Many years later there came days in Elizabeth Gordon's life when she achieved a certain amount of fame, but never at their height did any day shine so radiantly for her or bring her anything of the exaltation of that moment when she and Rosie tremblingly took their places side by side at the foot of the Junior Fourth class.  
For a time Elizabeth strove to live up to her lofty position. The fear of even yet being sent back to Mary's class, which Miss Hillary held over her as an incentive¹ to working fractions, drove her to make desperate efforts even to learn spelling. Rosie helped her all she could, and Rosie was a perfect wonder at finding royal roads to learning. If you could spell a word over seventeen times without drawing your breath, she promised, you would be able to repeat it correctly forever after. Elizabeth tried this plan with "hieroglyphics," but reached the end of her breath, purple and gasping³, with only fourteen repetitions to her credit. She attributed her failure to spell the word the next day to this, rather than to the fact that, in her anxiety to accomplish the magic number, she had changed the arrangement of the letters several times.
 
But as the days passed, and the danger of being returned to the Third class disappeared, Elizabeth relaxed her efforts and returned to her habitual⁴ employment of drawing pictures on her slate⁵ and weaving about them rose-colored romances. Another danger was disappearing, too. Miss Hillary, finding that Forest Glen School was not hatching rebellion, gradually became less vigilant⁶, and there was in consequence much pleasant social intercourse⁷ in the schoolroom.
 
Of course Elizabeth, like the other pupils, found that one could not always be sure of the teacher. She might never notice a slate dropped upon the floor, provided one took care to drop it on a day when she didn't have a nervous headache. But on the other hand, if one chose one's occasion injudiciously, she might send one to stand for half an hour in the corner, even though one was a big girl, now going on twelve.
 
But Rosie found the key to this uncertain situation, also. Rosie's farm joined the Robertsons', where Miss Hillary boarded, and the small, observant neighbor discovered a strange connection between her teacher's headaches and the actions of a certain young gentleman from town. She explained it all to Elizabeth one day, behind their slates⁹, when the complex fraction refused to become simple.
 
Rosie was very solemn and very important. Martha Ellen Robertson had told her big sister Minnie all about it, and Rosie had heard every word. Miss Hillary had a fellow, only Elizabeth must promise for dead sure that she'd never, never tell. Because, of course, anything about a fellow was always a dreadful secret. This young man was very stylish¹¹ and very handsome, and he lived in Cheemaun, and, of course, must be very rich, because everybody was who lived there. He came out nearly every Sunday in a top-buggy and took Miss Hillary for a drive. Minnie and Martha Ellen both said it was perfectly¹² scand'lus to go driving Sundays, and the trustees ought to speak to her. The young man wrote to Miss Hillary, too, for every Wednesday she went to the post-office, and Mrs. Clegg said she 'most always got a letter. But sometimes she didn't; and the important point for themselves was just here—Rosie grew very impressive—they had to watch out on Mondays and Thursdays, if the young man didn't come, or if the letter failed, for then sure and certain Miss Hillary would go and get a headache and be awful cross and strict. Yes, it was true, because Jessie Robertson, and Lottie Price, and Teenie Johnstone, and all the big girls said so. And Jessie Robertson had promised to tell them so they could be careful, and Lizzie could just look out and see if she wasn't right.
 
Elizabeth did look out, and found as usual that Rosie was correct. Rosie was so wonderful and so clever that, though she was only half a year older than her friend, the latter lived in constant admiration¹³ of her sagacity. For, as far as worldly wisdom was concerned, Rosie was many, many years older than the precocious¹⁴ Elizabeth.
 
The young man of the top-buggy soon became a fruitful source of gossip in the schoolroom, especially amongst the older girls. Jessie Robertson, who lived right at the base of supplies, issued semi-weekly bulletins as to whether they might expect a headache or not, and Forest Glen conducted itself accordingly.
 
So, having settled exactly the periods of danger, and finding that often Mondays and Thursdays were days of happiness and license¹⁵, Forest Glen settled down securely to its intermittent¹⁶ studies.
 
Elizabeth soon ceased to trouble much even over spelling, and she and Rosie gave themselves up to the fashion of the hour. And every hour had its fashion. For like most rural schools, amongst the girls at least, Forest Glen was a place of fads¹⁷ and fancies.
 
No one ever knew just how or why a new craze arose, but there was always one on the tapis. At one time it was pickles¹⁹. No one could hope for any social recognition unless one had a long, green cucumber pickle²⁰ in one's dinner-pail—the longer the pickle the higher one's standing²¹. Fads ranged all the way from this gastronomic²² level to the highly esthetic²³, where they broke out in a desire for the decorative²⁴ in the form of peep-shows. A peep-show was an arrangement of flowers and leaves pressed against a piece of glass and framed in colored tissue-paper. Every girl had one on her desk; even to dirty, unkempt Becky Davis. Elizabeth was not a success at such works of art. She was a wonder at inventing new patterns, and gained recognition from even the big girls by suggesting a design of tiny, scarlet²⁵ maple²⁶ leaves, green moss²⁷, and gold thread. But when it came to construction, she left that to Rosie and took to drawing new designs on her slate. No one could compete with Rosie anyway. She had something new and more elaborate each morning.
 
But the craze for peep-shows was superseded²⁸ early in Miss Hillary's reign²⁹ by an entirely³⁰ new fad¹⁸, such as had never manifested itself before in any marked degree in the school. Miss Hillary, quite unwittingly, started it herself.
 
It was a warm, languorous³¹ afternoon in October, and time hung as heavily over the heads of the pupils as the mists hung over the amethyst³² hollows and sunny hills of Forest Glen. It was Thursday and Miss Hillary was writing at her desk. Lottie Price, the biggest girl in school and the most curious and observing, wrote a note to Teenie Johnstone to say she bet anything the teacher was writing to her fellow. Lottie knew, because Miss Hillary often looked straight at you and didn't see you at all. That was a sure sign. In the back seat, John Gordon and the Pretender, as everyone now called Charles Stuart, were silently but busily whittling³³ away, constructing part of a wonderful new kind of ground-hog trap. Elizabeth had filled one side of her slate with an elaborate picture of a castle on a hill, a stream, a lake, a ship, and an endless vista³⁴ of town and road and church-spire stretching away into the distance. She had never heard of that school of artists that painted the classic landscapes, but she belonged to them as surely as any of the old Italian masters. She was now drawing Mrs. Jarvis in a trained gown standing on the steps of the castle, while Elizabeth Joan of Arc Jarvis Gordon, blowing a bugle³⁵, came riding down a perpendicular³⁶ mountain-path on a stiff-legged steed. Rosie had just housecleaned her desk for the second time that day. She had rubbed all the ink-spots off the top and put a new paper frill around the ink-well. She was re-arranging her books once more and had them in an unsteady pile on the edge of her desk, when Elizabeth leaned over to her side, to display her finished landscape. Rosie's arm came against the toppling pile of books, and they went crashing to the floor.
 
Miss Hillary looked up. The two culprits sat up very straight and made a frantic³⁷ show of figuring on their slates. For Jessie had reported no letter that morning, and who knew what might happen? The teacher arose frowning, and Rosie made a desperate dive towards the truant³⁸ books, but Miss Hillary stopped her. Then, to the amazement³⁹ and relief of the two tremblers, she began to rebuke⁴⁰, not Rosie, but Joel Davis! Joel was a big, sleepy, fat boy who sat opposite the two little girls, and the books had bounced over towards his seat. No boy was a gentleman, Miss Hillary stated, who would allow a lady to pick up anything that had fallen. She was grieved, after all the lessons she had given in manners and morals, to find that one of her pupils could be so lacking in refinement⁴¹. Joel would, therefore, please gather up Rosie Carrick's books, and put them on her desk, as a gentleman should always do for a lady.
 
Joel scratched his shaggy head in perplexity, and gazed sleepily at his teacher, then at the debris⁴² of books and pictures and tissue-paper squares that littered the floor. He muttered growlingly⁴³ that a kid like Rosie Carrick wasn't no lady anyhow; but he good-naturedly scooped⁴⁴ up an armful of the fallen, and without moving himself unduly⁴⁵ reached them out towards their owner. The school giggled⁴⁶, poor Rosie blushed, and in a spasm⁴⁷ of embarrassment⁴⁸ strove to take them. Between them the books once more descended⁵⁰ to the floor in an avalanche⁵¹ of gayly-colored cards and papers. Rosie stooped for them, so did Joel, and their heads bumped together. The young gentleman, now blushing as furiously as the young lady, grasped the books in a promiscuous⁵² heap and slammed them down upon Rosie's desk with, "There now, butter-fingers." The school laughed aloud, and Rosie curled up behind the pile of books and cried with vexation. Joel Davis was such a horrid⁵³, horrid, dirty, fat boy that it was just real nasty mean of Miss Hillary to let him pick up her books, so it was. Elizabeth, all sympathy, patted her comfortingly, and twisted one of Rosie's curls round her fingers as she whispered soothing⁵⁴ words.
 
But Miss Hillary was again talking, and she slid over to her own side of the seat and gave scared attention. It was time she gave another talk upon manners and morals, the teacher declared, and Elizabeth's heart sank. She knew she had no manners to speak of, and on Sundays she was often doubtful of her morals. And when Miss Hillary gave semi-monthly lectures on these two troublesome subjects they caused her acute misery⁵⁵. But to-day the address was chiefly to the boys. Evidently it was only the masculine side of the school that was lacking in manners and morals. Miss Hillary declared she must strive to inculcate a spirit of chivalry⁵⁶ in them, and teach them the proper attitude towards girls.
 
Elizabeth gave a sigh of relief. This was no concern of hers, except that she devoutly⁵⁷ hoped it might make John and the Pretender stop pulling hair. So she gave her attention to softly taking down the longest words the little lecture contained. Miss Hillary had gone sufficiently⁵⁸ far on the road of understanding to make this safe. She sometimes even glanced approvingly at her disciple's flying fingers when she uttered a polysyllable of more than usual distinction. Rosie came from behind her shelter of books, and, wiping away her tears, attempted to help Elizabeth. There was a word that Lizzie had missed, she cautioned. Something like "shivering"—a spirit of shivering or "shivaree." But Elizabeth, in the midst of "gallantry," shook her head. That was just chivalry. She knew all about that. It was a glorious word that took in Ivanhoe, and the ladye that went ower the border and awa', and Joan of Arc, yes—and Elizabeth herself. But there was no use trying to explain it to Rosie, for, though Rosie was the dearest dear that ever sat with anybody in school, there were many things that even she did not understand.
 
Meanwhile, the talk on manners and morals had drawn⁵⁹ to a close and Elizabeth went back to her classic landscape and Rosie to her house-cleaning. But the effect of the lecture did not end there. Hector McQueen, who was the handsomest boy in the school, as well as the only one who was really well-behaved, gave Rosie Carrick the tin dipper before he drank himself, at the pump the next day. Wully Johnstone's Johnny followed by opening the gate for Sissy Clegg one morning, which was quite gratuitous⁶⁰, for Sissy always climbed the fence anyway. Soon the older boys were vying⁶¹ with each other in acts of gallantry. The spirit of chivalry had been awakened⁶² and it took effect in a way the teacher had not anticipated.
 
For a time Elizabeth was all unconscious of the turn affairs were taking. John and Charles Stuart were not the kind who attracted attention by acts of elaborate politeness, and other boys did not enter into her world. So it was a great surprise to her one morning, when Rosie whispered, as she packed away her latest peep-shows in the desk, that the girls were not going to make any more; they were going to have beaux instead.
 
"Bows?" queried⁶³ Elizabeth absently, all absorbed in a winding⁶⁴ river, a moat, and a drawbridge. "Aunt Margaret won't let me have one, I know. Will they wear them on their hair?"
 
Rosie dived down behind her slate and her curls shook violently with convulsive giggles⁶⁵. Elizabeth had no idea what the joke was, but laughter was always contagious⁶⁶, and she got behind her slate and giggled, too; so loud, indeed, that Miss Hillary—it was Monday and the top-buggy had not come out from Cheemaun—rapped sharply on her desk and looked very severe. The giggles subsided⁶⁷ immediately, but when a safe interval⁶⁸ had elapsed Rosie explained the nature of the bows, and another spasm ensued.
 
"What are they going to have them for?" asked Elizabeth, drying her eyes on her pinafore. She could understand one desiring a bow on the hair, but what would be the function, either useful or ornamental⁶⁹, of the kind Rosie indicated was hard to understand.
 
Rosie twisted one of her curls coyly. "Oh, just because," she explained. "All the girls are getting them."
 
Elizabeth became interested. "Have you one, Rosie?" she whispered, and Rosie tossed her curls and giggled, but gave no answer. Elizabeth looked puzzled. Often Rosie seemed so old and wise and far away, making her feel as if she were Jamie's age.
 
"How do you get one?" was the next question.
 
"Oh, my goodness!" giggled Rosie. Such ignorance did not admit of any enlightenment. "They just—come," she explained vaguely⁷⁰.
 
The Junior Fourth class was being called forward and there was no more opportunity for explanations. But, as they passed up the aisle⁷¹, Elizabeth noticed Rosie flirt⁷² her curls and glance towards Hector McQueen's seat, and Hector's admiring eyes followed Rosie all the way to her class. "Is yours Hector McQueen?" Elizabeth whispered as soon as they reached their scat again, and Rosie nodded radiantly. Elizabeth was both proud and pleased. She did not know much about boys, apart from John and Malcolm and the Pretender. All outside this list were classed in her mind as "other boys," and were an unknown waste. But Hector McQueen, everybody knew, was quite the nicest boy in school. It was just like Rosie to carry off the prize.
 
As the days went on, Elizabeth, now fully⁷³ awake to the fashion of the hour, noticed that Rosie had been quite right—"all the girls" had beaux. Even big, untidy Becky Davis was receiving attentions from Noah Clegg, Junior. She furthermore discovered that your beau brought you apples and butter-nuts to school. That you trimmed his hat with colored maple leaves at recess⁷⁴, and always chose him as your partner in games; that he wrote you notes in school, when Miss Hillary was answering her Wednesday letter, and you wrote back; and, above all, that the other girls wrote your name and his side-by-side on a slate, struck out all the common letters, and over the remainder chanted, "Friendship, Love, Hatred⁷⁵, Marriage." If the result on both sides was satisfactory, there was nothing more to be desired.
 
Elizabeth noticed all this commotion⁷⁶ and felt rather forlorn. Personally she would have preferred very much not to have a beau. It was something quite unnecessary; but then one hated to be different, and she was the only girl in her class, except Eppie Turner, who was too shy to speak to a boy, who was in a beauless state. Rosie, in her loyalty⁷⁷, felt Elizabeth's undesirable⁷⁸ condition and strove to better it.
 
"I'll tell you, Lizzie," she advised one day. "You pick out a boy and I'll cancel your names and then you can have him for your fellow."
 
Elizabeth looked about her reluctantly. This was a most distasteful task. Yet, when pickles were the fad, though green cucumbers made her deadly sick, she had always had one in her desk; so surely a beau could not be worse. Rosie followed her eyes trying to assist. "You must have somebody older than yourself," she admonished⁷⁹, as her chum's eyes rested fondly on the row of little fellows in Archie's class. Elizabeth sighed; to have Rosie's little, curly-headed brother Dicky for one's beau would have been perfectly lovely. She glanced further down the aisle. Rosie indicated those who were "taken." The rights of property were strictly⁸⁰ observed and there were no flirts⁸¹ in the Forest Glen School.
 
Suddenly Rosie exclaimed joyfully⁸²: "Why, I know who you'll have, Lizzie, Charles Stuart MacAllister, of course. Nobody's took him or your John, but you couldn't have your brother." But Elizabeth shook her head hopelessly. No, never, never. She would go down to history as the only unbeaued girl in Forest Glen School forever and ever before she would have Charles Stuart. Why, she had tried him. Yes, she really, truly had, long ago last summer. He'd been her beau for most nearly an hour. But it hadn't worked at all. He had told her she had green eyes right after she had promised to marry him, and she didn't like him anyway. Rosie looked disappointed. Couldn't she just cancel their names anyway? But Elizabeth was obdurate⁸⁴. No, she couldn't. Besides there was one boy whom she liked just a teenty, weenty bit, if Rosie would promise really, truly she'd never, never tell. Rosie snuggled up to her joyfully, making wholesale⁸⁵ promises that sure certain, cross her heart, she'd never think of it again. Well—Elizabeth made her confession⁸⁶ hesitatingly—it was—Charlie Peters.
 
Rosie drew back with a gasp² of dismay and bit her lip. Now every girl in Forest Glen School knew that when another girl took her lower lip between her teeth and looked sideways, girl number one had done or said something requiring a deadly reproof⁸⁷. Elizabeth was startled. "Why not?" she asked anxiously.
 
Rosie looked at her helplessly. Lizzie was so queer about some things. Poor, dirty Charlie Peters! What in the world had possessed⁸⁸ her? He was a quiet, sickly boy, who came from a place away back in the swamp where his father worked a portable saw-mill. He was always unkempt and ragged⁸⁹; his long, straight hair clung round his pale face and his right sleeve hung empty, his arm having been cut off in the mill when he was quite little. Elizabeth could not explain the fascination⁹⁰ that poor Charlie's empty sleeve had for her, nor the great compassion⁹¹ his pale face and his pitiful efforts to write with his left hand raised in her heart. But he aroused far more interest in her mind than all the "other boys" put together. Rosie argued the matter, but at last consented. A dirty, ragged sweetheart was perhaps after all better than none. "Besides it doesn't matter much," she concluded practically. "'Cause it's only to tease you about, and cancel your names." She added cautiously that Lizzie had better not tell anybody else, it would be a secret between them, thus loyally saving her friend from public disgrace.
 
Elizabeth consented, and Rosie wrote Elizabeth Jarvis Gordon and Charles Henry Peters on her slate and performed the necessary ceremony. It turned out quite satisfactorily, and Rosie's next duty was to chant the usual incantation over the buttons of her friend's pinafore:
 
"Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,
Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief."
There were just eleven buttons, which brought the ominous⁹² result, "beggar man." Rosie gave herself up to renewed dismay, but Elizabeth grew more joyful⁸³ every moment. It would be very romantic to marry a beggar man, and likely poor Charlie would have to be one, seeing he was so sick and had only one arm. It would be just like the story in the Chronicle, of the lovely Lady Evelina, who ran away with the coachman, and he turned out a count! She accordingly set to work at her slate, and drew a picture of herself riding up in all her grandeur⁹³ of velvet⁹⁴-cloak, armor, and spear to rescue a ragged, one-armed boy from an enemy's camp. Elizabeth's instincts were right, the touch of self-sacrifice she dimly divined was necessary to make an act of perfect heroism⁹⁵.
 
For the next few days Rosie lived in distress⁹⁶, lest Elizabeth's unfortunate love affair became public and both she and her chum be disgraced. But, before disaster could descend⁴⁹, Elizabeth's clouded destiny changed to one of dazzling splendor⁹⁷ in the most miraculous⁹⁸ way.
 
One morning there appeared in school, with Noah Clegg, Junior, a new boy; a wonderfully handsome boy, in a black velvet suit and broad white collar, altogether such a magnificent creature as had never before been seen in Forest Glen.
 
He had not been in school ten minutes before everybody knew all about him, Hannah Clegg proudly giving the information. He was from Cheemaun. His name was Horace Oliver, and his father was a rich lumberman. The Cleggs had supplied Mrs. Oliver with fresh butter and eggs for years, and Hannah herself had been at their house, which was a very magnificent mansion⁹⁹ on the hill overlooking the lake. He had a sister older than himself, whose name was Madeline, and she had four silk dresses besides dozens of other kinds. And this Horace had been sick, so when Hannah's father and mother went into town with the butter and eggs on Saturday they had brought him back with them to stay on the farm and drink plenty of milk until he should get strong again.
 
The new boy was the center of interest during the morning. The girls were all admiration, and the Cleggs rose in popular favor, to be the envied of all the school. Enthusiasm amongst the boys was much milder. John Gordon and Charles Stuart MacAllister were scarcely enthusiastic at all. John privately¹⁰⁰ informed his friend that any fellow of twelve—and he must be that if he wasn't thirteen—who would wear a white collar and velvet rig-up like that to school must be a baa-lamb, and ought to stay home and sit on his mother's knee. The Pretender discovered, to their further disgust, that the stranger could play a piano. This innocent accomplishment¹⁰¹ raised a strange feeling of irritation¹⁰² in the breast of Charles Stuart. He mentally resolved to watch the new boy, and if he showed signs of becoming too popular he would take him out behind the woodshed and settle him.
 
But to the school, as a whole, the new boy was all that could be desired. Even Miss Hillary shared in the popular adulation and smiled upon him at every chance. He was such a nice boy, no teacher could resist him. He had evidently been brought up on morals and manners, for when Miss Hillary dropped her brush he sprang from his seat and handed it to her before she could stoop for it.
 
Altogether things went very pleasantly that first day, so pleasantly that in the afternoon Lottie Price dared to hold up her hand and ask if they mightn't have a spelling match. Now no one had ever heard of such a thing on any day but Friday, and Jessie Robertson and Teenie Johnstone nudged each other. Lottie Price was the most disagreeable girl in Forest Glen School; indeed, all the Prices were noted¹⁰³ for their capacity for making mischief¹⁰⁴. Lottie had not spoken to the girls in her class for three days, and her two chief rivals understood this move for a spelling match. Jessie whispered to Teenie that it was just like Lottie Price. She was the best speller in the school and wanted to show off before the new boy.
 
To the surprise of most, Miss Hillary smilingly granted the request. Jessie, however, nodded her head significantly. She wasn't surprised, not she. Why, the top-buggy had come early in the morning yesterday and stayed both to dinner and tea, and she thought it was just horrid mean of Lottie Price, so she did. She had done it just because she knew Jessie couldn't spell.
 
Meanwhile, the spelling match was being arranged. Of course, Lottie was sent as captain to one side, and then Miss Hillary asked would the school choose a boy for captain on the other side. A swarm¹⁰⁵ of hands went up, and almost unanimously the new boy was chosen.
 
This was indeed a triumph for Lottie, and as the two took their places she swept a glance of disdain¹⁰⁶ towards a seat where two young ladies sat gazing with averted¹⁰⁷ faces far out of the window.
 
Rosie was "mad at" Katie Price, so she also stared in the opposite direction. But Elizabeth never had time nor opportunity to quarrel with anyone, and she gazed at Lottie with frank admiration, and wished she could spell half so well. It seemed such a pity that the grand stranger should find out so soon how stupid she was. She was always chosen the very last in a spelling match, except when Mary or Rosie happened to be a captain and selected her for private reasons.
 
The captains were in place, and Miss Hillary smilingly nodded to Lottie. Since the age of chivalry had dawned, the girl-captain in a spelling match was always given the first chance to select. Lottie hesitated. She had her beau, but he could not spell, and her bosom¹⁰⁸ friend, but they had vowed¹⁰⁹ never to speak again so long as they both should live. Miss Price was too wise to allow sentiment to injure her campaign, but too bad-tempered¹¹⁰ to permit any magnanimity to assist it. Therefore, she called Hannah Clegg. No one ever quarreled with the Cleggs, not even the Prices; they were too good-natured. Besides, Hannah was a fair speller.
 
Miss Hillary nodded approvingly and turned to the boy, who was standing regarding the sea of strange faces in a puzzled manner. He had been relying upon Hannah as first choice. Miss Hillary came to his aid. "Now, Horace, you are in a rather difficult position, as you do not know who are our best spellers. So you may call up anyone you like who will help you in your further selection." The visitor's face brightened. He looked right across the school and electrified¹¹¹ everyone by calling out, "Elizabeth Jarvis Gordon."
 
The owner of the name could not believe her ears. She had to be poked¹¹² twice by Rosie before she finally arose and took her place beside the velvet boy, overcome with wonder. It was as though one had suddenly been called out to be a Joan of Arc without any warning. Lottie Price giggled. Everyone knew Lizzie Gordon couldn't spell c-a-t without a couple of mistakes, and she saw her victory assured.
 
But there was one thing Elizabeth could do, and that was name all the spellers in the room. Who knew them as well as she, when each one was a reproach to her? When the velvet boy's turn came, he looked at her and she proved a fine support. Rosie came first, of course, but then Rosie not only knew every word in the Complete Speller, but was a Complete Speller herself in curls and a pink pinafore. John and Charles Stuart were next. Elizabeth was devoutly thankful she could ask them with a clear conscience. She longed for Susie Martin and Eppie Turner also, but Susie had had five mistakes yesterday, and Eppie seven; it wouldn't be fair to the velvet boy. An exalted¹¹³ position, she realized, brought heavy responsibilities. She really made a very fine campaign, for she had almost all the Senior Fourth girls at her command, seeing that Lottie disdained¹¹⁴ to call them. She whispered their names to Horace, and as he summoned them to his ranks Lottie's face grew dark with anticipation¹¹⁵ of defeat.
 
At last everyone in the three highest classes was on the floor and the battle began. From the first the sullen¹¹⁶ face of the lady-captain, and her rapidly thinning ranks, showed upon which side the laurels¹¹⁷ were likely to rest.
 
Of course Elizabeth fell at the second volley, but as she left, overcome with humiliation¹¹⁸, the velvet boy whispered: "Never mind. It was a beast of a word." Further comfort came to her when he himself went down on the next word and smiled at her sympathetically. But they left behind them plenty of veterans to carry on the war, and at last Lottie was left alone and there still stood on the other side a splendid array of six, headed by John Gordon. It was the hour for closing, and Miss Hillary announced the spelling match won by Horace Oliver; and Lottie Price almost tossed her head out of the window, the girls declared, as she passed Jessie and Teenie on her way to her seat.
 
When school was dismissed, the new boy paused at Elizabeth's seat, where she and Rosie were putting their books together.
 
"I remembered your name," he said triumphantly¹¹⁹.
 
"How did you?" asked Elizabeth, amazed.
 
"Papa told us. Do you remember my papa? He was out here one day last summer with our lawyer. His name's Mr. Huntley. Mr. Huntley calls you 'Queen Elizabeth.'"
 
It was all clear to Elizabeth now. So that jolly, fat man, who didn't seem to care whether Eppie and her grandpa kept their farm or not, was the velvet boy's father; and the nasty man who was trying to take it from them was his friend. And, further, this must be the dreadful bad boy whom Sarah Emily called the "Centipede," and for whom she used to iron all day, and whose mother was so proud and haughty¹²⁰. She felt rather disillusioned¹²¹. She wished, too, that he hadn't said "papa." She was afraid John and Charles Stuart would do something violent if they heard him.
 
But when Elizabeth reached home that afternoon, and Mary related all the day's exciting experiences, to her surprise, her aunt seemed almost joyful. She even smoothed Elizabeth's hair, and said she had behaved very discreetly¹²². Mrs. Jarvis might hear about her from the little boy, when she returned, and perhaps something might happen. Further, she was sure the little Oliver boy was a gentleman and had a genteel bringing-up. Elizabeth looked vastly pleased, but John hung his head and scowled¹²³, and Sarah Emily snorted quite out loud. When supper was over, Annie drew Elizabeth away from the others and questioned her.
 
"Did the Oliver boy say anything about Mr. Huntley—or—or anyone else?"
 
Elizabeth understood perfectly. There was a strong tie between these two since the younger sister had delivered a certain precious note with such care and discretion¹²⁴. Elizabeth knew who "anyone else" meant. No, the velvet boy had not said anything about other people; but to-morrow she would ask him.
 
The velvet boy proved a source of valuable information, being very willing to talk. Of course, he knew Mr. Coulson. He had often seen him in Mr. Huntley's office; he was fine fun and could tell dandy stories. And Mrs. Jarvis, for whom Elizabeth was called, was his mamma's aunt. She was ever and ever so rich, and was away in the Old Country now, just pitching her money around, mamma said; and she might have taken her and Madeline along. Aunt Jarvis was very fond of Madeline, and mamma said she would be sure to leave her and Horace all her money when she died, though why she couldn't give them a little more of it now, was something she couldn't understand.
 
All this information and more, Elizabeth carried home, distributing it judiciously⁸ where it was most appreciated. She found that any news of Mrs. Jarvis warded¹²⁵ off a scolding, and when a torn pinafore or unusually untidy hair made her dread¹⁰ her home-coming, she made Horace walk with her as far as Eppie's bars and gathered from him sufficient news of the great lady to insure her a welcome from her aunt.
 
Meantime in school she was living in a new world. She was wonderfully popular. There was no more talk of a poor makeshift for a beau like Charlie Peters. All the girls in the school canceled her name with that of the velvet boy, and Rosie was so proud because Katie Price was so envious¹²⁶ that she fairly hugged Elizabeth for joy.
 
But the latter was not altogether happy. Of course it was fine to be the chosen one of the boy from town, but there were drawbacks. Horace was not strong enough to play baseball, and his mamma had forbidden him to play shinney, so he always stayed with the girls at recess, which was often very inconvenient¹²⁷ when Elizabeth and Rosie wanted to teeter by themselves or stay indoors and tell secrets. Then, too, John and the Pretender teased her unmercifully. They called her beau "Booby" Oliver and said he should have been a girl. She took his part valiantly¹²⁸, but she did wish he wouldn't say "papa" and "mamma," it made her ashamed of him.
 
On the whole, Elizabeth was not sorry when his two-weeks' visit to the Cleggs' ended and he went back to Cheemaun. Rosie did not regret his departure either; he had served his day. For there was no doubt the age of chivalry was drawing to a close. Winter was coming on and the mantle¹²⁹ of squire¹³⁰ of dames¹³¹ was slipping off the boys' shoulders. The spirit of chivalry did not thrive in the day of snowballs.
 
The first news of the change in affairs came to Elizabeth, as usual, through Rosie. The latter confided¹³² to her friend that she didn't believe she liked Hector McQueen half so well as she used to. He had just been horrid mean only that morning. He had thrown a snowball right at her. Of course he didn't hit her, but she was mad at him, so she was, and if he wrote her a note she just wouldn't answer it, see if she would.
 
This was but one indication of the decay of chivalry. There were many others, and at last it was swept away altogether in a new fashion that shortly broke out. Jessie Robertson's uncle from Vancouver came home, bringing all the Robertsons presents, Jessie's being an autograph album. She brought it to school and each of her friends proudly inscribed¹³³ their names therein, attached to verses sentimental¹³⁴ or otherwise.
 
Within a week every girl in the Fourth Book had an autograph album, even if it were only one made of foolscap and trimmed with tissue-paper such as Rosie made for Elizabeth. It proved far more interesting and twice as tractable¹³⁵ as a beau. A new era dawned in Forest Glen, an age of learning, when one racked one's brains to compose a poem for a friend's book, and the age of chivalry was forgotten.