Bea turned her pillow over and laid her head down thoughtfully. Was Ernestine selfish, or had she much heart? The question had often come silently up, and been put as silently down, but now it lingered persistently, though Bea moved her head restlessly, as if to get rid of it. If Ernestine wanted anything, she left no avenue untried, and got it if possible, no matter at whose expense or self-denial. All through fifteen years of her life, she had kept a clear unfaltering eye on herself, her wants, and her welfare, and after they were all supplied, she was ready and willing to help any one else; but no one must ever ask, or expect it at the expense of her personal comfort or plenty. Yet with her candies, the girls had lion shares; her pretty things,--and somehow all of Ernestine's things were so pretty and graceful,--she loaned willingly, and was never too tired or unwilling to help the girls' dress on great occasions; for though Olive was the artist, Ernestine had the artist's quick eye for graceful draping, harmony of colors, and picturesque structures of hair. Moreover, she was always good natured, nothing ever ruffled her, except for a passing moment, and any hour of the day, you might hear her voice, just like a bird's, filling the house with music, while her lovely face made sunshine; so it came, that she received the credit for making home happy, when she did it with no such intention, or exertion, only because she loved to sing, and it was perfectly natural for her to be gay and untouched by anything. "I'm sure," she said, speaking suddenly, as Bea gave a restless twist to her head. "You needn't, if you don't want to, Bea. Perhaps you want to buy----" "You know better," cried Bea, flying up from her rumpled pillow. "I don't want to buy anything, and if you want to spend five dollars for a lace scarf, why you're welcome to my money. That's all. Good night." Next Sunday, when the girls went to church, Ernestine wore a cob-webby scarf of ivory white over her "made-over" silk, and put a creamy day lily in her yellow hair, and the girls looking at her, silently thought: "No wonder papa calls her his picture!" CHAPTER III. A FOUNDATION THAT BROUGHT KAT TO GRIEF. Slam! went the gate, knocking the dead leaves right and left, and whiz! went two girls up the walk, like unruly sky-rockets, with the odd ends flying. Rattle-de-tap, went four feet with steel-capped heels over the old shady porch, and bang! went the door back against the wall; then:---- "Mama,----" "Bea,--Er,----" "Nestine, Olive,----" "Jean, hurry;--let me tell first. Miss----" "I beat to the steps, I ought to tell," shrieked Kat, as Kittie choked for breath. "Miss Howard is going to give us a,----" "Nutting party!" shouted Kittie, with a triumphant breath. "Hurrah, three cheer-r-s!" "Mercy on me," cried a voice from up stairs. "What is the matter; what are you doing?"