The Outdoor Girls of Deepdale Part 8

"Why, what do you mean?" asked Betty blus.h.i.+ng slightly.

"I think I saw Will give Grace a note this noon," went on Amy. "Ah, secrets! And doesn't it happen that Will and Allen Washburn are quite chummy? If the initials A.W. aren't on that note, Betty--"

"Of course they're not! The idea! Allen Washburn needn't think--"

"Oh, I know he needn't send notes to you this way, but perhaps Will forgot to deliver it, and Grace just slipped it into your book, intending to tell you of it. Ah, Betty!"

"Silly. It isn't that at all. See, I'll let you read the note."

Hastily Betty unfolded it. There was but a single unsigned sheet of paper, and scrawled on it were these words:

"Before you go camping and tramping ask Amy Stonington who her father and mother are."

CHAPTER V

AMY'S MYSTERY

Betty was quick to comprehend the cruel words, and in an instant she had crumpled the anonymous scrawl in her hand. But she was the fraction of a second too late. Amy had read it.

Betty heard the sound of Amy's sigh, and then the catch in her breath.

She turned quickly.

"Amy!" cried Betty. "Did you see it? Oh, my dear! The meanness of it! The awful meanness! Oh, Amy, my dear!" and she put her arms around her trembling companion. "Oh, if I only knew who sent it!"

"I--I can guess!" faltered Amy.

"Who?"

"Alice Jallow."

"The--the cat!"

Betty simply could not help saying it.

"Let--let me see it again," whispered Amy. "I didn't mean to read your note, Betty, but I saw it before I realized it."

"My note? It isn't mine! I wouldn't own to receiving such a scrawl! Oh, Amy, I'm so sorry!"

"Never mind, Betty. I--I've been expecting it."

"You have?"

"Yes. That--that is what has been bothering me of late. You may have noticed--"

"I've noticed that you haven't quite been yourself, Amy, my dear, but I never suspected--and you think Alice sent this?"

"I'm almost sure of it. It has to be known sooner or later. But don't say anything to Alice."

"Why not? The idea! She ought to be exposed--and punished. I'll go to--"

"No, please don't, Betty. It--it is true, and--and there is no use giving her the satisfaction of knowing that she has--has hurt me,"

faltered Amy.

"Oh, the meanness of it!" murmured Betty. "But, Amy dear, I don't understand. This doesn't at all look like the writing of Alice Jallow."

"I know; she has disguised her scribbling, that's all. But it doesn't matter. I'll never charge her with it."

"Why not?"

"I haven't the heart. Oh, Betty, I'm afraid it's only too true! I really don't know who my father and mother are!"

"Amy!"

"No, I don't. I've suspected a mystery a long while, and now I am sure I am mixed up in one."

"Amy Stonington!" cried Betty. "Do you mean to tell me--look here, let's get to some quiet place. Some one will be coming in here. We can go to Miss Greene's room. She has gone for the day. But perhaps you don't want to tell me, Amy."

"Oh, yes I do. I want to tell all you girls. And then maybe--"

"Amy Stonington!" exclaimed Betty. "If you're going to hint--and I see that you are--that we'd pay any attention to this note, or let it make any difference between us--even if it's true--which I don't believe--let's see--what do I want to say--I'm all confused. Oh, I know.

I mean that it shan't make a particle of difference to us--if you never had a father or mother--"

"Oh, of course I had--some time," and Amy smiled through a mist of tears.

"Only there's a mystery about them--what became of them."

"Why I thought--all of us thought--that Mr. and Mrs. Stonington were your parents," said the wondering Betty.

"So did I, until lately. Then I began to notice that papa and mamma--as I thought them--were frequently consulting together. They always stopped talking when I came near, but I supposed it might be about some plans they had for sending me away to be educated in music. So I pretended not to notice. Though I did not want to go away from dear Deepdale.

"Their queer consultations increased, and they looked at me so strangely that finally I went to mamma--no, my aunt, as I must call her, and--"

"Your aunt!" exclaimed Betty.

"Yes, that is what Mrs. Stonington is to me; or, rather she was poor dear mamma's aunt. I am going to call her aunt, however, and Mr. Stonington uncle. They wish it."

"Oh, then they have told you?"

"Yes. It was the night before the day that I fainted in school. It was thinking of that, I guess, that unnerved me."

"Why, Amy! A mystery about you?"

"Yes, and one I fear will never be found out. I'll tell you about it."

"Not unless you'd rather, dear," and Betty put her arms about her chum as they sat on the worn sofa in Miss Greene's retiring room.