felt rather blank. There really seemed to be nothing more they could do. They could scarcely demand that Mr. Henry B. Bolliver surrender to them something for which he had paid eight hundred dollars, and buy it they certainly could not, even supposing he should wish to part with it.
"Anyway," said Jane, "we can come and look and look at it all the time it's here."
Which she did, practically every day, until Alan suggested that she bring a cot and camp-stool and set up housekeeping in the wing of the Historical Society building.
The aunts came, too, and shook their heads gravely and reminded one another of how proudly the model had sailed above the Ingram mantel when the golden scroll was bright and the miniature company flag, with its blue "I" on a white field, was whole and new.
In the seclusion of the office—the most fitting place for the dark deed, for such she considered it—Jane did a daring thing. With a sheet of paper spread resolutely on the old secretary, she wrote a longish letter to Mr. Henry Bolliver. It was, she considered, a very
