.

      "What