Half a Dozen Girls | Page 8

regarded as the point of the V, was a wide-awake,
irrepressible youth of twelve, who had a large share in the doings of his
older sister and her friends. They did their best to spoil him by their
unlimited admiration; but, to be sure, the temptation to do so was a
strong one, for Alan was a lovable fellow, always merry and
good-natured, generous and accommodating to his friends, and quick to
plan and execute the pranks which added the spice of mischief to the
doings of the V. In person he was tall for his age, and slight, with thick,
yellow hair, that lay in a smooth, soft line across his forehead, large
gray eyes, and a generous mouth, full of strong, white teeth which were
usually in sight, for Alan was nearly always laughing,--not a handsome
boy, exactly, for his features were quite irregular, but a splendid one,
whom one would instinctively select as a gentleman's son, and an
intelligent, manly lad.
His sister Molly, two years older, was an attractive, bright girl, whose
only beauty lay in her smooth, heavy braids of brown hair. She and
Polly had been constant companions from their babyhood, had
quarrelled and "made up," had quarrelled and made up again, three
hundred and sixty-five days a year for the last thirteen years, and at the
end of that time they were closer friends than ever. Two girls more
unlike it would have been hard to find, for Molly was as quiet and
deliberate as Polly was impetuous; but nevertheless, in spite of their
continual disagreements, they were inseparable. They were in the same
class in school and in Sunday- school, they had the same friends, and
read the same books, and had a share in the same mischief. They even
carried this trait so far as to both come down with mumps on the same
day, when their unwonted absence from school was the source of much
speculation among their friends, who fondly pictured them as indulging
in some frolic, until the melancholy truth was known.
Next to Alan, Jean Dwight was the boy of the V, a strong, hearty,
happy young woman of fourteen, who succeeded in getting a great deal
of enjoyment out of this humdrum, work-a-day world. Her rosy cheeks

glowed and her brown eyes shone with health; for Jean was as full of
life as a young colt, and vented her superfluous energy in climbing
trees, walking fences, and running races, until Aunt Jane and her
followers raised their hands and eyes in well-bred horror. But Jean's
unselfish devotion to her mother, her real refinement, her quick
understanding, and her sound common sense did much to atone for her
hoydenish ways, and gave promise of the fine womanhood which lay
before her. At first it had been a matter of some surprise, in the
aristocratic old town, that Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Hapgood,
representatives of "our first families," as they were universally
acknowledged to be, could allow their children to be so intimate with
Jean Dwight, whose father was only a carpenter, and whose mother
took in sewing. However, any comments were promptly silenced when
Mrs. Adams had been heard to say, one day, that she was always glad
to have Polly with such a womanly girl as Jean Dwight, so free from
any nonsensical, grown-up airs. From that time onward Jean's position
was an established fact.
Florence Lang was the acknowledged beauty of the V, a dainty maiden
of thirteen, with fluffy, yellow hair, great blue eyes, and a pink and
white skin which might have made a French doll sigh with envy. The
only daughter of a luxurious home, she was always beautifully dressed,
always quiet in her manners. No matter how excited and demoralized
the rest of the V might become, Florence never failed to come out of
the frolic as gentle and unspotted as she went in, greatly to the disgust
and envy of Polly, whose clothes had a tendency to get mysteriously
torn, whose shoes appeared to go in search of dust, and whose short,
curly hair had a perfect genius for getting into a state of wild disorder.
It was not that Florence seemed to take any more care of herself than
the others, but she was naturally one of those favored beings to whom
no particle of dust could cling, who could use none but the choicest
language. Such gentle children have admirers enough; it is the luckless,
quick-tempered Pollies, the warm-hearted, harum- scarum Jeans, who
need a champion.
If Molly and Polly had never disagreed, the quintette would have been
only a trio; for, when they were at peace, they were all in all to each

other. But in times of strife Molly was devoted to Florence Lang, while
Polly took refuge