Beckoning to Betty to come and listen, Lloyd sat down to read the letter, and Mrs. Sherman turned to an acquaintance next her.  “It is General Walton’s family of whom we were speaking,” she explained.  “Since his death in Manila they have been living in Louisville, until recently.  We are so delighted to think that they have now come to the Valley to live.  It was Mrs. Walton’s home in her girlhood, and her mother’s place, Edgewood, is just across the avenue from The Beeches.  Lloyd and the little girls are the best of friends, and we are all interested in Ranald, the only son.  He was the youngest captain in the army, you know.  He received his appointment and was under fire before he was twelve years old.”

“Oh, mothah,” spoke up Lloyd, so eagerly that she did not notice that she had interrupted the conversation.  “Listen to this, please.  You know I wrote to Allison about Hero, and this lettah is neahly all about him.  She said her fathah knew Clara Barton, and that in Cuba and Manila the games and books that the Red Cross sent to the hospitals were appreciated by the soldiahs almost as much as the delicacies.  And she says her mothah thinks it would be fine for us all to start a fund for the Red Cross.  They wanted to get up a play because they’re always havin’ tableaux and such things.

“They’ve been readin’ ‘Little Women’ again, and Jo’s Christmas play made them want to do something like that.  They can have all the shields and knights’ costumes that the MacIntyre boys had when they gave Jonesy’s benefit.  They were going to have an entahtainment last week, but couldn’t agree.  Allison wanted to play ‘Cinda’ella,’ because there are such pretty costumes in that, but Kitty wanted to make up one all about witches and spooks and robbah-dens, and call it ‘The One-Eyed Ghost of Cocklin Tower.’

“She wanted to be the ghost.  They’ve decided to wait till we get home befo’ they do anything.”

“There’s your opportunity, Betty,” said Mrs. Sherman, turning to her goddaughter with a smile.  “Why can’t you distinguish yourself by writing a play that will make us all proud of you, and at the same time swell the funds of the Red Cross?”

“Oh, do you really think I could, godmother?  Are you in earnest?” cried Betty, her face shining with pleasure.

“Entirely so,” answered Mrs. Sherman, running her hand caressingly over Betty’s brown hair.  “This little curly head is full of all sorts of tales of goblins and ogres and witches and fairy folk.  String them together, dear, in some sort of shape, and I’ll help with the costumes.”