Tabitha at Ivy Hall by Ruth Alberta Brown

Page 1 of 95

[Illustration: She began her first letter to the father she did not know or understand. (_Page 296._)]

TABITHA AT IVY HALL

BY RUTH ALBERTA BROWN

ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALFRED RUSSELL c

THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY CHICAGO AKRON, OHIO NEW YORK

_MADE IN U. S. A._

To My Mother

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE HATEFUL NAME 11

II. TABITHA CHOOSES A NEW NAME 33

III. TABITHA ADOPTS HER NEW NAME 45

IV. THE NEW NAME CAUSES TABITHA TROUBLE 63

V. TABITHA IS COMFORTED 81

VI. A DOG AND A CAT 93

VII. THE NEW BOY 105

VIII. TABITHA BEGS PARDON 127

IX. A BRAVE LITTLE CATT 137

X. CARRIE GOES AWAY TO SCHOOL 155

XI. A FIRE IN THE NIGHT 171

XII. DR. VANE HAS A VISITOR 185

XIII. AUNT MARIA DECIDES THE QUESTION 201

XIV. TABITHA'S ROOM-MATE 221

XV. THE FIRST NIGHT AT IVY HALL 239

XVI. MADAME'S ADVICE 253

XVII. HOLIDAY PLANS 269

XVIII. TABITHA'S CHRISTMAS 283

XIX. A STRIKE! 299

XX. A HAPPY HOME 309

TABITHA AT IVY HALL

CHAPTER I

THE HATEFUL NAME

"She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.

'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag,' she said."

The black eyes of the little speaker burned with fiery indignation as she hurled these words of defiance at a ten-quart pail of blackberries standing in the middle of the dusty road where she had set it when the emotion of her recital had overcome her to such a degree that mere words were no longer effective and gestures had become absolutely necessary. She was living it herself. What did it matter that there was no rebel army confronting her, what did it matter that the town of Frederick lay hundreds of miles away, what did it matter that she was merely a slip of a girl living fifty years after the terrible scenes of war which inspired the words she was reciting?

The whole picture lay as vividly before her as if she had been Dame Barbara herself, and she entered into the spirit of the production with such vim that her actual surroundings were forgotten. Her thin, peaked face, browned by sun and wind, was glorified with patriotism, and her voice rang sharp with the intensity of feeling. Having no flag to shake in the face of the approaching enemy, she pulled a mullein stalk growing among the tall grass and flaunted it so vigorously that in leaning over her imaginary window-sill she lost her balance and was nearly capsized into her pail of luscious berries.

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