“Oh, I’ve had the loveliest things!” said Harry, fighting for breath. “Mama gave me this; see?” She held forth the little gold necklace which encircled her throat. “And papa--he gave me something perfectly beautiful! I’ll tell you about it later. And Aunt Harriet--” her face fell a little--“sent me a dandy work-box made of ivory and all--all--oh, deary, I’ve forgotten it!” “Forgotten what?” asked Roy. “The word. It’s something about Arabs.” “What word is it?” “Why, what papa said. He said the box was ara--ara--” “Arabesqued?” asked Roy. “Yes, that’s it! All arabesqued with silver. It’s splendid!” “What else did you get?” Chub inquired. “Oh, lots of little things from the girls; two handkerchiefs, a book, a sachet bag and something else; I don’t know what it’s for yet; I’ll have to ask, I guess.” Roy and Chub laughed. “And what’s that you’re holding on to so tightly?” asked Chub. Harry glanced at the folded paper in her hand and smiled happily. “That’s what papa gave me,” she replied. “It’s very important.” “It looks it,” Chub agreed. “It looks like a will. Maybe it’s the long-lost will, Roy, leaving us the old farm and the family plate.” “No, it isn’t,” laughed Harry. “But--but you’re warm.” “That’s no joke,” answered Chub as he wiped the perspiration from his brow. “But what is it, Harry?” “I’m not going to tell you until supper.” “Oh, very well.” Roy gave a shout and Dick and the artist appeared on the deck of the _Jolly Roger_. “Many happy returns, Miss Emery!” called the latter as the boys lifted their paddles and let the canoe glide up alongside the stern. “Me, too!” called Dick. “Is supper ready?” asked Chub. “It will be in five minutes,” Dick answered. “Come on and help lay the table, Chub.” CHAPTER XX ABOARD THE _JOLLY ROGER_ The artist held out his hand gallantly and Harry stepped on to the _Jolly Roger_ with all the impressiveness of a queen disembarking from a royal barge. “This way, if you please,” said Mr. Cole, holding open the studio door. They all trooped in and Harry gave a little cry of surprise and delight. On the easel, with a broad shaft of sunlight across it, stood a small canvas. The others echoed Harry’s exclamation. For there were two Harrys present, one gazing with shining eyes at the canvas, and one gazing smilingly back at her. Mr. Cole had copied the head and shoulders from the sketch for which Harry had posed, and in the lower right-hand corner were painted the words “To Harriet Emery with the artist’s homage.” Then followed the date and the signature: “F. Cole,” and for once Harry didn’t mind being called Harriet. “Oh, it’s--it’s lovely!” she sighed. “Do you--do you really mean that it’s for me?” “I really do,” answered Mr. Cole. “But there’s a string to it.” “Wh-what?” faltered Harry anxiously. “You’ll have to leave it with me until to-morrow at least, for I only finished it an hour ago and the paint is still wet.”