Ruth’s face and manner were the perfection of innocence, but for some reason there was a tinge of discomfort in the manner of the boys gathered around the table.

“That looks like a good one, Phil,” said Arthur, pushing an envelope across the table.  “Just look it up in the catalogue, will you?”

“She said that Joe,” Ruth went on relentlessly, “had always been very good about doing errands for her and seeing her home from his grandmother’s.”

“I never did anything for her,” blustered Joe, turning red, “except what I had to.”

“And she told me that for one whole winter, Frank and Bert kept all her paths clean,” pursued Ruth, purposely refraining from looking at her unhappy victims, “and wouldn’t take a cent for it when she wanted to pay them.”

“We did it just because we happened to want to,” growled Frank, looking as uncomfortably guilty as though he had been discovered in some bad action.

“Say, there are some dandy stamps here,” said Phil, fearing that his turn was coming next and anxious to change the conversation.  “Did you ever see one like that, Art?”

The boys poked over the stamps in an excited silence, gazed at them through lenses, and hunted in the catalogue with an absorbed interest which seemed to make them quite forget their guests.  Every few minutes they found a new treasure.

At last Ruth got up with an air of pretended indignation and walked toward the door saying, “Come on, Dolly; let’s go.  We don’t seem to be wanted here.”

“Please don’t go,” said Arthur with an air so distressingly polite that it wouldn’t have deceived any one.

“All right for you,” laughed Ruth as she closed the library door behind her; “just wait until I bring you stamps again.”

For a few minutes after the departure of the girls not a word was spoken.  Then Joe gave vent to a sudden groan and put his hand to his head.

“Is my hair entirely burnt off on the top of my head?” he asked in comical despair.  “These are the hottest coals of fire I’ve ever had handed out to me, That wretch of a Ruth knew she was making us squirm.”

“I’m afraid the poor old lady never had any chance to be grateful to me,” said Arthur uncomfortably.

“The worst of it is,” confessed Frank, “that father was paying Bert and me for every bit of that shoveling and Miss Cynthia never knew it.  I feel as if I wanted to go right round there and do something for her this very minute.”

“So do I,” agreed Joe and Bert almost at the same time.

“Let’s form a secret order,” suggested Arthur, “and pledge ourselves to make Miss Cynthia as happy as possible for the rest of her life.”

No one answered for a moment and then Phil said thoughtfully, “We might call it the ‘Order of the Moon.’  Cynthia is one of the names for the moon, you know.  Don’t you remember, Art, we were reading in class this morning about ‘fair Cynthia’s rays’ or something like that?”