But her head was full of the mystery of the striking name of “Ida Bellethorne.”  She felt she must tell somebody, and Bobby of course, who was her very closest chum, must be the recipient of her story as the cavalcade started homeward.  It was Bobby whom Betty wanted to have the blue blouse just as soon as the shopgirl finished it.

“Now, what do you think of that?” Betty demanded, after she had delivered, almost in a breath, a rather garbled story of the strange girl and the black mare from England.

“Goodness, Betty, how wonderful!” exclaimed her friend.  “I do so want to see that over-blouse you bought.  And you say she is making another?”

“Is that all you’ve got to say about it?” demanded Betty, staring.

“Why—­er—­you know, it really is none of our business, is it?” asked Bobby, but with dancing eyes.  “You know Miss Prettyman told us that the greatest fault of character under which young ladies labor to-day is vulgar curiosity.  Oh, my!  I can see her say it now,” declared naughty Bobby, shaking her head.

“But, Bobby!  Do think a bit!  A girl and a horse both of the same name, and just recently from England!  I’m going to ask right out what it means.”

“Who are you going to ask—­the horse?” giggled Bobby.

“Oh, you!  No, I can’t ask the pretty black mare,” Betty said, shaking her head.  “For she is going to be sent away for her health.  She’s got what they call ‘distemper.’  She has to be acclimated, or something.”

“It sounds as though it might hurt,” observed Bobby gravely.

“Something ought to hurt you,” said Betty laughing.  “You are forever and ever poking fun.  But I am going to see Ida Bellethorne in the shop and find out what she knows about the pretty mare.”

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t see the horse,” confessed Bobby.  “But I’ll go with you to see the girl.  And I do want to see the blouse.”

That, Betty showed her the moment they arrived at Fairfields and could run upstairs to the room the two girls shared while Betty visited here.  The latter unfolded the orange-silk blouse and spread it on the bed.  Bobby went into exstacies over it, as in duty bound.

“Wait till you see the one she is making for you,” Betty said.  “You’ll love it!”

“What is that you are going to love?” asked a voice outside the open door.  “Measles?”

“Oh, Bob!  Who ever heard the like?” demanded Betty.  “Love measles, indeed.  Why—­What makes you look so queer?”

“Greatest thing you ever heard, girls!” cried Bob, his face very red and his eyes shining.  “I didn’t really understand how much I had come to hate books and drill these last few weeks.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Roberta Littell.  “If you don’t tell us at once!”

“Why, didn’t you hear?  Telegrams have come.  To all our parents and guardians.  Measles!  Measles!  Measles!”

He began to dance a very poor imitation of the Highland Fling in the hall.  The girls ran out and seized him, one on either side, and big as Bob was they managed to shake him soundly.