A FLOCK of GIRLS AND BOYS. by NORA PERRY, Author Of "Hope Benham, " "Lyrics And Legends, ""A Rosebud Garden Of Girls, " Etc. Illustrated byCHARLOTTE TIFFANY PARKER. 1895. [Frontispiece: That little Smith girl] CONTENTS THAT LITTLE SMITH GIRL THE EGG BOY MAJOR MOLLY'S CHRISTMAS PROMISE POLLY'S VALENTINE SIBYL'S SLIPPER A LITTLE BOARDING-SCHOOL SAMARITAN ESTHER BODN BECKY ALLY AN APRIL FOOL THE THANKSGIVING GUEST ILLUSTRATIONS. THAT LITTLE SMITH GIRL "MISS PELHAM! MISS MARGARET PELHAM!" WALLULA CLAPPED HER HANDS WITH DELIGHT A VERY PRETTY PAIR SIBYL'S REFLECTIONS A TALL, HANDSOME WOMAN SMILED A GREETING SHE WAS ADDRESSING MONSIEUR BAUDOUIN THE PRETTY LITTLE BASKET OF GREEN AND WHITE PAPER AS THE FRESH ARRIVALS APPEARED THAT LITTLE SMITH GIRL. CHAPTER I. "The Pelhams are coming next month. " "Who are the Pelhams?" Miss Agnes Brendon gave a little upward lift to her small pert nose asshe exclaimed: "Tilly Morris, you don't mean to say that you don't know who the Pelhamsare?" Tilly, thus addressed, lifted up _her_ nose as she replied, -- "I do mean to say just that. " "Why, where have you lived?" was the next wondering question. "In the wilds of New York City, " answered Tilly, sarcastically. "Where the sacred stiffies of Boston are unknown, " cried Dora Robson, with a laugh. "But the Pelhams, --I thought that everybody knew of the Pelhams atleast, " Agnes remarked, with a glance at Tilly that plainly expressed adoubt of her denial. Tilly caught the glance, and, still furtherirritated, cried impulsively, -- "Well, I never heard of them! Why should I? What have they done, praytell, that everybody should know of them?" "'Done'? I don't know as they've done anything. It's what they are. Theyare very rich and aristocratic people. Why, the Pelhams belong to one ofthe oldest families of Boston. " "What do I care for that?" said Tilly, tipping her head backward untilit bumped against the wall of the house with a sounding bang, whereatDora Robson gave a little giggle and exclaimed, -- "Mercy, Tilly, I heard it crack!" Then another girl giggled, --it was another of the Robsons, --Dora'sCousin Amy; and after the giggle she said saucily, -- "Tilly's head is full of cracks already. I think we'd better call her'Crack Brain;' we'll put it C. B. , for short. " "You'd better call her L. H. , --'Level Head, '" a voice--a boy'svoice--called out here. The group of girls looked at one another in startled surprise. "Who--what!" Then Dora Robson, glancing over the piazza railing, exclaimed, -- "It's Will Wentworth. He's in the hammock! What do you mean, Willie, byhiding up like that, right under our noses, and listening to oursecrets?" "Hiding up? Well, I like that! I'd been out here for half an hour ormore when you girls came to this end of the piazza. " "What in the world have you been doing for an hour in a hammock? Ididn't know as you could keep still so long. Oh, you've got a book. Letme see it. " "You wouldn't care anything about it; it's a boy's book. " "Let me see it. " Will held up the book. "Oh, 'Jack Hall'!" "Of course, I knew you wouldn't care anything for a book that's full ofboy's sports, " returned Will. "I know one girl that does, " responded Dora, laughing and nodding herhead. "Who is she?" asked Will, looking incredulous. "'T ain't me, " answered Dora, more truthfully than grammatically. "No, I guess not; and I guess you don't know any such girl. " Dora wheeled around and called, "Tilly, Tilly Morris! Come here andprove to this conceited, contradicting boy that I'm telling the truth. " "Oh, it's Tilly Morris, eh?" sung out Will. "Yes, " answered Tilly, turning and looking down at the occupant of thehammock; "I think 'Jack Hall' is the jolliest kind of a book. I've readit twice. " Will jerked himself up into a sitting posture, as he ejaculated inpleased astonishment, -- "Come, I say now!" "Yes, " went on Tilly; "I think it's one of the best books I everread, --that part about the boat-race I've read over three or fourtimes. " "Well, your head _is_ level, " cried Will, sitting up still straighterin the hammock, and regarding Tilly with a look of respect. "Because I don't care anything for Boston's grand folks and do care for'Jack Hall'?" laughed Tilly. "Yes, that's about it, " responded Will, with a little grin. "I'm so sickand tired, " he went on, "hearing about 'swells' and money. The bestfellow I know at school is quite poor; and one of the worst of the lotis what you'd call a swell, and has no end of money. " "There are all kinds of swells, Master Willie. Why, you know perfectlywell that you belong to the swells yourself, " retorted Dora. "I don't!" growled Will. "Well, I should just like to hear what your cousin Frances would say tothat. " "Oh, Fan!" cried Will, contemptuously. "If you don't think much of the old Wentworth name--" "I do think much of it, " interrupted Will. "I think so much of it that Iwant to live up to it. The old Wentworths were splendid fellows, some of'em; and all of 'em were jolly and generous and independent. Therewasn't any sneaking little brag and snobbishness in 'em. They 'd havecut a fellow dead that had come around with that sort of stuff;" andsixteen-year-old Will nodded his head with an emphatic movement thatshowed his approval of this trait in his ancestors. Dora looked at him curiously; then with a faint smile she said, -- "Your cousin Frances is so proud of those old Wentworths. She's oftentold me how grandly they lived, and she's so pleased that her nameFrances is the name of one of the prettiest of the Governor's wives. " "Yes; and one of the prettiest, and I dare say one of the best of 'em, was a servant-girl in Governor Benning Wentworth's kitchen, and hemarried her out of it. Did Fan ever tell you that?" and Will chuckled. Amy Robson stared at Will with amazement as she exclaimed, -- "Well, I never saw such a queer boy as you are, --to run your own familydown. " "I'm not running 'em down. 'Tisn't running 'em down to say that one of'em married Martha Hilton. Martha Hilton was a nice girl, though she waspoor and had to work in a kitchen. Plenty of nice girls--farmers'daughters--worked in that way in those old times; the New Englandhistories tell you that. " Not one of the girls made any comment or criticism upon this statement, for Will Wentworth was known to be well up in history; but after amoment or two of silence, Dora burst forth in this wise, -- "You may talk as you like. Will Wentworth, but you know perfectly wellthat you don't think a servant-girl is as good as you are. " "If you mean that I don't think she is of the same class, of course Idon't. She may be a great deal better than I am in other ways, for allthat. In those old days, though, the servant-girls weren't the kind wehave now; they were Americans, --farmers' daughters, --most of 'em. " "Oh, well, you may talk and talk in this grand way, Willie Wentworth;but you know where you belong, and when the Pelhams come, Tilly'll seefor herself that you are one of the same sort. " "As the Pelhams?" "Well, what have you got to say about the Pelhams in that scornful way?"asked Amy, rather indignantly. "I'm not scornful. I was only going to set you right, and say that thePelhams are fashionable folks and the Wentworths are not. " "Oh, I'd like to have your cousin Fanny hear you say that. Fanny thinksthe Wentworths are fully equal to the Pelhams or any one else. " "They are. " "What do you mean, Will Wentworth? You just said--" "I just said that the Pelhams were fashionable people and the Wentworthswere not, but that doesn't make the Pelhams any better than theWentworths. The Pelhams have got more money and like to spend it in thatway, --in being fashionable society folks, I suppose. There are lots ofpeople who have as much and more money, who won't be fashionable, --theydon't like it. " "Your cousin Fanny says--" "Fanny's a snob. It makes me sick to hear her talk sometimes. If shewere here now, she'd be full of these Pelhams, and as thick with 'emwhen they came, whether they were nice or not. If they were ever sonice, she'd snub 'em if they were not up in the world, --what you call'swells. ' She never got such stuff as that from the Wentworths. " "There are plenty of people like your cousin, " spoke up Tilly, withsudden emphasis and a fleeting glance at Agnes Brendon. "Oh, now, Tilly, don't say that, " cried Dora, in a funny littlewheedling tone, "don't now; you'll hurt some of our feelings, for weshall think you mean one of us, and you can't mean that, Tillydear, "--the wheedling tone taking on a droll, merry accent, --"you can't, for you know how independent and high-minded we all are, --how incapableof such meanness!" "I wouldn't trust this high-mindedness, " retorted Tilly, wrinkling upher forehead. "Now, Tilly, you don't mean that, --you don't mean that you've come allthe way from naughty New York to find such dreadful faults in nice, primmy New England. The very dogs here are above such things. Look atPunch there making friends with that little plebeian yellow dog. " "And look at Dandy barking at everybody who isn't well dressed, " laughedTilly, pointing to a handsome collie, who was vigorously giving voice tohis displeasure at the approach of a workman in shabby clothing. The Robson girls and Will Wentworth joined in Tilly's laugh; but AgnesBrendon, who could never see a joke, looked disgusted, and glancing atthe little yellow dog, asked petulantly, -- "Whose dog is it?" "It belongs to the girl who sits at the corner table, " answered WillWentworth, "and its name is Pete. I heard the girl call him thismorning. " "What a horrid, vulgar name!" exclaimed Agnes. "It suits the dog, though; and the people, I suppose, are--" "Oh, Agnes, look at that horrid worm on your dress!" Agnes jumped up in a panic, screaming, "Where, where?" Dora, bending down to brush off the smallest of small caterpillars, whispered, -- "The girl who owns the yellow dog is in the other hammock. I just sawher, and she can hear every word you say. " "I don't care if she does hear, " said Agnes, without troubling herselfto lower her voice. "You needn't have frightened me with your horridworm story, just for that. " Will Wentworth, as he heard this, fell backward into his recliningposition, with an explosive laugh. The next minute he sprang out of thehammock, and, tucking "Jack Hall" under his arm, was up and off, givinga sidelong look as he went at the other hammock, which, though only afew rods away, was half hidden by the foliage of the two low-growingtrees between which it hung. Meeting Tilly and the Robson girls as heran around the corner of the house, he said breathlessly, -- "Look here; that girl must have heard everything that we've said. " "Well, there wasn't anything said that concerned her, until Agnes beganabout the yellow dog; and I stopped that, " said Dora, gleefully. "She may be acquainted with the Pelhams, --how do we know?" exclaimedWill, ruefully. "The Pelhams!" cried Dora and Amy, in one breath. "Yes, how do we know?" repeated Will. "That girl who sits over at the corner table with that stuffy old woman, acquainted with the Pelhams! Oh, Will, if Agnes could hear you!" criedDora, with a shout of laughter. "Well, I can't see what there is to laugh at, " broke in Will, huffily. "Why shouldn't she and the stuffy old woman, as you call her, know thePelhams? She's a nice-looking girl, a first-rate looking girl. What'sthe matter with her?" "Matter? I don't know that anything is the matter, except that shedoesn't look like the sort of girl who would be an acquaintance of thePelhams. She doesn't look like their kind, you know. She wears theplainest sort of dresses, --just little straight up and down frocks ofbrown or drab, or those white cambric things, --they are more likebaby-slips than anything; and her hats are just the same, --great flatall-round hats, not a bit of style to them; and she's a girl of fourteenor fifteen certainly. Do you suppose people of the Pelhams' kind dresslike that?" Will gave a gruff little sound half under his breath, as he askedsarcastically, -- "How do people of the Pelham kind dress?" "Oh, like Dora and Amy, and especially like Agnes, --in the height of thefashion, you know, " Tilly cried laughingly. "Now, Tilly, " expostulated Dora, "neither Amy nor I overdress. We wearwhat all girls of our age--girls who are almost young ladies--wear, andI'm sure you wear the same kind of things. " "Not quite, Dora. I'll own, though, I would if I could; but there's sucha lot of us at home that the money gives out before it goes all 'round, "said Tilly, frankly, yet rather ruefully. "I'm sure you look very nice, " said Dora, politely. Amy echoed thepolite remark, while Will, eying the three with an attempt at a criticalestimate, thought to himself, "They don't look a bit nicer than thatgirl at the corner table. " But Will was too wise to give utterance to this thought. He knew how itwould be received; he knew that the three would laugh at him and say, "What does a boy know about girl's clothes?" In the mean time, while all this was going on, what was that girl whohad suggested the talk, that girl who sat at the corner table in thedining room and who was now lying in a hammock, --what was she doing, what was she thinking? CHAPTER II. She was lying looking up through the green branches of the trees. Shehad been reading, but her book was now closed, and she was lying quietlylooking up at the blue sky between the branches. Her thoughts were notquite so quiet as her position would seem to indicate. She had, as WillWentworth had said, heard all that talk about the Pelhams. Whatever herclass in life, she was certainly a delicate and honorable young girl;for at the very first, when she found that it was a talk between a partyof friends, and they were unconscious of a stranger's near neighborhood, she had done her best to make her presence known to them by variouslittle coughs and ahems, and once or twice by decided movements, andreadjustments of her position. As no attention was paid to thesedemonstrations, she finally concluded that none of the party caredwhether they were overheard or not, and so settled herself comfortablyback again into her place, and opened her book. But she could not read much. These talkers were all about her own age, and if they did not care that a stranger was overhearing what they said, she need not trouble herself any more; and it was quite certain shefound the talk amusing, for more than once a ripple of merriment woulddimple her face, and the laughter would nearly break forth from herlips. Even at the last, when Agnes spoke so scornfully of the littleyellow dog, the girl seemed to be more amused than annoyed; and shequite understood Miss Agnes's unfinished sentence, too, and Dora'slittle device to make it unfinished. It was then only that she saw that her attempts to inform the party ofher near neighborhood had been unsuccessful. She got rather red as thisknowledge was forced upon her; then, like Will Wentworth, she burroweddown deeper than ever in the hammock, and gave way to a little burst oflaughter, though, unlike Will's, hers was no noisy explosion. All the time she was watching Will and the girls as they took their wayacross the lawn; and as soon as they disappeared from her view, shejumped from the hammock, and with the fleetest of fleet footsteps raninto the house. Coming down the long wide hall, she met the very personshe was going in search of, --the person that Dora Robson had called"that stuffy old woman;" and trotting after her was the little yellowdog, who had just been washed and brushed until his short hair shonelike satin. "Oh, Pete, Pete, come here!" and Pete at this invitation flew to hisyoung mistress's arms with much demonstration of delight. "And they called you a vulgar plebeian dog, Pete, just think of that!"cried the girl, as she fondled the little animal. "Who called him that, Peggy?" asked her companion, in a surprised tone. "One of those girls at the table by the window. Oh, auntie, I want totell you about it. I was coming to find you on purpose to tell you. Let's go in here, where we shall be all by ourselves, " turning towards asmall unoccupied reception-room. There, cosily ensconced beside her aunt, with the little yellow dog ather feet, the dog's mistress told her story, with various exclamationsand interjections of, "Now wasn't it horrid of them?" and "Did you everknow anything so ridiculous?" while auntie listened with greatinterest, her only comment at the end being, -- "Well, they're not worth minding, Peggy, and I wouldn't act as if I'dheard what they said when you meet them. I wouldn't take any notice ofthem. " "I? Why, it's they who won't take any notice of me, auntie. I'm like mylittle dog, --a vulgar plebeian. What would they say, what would theythink, if they could hear you call me Peggy?--that's as bad as Pete, isn't it?" "I'm afraid it is;" and auntie laughed a little as she spoke. The great summer hotel was not nearly full yet, for it was only the lastof June; and as Peggy went down to luncheon, her hand closely clasped in"auntie's, " whom should she meet face to face in the ratherdeserted-looking hall but "those girls"? It was a little embarrassingall round, and they all colored up very rosily as they met. "I wonder where the boy is?" thought Peggy; "he and that New York girlwere nice. " She glanced over her shoulder at this thought. There was theboy; and--yes, he was standing at the office desk, carefully examiningthe hotel register. "He's looking for our names!" flashed into Peggy'smind, "and those girls set him up to it. I wonder what they'll say to'Mrs. Smith and niece'? I know; they'll say, or the girl they call Agneswill say, 'Smith, of course! I knew they had some such common name asthat. '" Something very like this comment did take place when Master Will, inobedience to Dora Robson's request, brought the information that thepeople at the corner table were Mrs. Smith and her niece. But if Peggycould only have heard Will flash out upon this comment the furtherinformation that very distinguished people had borne the name ofSmith, --could have heard him quote the famous English clergyman SydneySmith, whose wit and humor were so charming, --if Peggy could have heardWill going on in this fashion, she would have thought he was very niceindeed, and been quite delighted with his independent outspokenness. Agnes, however, was anything but delighted. She was, in fact, very angrywith Will by this time, and what she called his meddlesome, domineeringairs, and quite determined to let him know at the very first opportunitythat she was not in the least to be influenced by his opinions. The opportunity presented itself sooner than she expected. It was justafter luncheon, and a couple of Indians had come up from theirneighboring summer camp with a load of baskets for sale. Dora and Tilly, with Mrs. Brendon and Agnes and Amy, went out to them atonce. Others soon followed, and a brisk bargaining began. When theIndian woman held up a beautiful little basket skilfully woven toimitate shells, there was a general exclamation of pleasure, and onevoice cried out with enthusiasm, "Oh, how lovely!" and the owner of thevoice reached forth to take the basket in her hand. Agnes Brendon, turning quickly, saw that it was Mrs. Smith's niece. "The idea of that girl pushing herself forward like this!" was Agnes'swhispered remark to Amy. "Hush: she'll hear you, " whispered back Amy. "I don't care, " answered Agnes, at the same time crowding herself to thefront and inquiring the price of the basket, with the determination toget possession of it before any one else had a chance. But when theprice--two dollars--was named, Mrs. Brendon pronounced it exorbitant, and offered half the sum, never doubting its acceptance. The Indianwoman, however, shook her head with an air of grim decision; and at thatvery moment, catching sight of Mrs. Smith and her niece, she noddedsmilingly, repeated the price, and held the basket up again; "Yes, yes, I'll take it, " called out Peggy, nodding and smilingresponsively; and the next instant the basket was in her hands. Agnes, not only disappointed, but deeply mortified and angry, turnedhastily to Dora Robson, and gave vent to her feelings by remarking in aperfectly clear undertone, -- "The worst of a place like this is that you meet such common people, with nothing to recommend them but their money. " Dora and Amy flushed with annoyance at this speech; but Tilly was sodisgusted and indignant that she broke away from them all with animpatient exclamation, and started off across the lawn towards thehouse. Halfway across she met Will Wentworth, with Tom Raymond, --a greatchum of his, who had just arrived by the noon boat. "Hullo, what's up, what's the matter?" asked Will, as he perceived theexpression of Tilly's face. Tilly stopped, and in a few graphic words told her story, winding upwith, "Wasn't it horrid of Agnes?" "Horrid? It was beastly, " sputtered Will. "_She_ to call people common!" "But that girl is not common, " said Tilly. "She may belong to people whohave just made a lot of money, --for that's what Agnes meant to flingout, --but there isn't any vulgar common show of it. Look at her, howplainly she's dressed, and how quiet she is. " "Wonder what Agnes is up to now? Let's go and see, " said Will, wheelingabout and nodding to Tilly and Tom to follow. As they came along together, Will a little ahead, Tom Raymond was quitesilent until they approached the group collected around the Indians;then he suddenly ejaculated, "Well, I never!" "What? What do you mean?--what--who do you see?" asked Tilly, very muchsurprised at this outbreak. "Is that the girl--the Smith girl you were telling about--there by thetree--holding a basket?" asked Tom. "Yes; why--do you know her?" "N-o--but--I was thinking--she doesn't look common, does she?" "Of course she doesn't, only plainly dressed. " "Yes, that's all;" and Tom gave a little odd chuckling laugh. "How queer Tom Raymond is!" thought Tilly. She thought he was queererstill, as she caught his furtive glances toward that Smith girl. Presently Miss Tilly saw that the Smith girl was regarding Tom withrather a puzzled observation. "I see how it is, " reflected Miss Tilly; "they have met beforesomewhere, and Tom doesn't want to know her now. He thinks she isn'tfine enough for this Boston set, though he owns that she doesn't lookcommon. Oh, I do believe that Will Wentworth is the only one here whohas any sense or heart. " As Tilly arrived at this conclusion of her reflections, Will camerunning up to her. "Come, " he said, "there's no fun here. Let's go and have a game oftennis. " "But where's Agnes? I thought you wanted to see what she was doing. " "She's gone off in a huff because I asked her if she'd bought anybaskets, " answered Will, grinning. Tilly laughed, and Tom Raymond gaveanother odd little chuckle. Then the three strolled away to the tennisground. As they were passing the rustic bench under the tree where Mrs. Smith and her niece were sitting, Tilly took a sudden resolution, and, stopping abruptly, said, -- "We're going to have a game of tennis; won't you join us, Miss--MissSmith?" The girl looked up with a smile, hesitated a moment, and then acceptedthe invitation. Will, nodding to Tilly a surprised and pleased approvalof her action, started off ahead of the others to see if the tennisground was occupied. As he turned the corner, he met Dora Robson with aracket in her hand. "Oh, " she cried, "here you are! I was just coming after you, for Amy andI have got to go in, --mamma has sent for us, and Agnes was sodisappointed, --now it's all right, for there's Tilly, and--whatluck--Tom Raymond; he's such a splendid player, and you can--" But Dorastopped, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. Who--who was that behind Tilly? CHAPTER III. As Agnes, standing waiting upon the tennis-ground where Dora had lefther, suddenly caught sight of Tom Raymond, her heart gave a little throbof exultation. Tom Raymond was the best tennis-player she knew. To havehim for her partner would be delightful, and she went forward with themost gracious welcome to him. So absorbed was she, so pleased at Tom'sappearance, at his polite response to her, she did not observe MissSmith, --did not see Tilly draw back, did not hear her say, "No, I don'tcare to play, Miss Smith, I want you to play with Will; this is myfriend Will Wentworth, Miss Smith, " by way of introduction. No; Agnes saw and heard nothing of all this, or of Will's politearrangements with the newcomer. She saw nothing, she thought of nothing, but that her own little arrangement to have Tom for a partner wassuccessful; and so, blithely and triumphantly, she took her place andlifted her racket. Whizz! she sent the ball flying over the netting, and whizz! it came flying back again, to be returned by Tom Raymond'svigorous stroke. Agnes regarded this stroke with due admiration. "Neither Will nor Tilly can match that, " she thought; and at the thoughtshe looked over and across the netting, to see a girl's uplifted armswinging easily forward, the racket hitting the ball lightly with aswift, sure, upward, and onward motion. Where had Tilly learned tostrike out like that, all at once? Tilly! The uplifted arm that hadpartially hidden the player's face was lowered. What--what--it was notTilly, but--but--that girl! How did she come there? A glance at Will'sface drawn up into a most exasperating grin, at Will's eyes dartingforth gleams of fun, was enough for Agnes. Yes, this was Will Wentworth's doing, --this hateful plot to humiliateher and triumph over her. Stung by this thought, she lost sight for thatmoment of everything else, and the ball sent so surely back to herdropped to the ground before her partner could rescue it. An exclamationof disappointment from Tom added to her discomfiture; and when Will, thenext instant, cried, "Wait a minute, till I get another racket, MissSmith has broken hers, " Agnes, flinging down her own, exclaimed, -- "Miss Smith can have my racket; I'm not going to play any longer!" "Not going to play? What do you mean?" shouted Will. "I mean that I am not used to a surprise-party and to playing withstrangers, " was the rude and angry answer. "You--you ought to--" But Will controlled himself and stopped. He wasabout to say, "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. " Agnes, however, understood by the tone of his voice something of what hemeant, and turned scornfully away, her head up, and with a glance at Tomthat plainly showed she expected him to follow her. But Tom made no movement of that kind. He stood where he was, lookingacross at Will, who, red and ashamed, had approached Miss Smith, and wasevidently making some sort of apology to her for the insult that hadbeen offered to her; and Miss Smith was listening to this apology withthe coolest little face imaginable. Tom, taking all this in, gave another of his odd little chuckles. Agnesheard it, and flushed scarlet. So he was taking sides with WillWentworth, was he? And what--what--was that--Tilly? Yes, it wasTilly, --Tilly with the racket she, Agnes, had flung down, --Tillystanding in her place and--and--serving the ball back to that girl! SoTilly was with them too? Well, she would see, they would all see, thatAgnes Brendon was not a person to be snubbed and disregarded in thisfashion, nor a person to be forced to make acquaintances with vulgar orcommon people against her will. Oh, they would see, they would see! Andbracing herself up with these indignant resolutions, Agnes betookherself to the hotel. Before the end of the week there were two distinct parties in the house, where heretofore there had been but one, --two distinct opposing forces. On one side were Agnes and Dora and Amy; on the other side were Tillyand Tom and Will. Dora and Amy were not naturally ill-natured girls, butthey were inclined to be worldly and were greatly under Agnes'sinfluence. She had been a sort of authority with them for a good while, perforce of her dominant disposition and the knowledge she seemed topossess of the worldly matters that were of so much interest to them. "But I should think you would feel ashamed to side with Agnes Brendon inpersecuting a poor little stranger, " said honest Tilly, a day or twoafter the tennis affair; for Agnes had at once set to work to carry outher plan of showing that she was not to be forced, as she expressed it, into making acquaintances she didn't like, and had thus lost noopportunity of being disagreeable. Dora flushed at Tilly's words, but she answered coolly, -- "Persecuting! I don't call it persecuting to avoid a person one doesn'twant to know. " "Yes; but how does Agnes avoid her? She stiffens herself up and curlsher lips when the girl goes by, as if there was something contaminatingabout her; and one night when we were in the music-room and Miss Smithwas playing and singing 'Mrs. Brady' for us, Agnes came in with Amy andmade a great fuss and noise, disturbing everybody in pretending to huntup one of her own music-books; and when I asked her to be quieter, shesaid something horrid about 'low common songs, ' and 'Mrs. Brady' isn'ta low common song; and the other morning, when Pete, the little dog, ranup to her on the piazza, she pushed him away from her in such adisagreeable manner--and so it has gone on every day, and I think it's ashame, and such a nice girl as Miss Smith is too. I told grandmother allabout it, --the whole story, --and she says it is Agnes who is vulgar andnot Miss Smith, and that she never would have brought me here if she hadknown that a girl who could behave like that was to be in the house; andyou can tell Miss Agnes Brendon this, if you like, and you can tell hertoo that she'll only make us stand by Miss Smith stancher than ever bypersecuting her as she does. " "I shall tell her nothing of the kind, and there's no such thing aspersecution anyway, --that's ridiculous. Agnes is very exclusive, --theBrendons all are, --and she doesn't like to make acquaintances withcommon people, that's all. " "Common people! Miss Smith isn't any more common than you or I. She's avery ladylike girl. --much more ladylike and nice, and nicer-looking too, than Agnes. " "Nicer looking with those plain frocky dresses, and her hair all pulledback without the sign of a crimp or curl!" and Dora burst into a jeeringlaugh. "Oh, she isn't all fussed up, I know, as most of us girls are; but herclothes are of the very finest materials, --I've noticed that. " "And that stuffy old aunt's clothes are of the finest material, Isuppose; and the little yellow dog's coat is as fine as a King Charlesspaniel's, " jeered Dora. "Stuffy old aunt! She isn't stuffy in the least. She's a littleold-fashioned; that's all. Grandmother has taken quite a fancy to her. " Dora smiled a very provoking smile as she said, -- "Perhaps the Pelhams, when they come, will take a fancy to her too, andto that pretty name of Peggy. " The hot color rushed to Tilly's cheeks and the tears to her eyes as sheturned away. She knew perfectly well that Dora was thinking: "Oh, yourgrandmother is only another old woman a good deal like Mrs. Smith, --whatis her judgment worth?" Dora was a little ashamed of herself as Tilly left her. Indeed, she hadbeen a little ashamed of herself for some time, --ever since, in fact, she had ranged herself on Agnes's side after the tennis affair; butonce having taken that side she was determined to stick to it, and tobelieve that it was the right side, in spite of some qualms ofconscience. Her cousin Amy followed in the same path, and Agnes spared no pains tokeep them there. She felt that she could not afford to lose her onlyallies. Every minute that had elapsed since she had flung down hertennis racket in such anger and mortification had but increased thismortification, and strengthened her resolve to show those boys and TillyMorris that she was right and they were wrong about "that girl. " Of course, when she set her face in this direction, she was on thelookout for everything unfavorable; and everything, pretty nearly, wasturned into something unfavorable, so perverted and distorted had hervision become. It was "Dora, did you notice this?" and "Amy, did you seethat?" until the two began to find the incessant harping upon onesubject rather wearisome, especially as the particular details thuspointed out had never yet developed into matters of any importance. "I wish Agnes wouldn't keep talking about that Smith girl all the time, unless there was something more worth while to talk about, " broke forthDora impatiently to Amy just after the interview with Tilly. "So do I, " Amy responded emphatically; then, laughing a little, "unlessthere was some real big thing to tell. " "But I don't wonder Agnes doesn't like the girl, with Tilly and Willtaking up for her and making such a fuss;" and Dora indignantly repeatedTilly's accusations. Amy caught at the word "persecution, " as Dora haddone, and together they defended themselves against these accusationswith a zeal and ingenuity worthy of a better cause. They were in the full tide of this talk when, as they rounded the curveof the shore where they were walking, they came upon Agnes herself, coming rapidly towards them. "Oh, girls, I've been looking for you everywhere. I've got something Iwant to show you, " she exclaimed excitedly. "Come up here and sit down;"and she led the way to a little cluster of rocks. Dora and Amy glanced at each other rather apprehensively. Was Agnesgoing to tell them something else about the Smith girl, --going to say. "Did you notice this?" or "Did you see that?" in reference to somedetail that displeased her? They had worked themselves up into quite astate of indignation against Tilly and the boys, and of increasedsympathy with Agnes; but they were so tired of hearing, "Did you noticethis?" "Did you see that?" when there had been such uninteresting littlethings to "notice, " to "see. " With these apprehensions flitting through their minds, the two girlsseated themselves to listen with very languid interest. But what wasthat Agnes was unfolding, --a newspaper? And what was it she was sayingas she pointed to a certain column? She wanted them to read that! Thecousins looked at each other in a dazed, inquiring fashion; and Agnes, starting forward, impatiently thrust the paper into Dora's hand andcried sharply, -- "Read that; read that!" Dora in a bewildered way read aloud this sentence, which in big blackletters stared her in the face, -- "Smithson, alias Smith. " "Well, go on, go on; read what is underneath, " urged Agnes, as Dorastopped; and Dora went on and read, -- "It seems that that arch schemer and swindler Frank Smithson, who gothimself out of the country so successfully with his ill-gotten gainsfrom the Star Mining Company, has dropped the last syllable from his toonotorious name, and is now figuring in South America under the name ofSmith. His wife and young son are with him, and the three are livingluxuriously in the suburbs of Rio, where Smithson has rented a villa. Anolder child, a daughter of fourteen or fifteen, was left behind in thiscountry with Smithson's brother's widow, who has also taken the name ofSmith. They are staying at a summer resort not far from Boston. " The bewildered look on Dora's face did not disappear as she came to theend of this statement. "What did you want me to read this for?" she asked Agnes. "What did I want you to read it for? Is it possible that you don'tsee, --that you don't understand?" "Understand what? We don't know these Smithsons. " "But we do know these--Smiths. " "Agnes, you don't mean--" "Yes, I do mean that I believe--that I am sure that these Smiths arethose very identical Smithsons. " "Oh, Agnes, what makes you think so? Smith is such a very common name, you know. " "Yes, I know it; but here is a girl whose name is Smith, and she is witha Mrs. Smith, her aunt, and they are staying at a summer resort nearBoston. How does that fit?" "Oh, Agnes, it does look like--as if it must be, doesn't it?" criedDora, in a sort of shuddering enjoyment of the sensational situation. "Of course it does. I knew I was right about those people. I knew therewas something queer and mysterious about them. And what do youthink, --only yesterday I happened to go into the little parlor, wherethere are writing-materials, and there sat this very Peggy Smithdirecting a letter; and when she went out, I happened to cast my eyes atthe blotting-pad she had used, and I couldn't help reading--for it wasjust as plain as print--the last part of the address, and it was--'SouthAmerica'!" CHAPTER IV. "I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" said Tilly Morris, indignantly, as Dora wound up her recital of the Smithson-Smith story. "Well, you can believe it or not; but I don't see how you can helpbelieving, when you remember that their name is Smith, and that they areaunt and niece, and that the niece is fourteen or fifteen, --just as thepaper said, --and that they are staying at a summer resort not far fromBoston, and--that the niece writes to some one in South America, --thinkof that!" Tilly thought, and, flushing scarlet as she thought, she burst out, -- "Well, I don't care, I don't care. I'm not going to talk about it, either. How many people have you--has Amy--has Agnes told?" "I haven't told anybody but you yet. I've just come from Agnes. " "Yet! Now, look here, let me tell you something, Dora. My father, youknow, is a lawyer, and I've heard him talk a great deal when we've hadcompany at dinner about queer things that people did and said, --queerthings, I mean, that got them into lawsuits. One of the things that Iparticularly remember was a case where a woman told things that she hadheard and things that she had fancied against a neighbor, and theneighbor went to law about it, prosecuted the woman for slander, andthey had a horrid time. The woman's daughters had to go into court andbe examined as witnesses. Oh, it was horrid; and the worst of it wasthat even though there was some truth in the stories, there were thingsthat were not true, --exaggerations, you know, --and so the woman wasdeclared guilty, and her husband had to pay a lot of money to keep herout of prison. There was ever so much more that I've forgotten; but Irecollect papa's turning to us children at the end, and saying, 'Now, children, remember when you are repeating things that you have heardagainst people, that the next thing you'll know you may be prosecutedfor what you've said, and have to answer for it in the law courts. '" Dora looked scared. "Well, I'm sure, " she began, "I haven't repeatedthis to anybody but you; and if Agnes--" "What's that about me?" suddenly interrupted Agnes herself, as she cameup behind the two girls. Dora began to explain, and then called uponTilly to repeat her story of the lawsuit. "Oh, fiddlesticks!" cried Agnes, angrily, after hearing this story; "youcan't frighten me that way, Tilly Morris. We can't be prosecuted fortelling facts that are already in the newspapers. " "But we can be for what isn't. It isn't in the newspapers that this Mrs. Smith and her niece are these Smithsons. " "Well, Tilly Morris, I should think it was in the newspapers about asplain as could be. What do you say to this sentence?" And Agnes pulledfrom her pocket the Smithson article she had cut out, and read aloud:"'An older child--a daughter of fourteen or fifteen--was left behind inthis country with Smithson's brother's widow, who has also taken thename of Smith. They are staying at a summer resort not far from Boston;'and what do you say to that letter addressed to some place in SouthAmerica?" "I say that--that--all this might mean somebody else, and not--notthese--our--my Smiths. What did your mother say when you told her, andshowed the paper to her?" "I didn't tell her; I didn't show her the paper. We never tell mammasuch things; she is a nervous invalid, and it would fret her to death, "Agnes responded snappishly. "Well, I don't believe it's my Smiths; I believe it's somebody else, "flashed back Tilly, with tears in her eyes and in her voice. "Oh, very well; you can stand up for your Smiths, if you like; butyou'll find they are--" "Hullo! What's the little Smith girl done now? Agnes, I should thinkyou'd get tired of rattling about the Smiths, " interposed a voice here. It was Will Wentworth's voice; he had come out on the piazza just as thegirls were passing the hall door. Agnes started back nervously at the sight of him. "I think you are veryrude to listen and spring at anybody like this, " she said. Will looked at her in astonishment. "I haven't been listening, and Ididn't spring at you, " he responded indignantly. "I simply met you as Icame out, and heard you say something about the Smiths. " "What did you hear?" asked Agnes, quickly. "I heard you say to Tilly, 'Stand up for your Smiths if you like;' and Iknew by that you'd been going for Miss Peggy, and Tilly had beendefending her. " Will's bright eyes, as he said this, suddenly observedthat there was something unusually serious in the girl's face. "What'sthe matter?" he inquired; "what's up now?" Agnes put her hand into her pocket, and Tilly drew in her breath with alittle gasp, and braced herself to come to the defence again when Agnesshould answer this question, as she fully expected her to do, byproducing the cutting from the newspaper and repeating her accusations. But when Agnes drew her hand forth, there was no slip of paper in it, and all the answer that she made to Will's question was to say in amocking tone, -- "Ask Tilly; she knows all the delightful facts now about Miss Peggy andher highly respectable family. " The decisive tone in which this was said, the significant expression ofthe speaker's face as she glanced at Tilly, and Tilly's own silence atthe moment impressed Will very strongly, as Agnes fully intended; andwhen a minute later she slipped her hand over Dora's arm, and went offwith her toward the tennis ground, and Tilly refused to tell him whatthis something that was "up" was, honest Will felt convinced that the"something" must be very queer indeed. Poor Tilly saw and understood at once the nature of the impression thatWill had received; but what could she do? It was certainly better tokeep silence than to speak and tell that dreadful, dreadful story of"Smithson, alias Smith. " Even, yes, even if it was true, --for Tilly, spite of her vehement defence, her stout declaration of disbelief at thefirst, had a shuddering fear at her heart as she thought of that lastparagraph about the girl of fourteen or fifteen, and of that letter toSouth America, --a shuddering fear that the story might be true; but eventhen she would not be one of those to point a finger at poor innocentPeggy; for, whatever her father might have done, Peggy was innocent. There was one person, however, that Tilly could speak to, could askcounsel of, and that, of course, was her grandmother. Grandmother, shewas quite sure, would agree with her that the story was not to bechattered about; and even if it were true that Mrs. Smith and Peggywere those very Smithsons, neither was to blame, but only, as she hadheard her father say once of the family of a man who had proved adefaulter, "innocent victims who were very much to be pitied. " But perhaps--perhaps grandmother would not believe that Mrs. Smith andPeggy were "those Smithsons, " and perhaps she would find some carefulway to investigate the matter and prove that they were not. With thishope springing up over her fears, Tilly flew along the corridor to hergrandmother's room. "What! what! what!" cried grandmother, as she listened to the story; "Idon't believe a word of Agnes's suspicions. There are millions of Smithsin the world. " "But did you hear what I said about that last paragraph, --the girl offourteen or fifteen, and--and the letter, --the letter to South America?"asked Tilly, tremulously. "In what paper was it that Agnes found the statement?" "It was some morning paper: I don't know which one, --I only rememberseeing the date. " Grandmother rang the bell, and sent for all the morning papers. Whenthey were brought her, she put on her spectacles and began the searchfor "Smithson, alias Smith. " One, two, three papers she searchedthrough; and at last there it was, --"Smithson, alias Smith!" Tilly watched her grandmother as she read with breathless anxiety, andher heart sank as she noticed how serious was the expression on thereader's face as she came to the last paragraph. "Oh, grandmother, " she cried, "you do believe it may be our Smiths. " "Well, yes, my dear, I believe that it may possibly be, that's all; butit may not be, just as possibly. " "Oh, grandmother, couldn't you inquire--carefully, you know. " "No, no, my dear. If it isn't our Smiths, think what an outrage anyinquiries would be; and if it is, how cruel to stir the matter up! No, we must say nothing. The girl is an innocent creature; and if thisSmithson is her father, I doubt if she has been told by anybody thefacts of the case, --probably there was some very different reason givenher for dropping that last syllable of the name. However it may be, itwould be cruel for us to show by our manner or speech any knowledge ofthe story; for either way, whether they are those Smithsons or not, Agnes has made a very unpleasant situation for them, and we must be goodto them. " "But, grandmother, when Agnes tells other people--" "She won't. Your little warning, by your description of the way she tookit, convinces me that she won't. " "But other people read the papers, and they--" "May not take any more notice than I did, if Agnes's spiteful suspicionsare held in check. " "But if poor Peggy herself--" "Peggy probably doesn't read the newspapers any more than you do. But weneedn't waste time in thinking what if this or that; the clear duty forus is to take no notice, and, as I said, be good to them. " "Oh, grandmother, you are such a dear! I knew you'd feel like this. " There was to be an early little dance that night for the young people, and Tilly put on her prettiest gown, --a white mull with rose-coloredribbons, --and went down to dinner in it, for the dance was an informalaffair that was to follow very soon after dinner on account of theyouth of most of the dancers. Her heart beat more quickly as she lookedacross at the corner table and saw Peggy and her aunt in their places, and that Peggy was also dressed for the occasion in something white, embroidered with rosebuds, and with ribbon loops of pale blue and abroad sash of the same color. "Of course, she expects to dance, " thought Tilly, "and Agnes will behorrid to her about it in some way or other; but I shall stand by Peggyanyway, whatever anybody else may do. " It was with this kind intention that Tilly hurried through her dinnerand hastened out to join Peggy and her aunt when they left thedining-room. But the kind intention was arrested for the moment byDora's voice calling out, -- "Tilly, Tilly, wait a minute. " The next thing Dora had her hand over Tilly's arm. Amy and Agnes werejust behind, and there was nothing to do but to follow the generalmovement with them to the piazza. That it was a planned movement toseparate her from Peggy, Tilly did not doubt; for once out on thepiazza, Agnes, with a whispered word to Amy, turned sharply about in theopposite direction to that where Mrs. Smith and her niece were sitting. A color like a red rose sprang to Tilly's cheeks as she glanced acrossat Peggy, and bowed to her with a swift little smile. Then, "How prettyPeggy Smith looks!" and "What a lovely gown she has on!" she said, turning a brave and half-defiant glance upon Agnes. "Yes, it is pretty. It's made of that South American embroideredmuslin, --convent work, you know, " answered Agnes, casting a fleetinglook at Tilly. "No, I didn't know, " answered Tilly, trying to seem calm andindifferent, but failing miserably. "Yes, " went on Agnes, "I know, because my cousins have had several ofthose dresses, and I'm quite familiar with them. " Peggy, sitting there in her odd pretty dress, saw with pity the distressin her friend Tilly's face. "Those girls are worrying poor Tilly, auntie, see, --and I dare say it'son my account, for I was sure when she came out that she was intendingto join us, and that they prevented her, --and, auntie, I'm going tobrave the lions in their dens, and going over to her. " "They are ill-bred girls, and they may do or say something rude, "replied auntie, regarding Peggy with a slightly anxious expression. "Oh, I don't care for that now. Tilly is such a darling in sticking tome, in spite of their disapproval, " laughing a little, "that I think Iought to stick to her;" and, nodding to her auntie, Peggy started on herfriendly errand. "What impudence! She's actually coming over to us uninvited. Well, Imust say she has nerve!" muttered Agnes, as she observed Peggy'smovements. Coming forward, Peggy nodded to the whole group of girls; but it was toTilly she addressed herself, and by Tilly's side she seated herself. Itwas in doing this that the delicate material of her dress caught in aprotruding nail in the splint piazza chair with an ominous sound. "Oh, your pretty gown! it's torn!" cried Tilly. The two sprang up to examine it, and found an ugly little rent that hadnearly pulled out one of the wrought rosebuds. "It's too bad, --too bad!" sympathized Tilly. "But it's easily mended, and it won't show, " answered Peggy, cheerfully. "It isn't easy to mend that South American stuff so that it won't show, "remarked Agnes, coolly. "I know it isn't usually, " answered Peggy, as coolly; "but auntie canmend almost anything. " "It is a perfectly beautiful dress. I wish I had one just like it, "broke forth Tilly, hurriedly, hardly knowing what she was saying in thedesire to say something kind. "You could easily send for one like it, " spoke up Agnes, "if you knewanybody out there, or what shop or convent address to send to. " "We could send for you, " said Peggy, turning to Tilly. Tilly lookedstartled. "Have you friends out there?" asked Agnes, with an impertinent stare atPeggy. "Yes, " answered Peggy, curtly, meeting Agnes's stare with a look ofsudden haughtiness. Tilly turned hot and cold, but through all her perturbation was onefeeling of satisfaction. Peggy could stand her ground, it seemed, andresent impertinence; but, "Oh, dear!" said this poor Tilly to herself, "that South American gown, I suppose, proves that she must be thatSmithson man's daughter; but grandmother was right, --she is innocent ofthe facts of the case, of that there can be no doubt, --and we must begood to her, and now is the time to begin, --this very minute, when Agnesis planning what hateful thing she can do next. " Fired by this thought, Tilly sprang to her feet, and, casting a glanceof scorn and contempt at Agnes, slipped her hand over Peggy's arm andsaid, -- "Come, Peggy, let's go over to the other end of the piazza and walk upand down; it's much pleasanter there. " Warm-hearted Tilly's intentions were excellent; but her look ofcontempt, her meaning words, instead of cowing and controlling Agnes, only roused her to deeper anger, which resulted in an action thatprobably had not been premeditated even by her jealous and bitterspirit. Tilly will never forget that action. It was just as she wasturning away with Peggy, when she saw that angry face barring her way, when she heard those ominous words, "Miss Smithson, " and then--and thenthat outstretched hand thrusting forth to Peggy that fluttering, dreadful slip of paper! CHAPTER V. But another hand than Peggy's snatched at the fluttering paper. "What isit, what does it mean?" demanded Peggy, as a gusty breeze tore the paperfrom Tilly's trembling fingers. "Yes, and what do you mean, Miss Tilly Morris, by snatching what doesn'tbelong to you?" cried Agnes, shrilly, as she started off to capture theflying paper, that, eluding her, blew hither and thither in atantalizing way, and at last, falling at the feet of Will Wentworth, waspicked up by him as he came out of the hall. "It is mine, it is mine, " shrieked Agnes; "keep it for me. " But Tilly, who was nearer to him, whispered agitatedly, -- "No, no, Will; don't give it to her, --she is--she means--" "Mischief, I see, " whispered back Will, with a swift, intelligent glanceat Tilly. "And if you wouldn't read it until--until I see you--oh, if youwouldn't!" Will looked at Tilly with wonder. This was certainly something moreserious than common. What was it, --what was the trouble? But Agnes was by this time close upon him, reaching up her hand andcrying, "Give it to me, Will, give it to me!" But Will laughingly thrust the paper into his pocket, and answered, -- "No, I'll keep it for you, and give it to you later; I don't think itwould be safe now. There's so much thunder in the air it might be struckby lightning. " "It might be snatched or stolen, I dare say, " said Agnes, with asignificant look at Tilly; "and you may keep it for me until later inthe evening, and--read it at your leisure. It's a very interestingcollection of facts. " "Tum, tum, ti tum, " suddenly struck up the band in the hall. "Eight o'clock!" cried Agnes, in astonishment. "Yes, the ball's begun, " said Will, nodding and smiling; "and if you'llexcuse me, " lifting his cap, "I'll go and get into my dancing shoes. " Agnes tried to smile in response; but a little pang of disappointmentthrilled her as he left her without asking her for a dance. But hewould later, of course, --later, when he would hand her her property, that collection of "facts, " and by that time he would have read these"facts. " She wouldn't need to risk any words of her own in accusationafter that, --which conclusion shows very plainly that Miss Agnes hadbeen sufficiently impressed with Tilly's warning to hold her peace. That she had not flaunted the newspaper cutting before the eyes ofothers in the house also shows that the accident of the moment and herhot anger had, in the one instance only, overcome her caution. But Tilly did not know all this, and her anxiety increased after she hadheard those words to Will, "Read it at your leisure. " Peggy, too, had heard those words, though it was quite clear she had notheard that other word, --that dreadful name of Smithson; for, "What is itall about, that bit of paper?" she asked Tilly innocently, as Agnes andWill disappeared in the hallway; and Tilly said to her imploringly, -- "Don't ask me now, Peggy, --don't, that's a dear; I can't stand any morenow. " And then and there Peggy answered, "I won't, I won't, you dear Tilly; Iwon't say another thing about it, and we won't think about it--" Andthen and there "Tum, tum, ti tum" burst forth the band in Strauss's"Morgen Blaetter" waltzes. "Oh, how I love the 'Morgen Blaetter!'" cried Peggy. "Come, let us getinto the dancing-hall as soon as possible. Where's auntie? Oh, there sheis, talking with your pretty grandmother. " The next minute auntie and grandmother were sitting side by side in thedancing-hall, watching the two girls as they kept step to that perfectwaltz music. "Isn't it just lovely!" sighed Peggy. "Lovely!" echoed Tilly. "And how we suit each other! our steps are just alike. " "Just alike, " echoed Tilly; whereat they both laughed, and a littlesilence between them followed, and then-- "There's Agnes dancing with Tom Raymond, " suddenly exclaimed Tilly. "Iwonder--" "Don't wonder or worry about Agnes now, when we are tuned to the 'MorgenBlaetter' music, " said Peggy. "'Music has charms to soothe the savagebreast, ' somebody has written, you know; and--and, " with a soft littlelaugh, "it may soothe the breast of this savage Agnes. " Tilly echoed the soft little laugh, but she could not dismiss Agnes fromher mind. She could not cease to wonder what it was she was talkingabout so earnestly with Tom Raymond, --to wonder if she had told, or wastelling him at that very moment, of "Smithson, alias Smith. " And while poor Tilly wondered and worried, there was Peggy, theunconscious centre of all the wonder and worry, lifting up a radiantface of enjoyment as she floated along to the music of the "MorgenBlaetter. " Tom Raymond, catching sight of this radiant face, said tohimself, -- "I wonder if she's engaged for the next dance. I'll ask her the minutethis is over. " The two girls were standing near their two chaperones when Tom came up, and with an odd sort of shyness, asked, -- "Are you engaged for the next dance, Miss--Miss Smith?" Tilly's heart gave a jump as she noted Tom's sudden confusion andhesitation at this "Miss Smith, " for it brought back to her his strangeexpression at the first sight of Peggy, and his question, "Is that thegirl--the Miss Smith you were talking about?" and then his odd, chuckling laugh. Peggy, too, had regarded Tom at that moment with a puzzled observation, as if she wondered if she had seen him before; and now, as Tom hesitatedand bungled at the "Miss Smith, " Peggy's own manner showed signs ofconsciousness, if not of embarrassment. Oh, oh! what could it all meanbut that he had known everything from the first? "And I fancied at thefirst he acted as he did because he thought she wasn't quite fineenough; and all the time he knew she was this Miss Smithson, and waskeeping it to himself, and, knowing that, he's going to ask her to dancewith him now! Oh, what a good fellow he is, and what injustice I've donehim!" concluded Tilly. "If only Will now, when he finds out--" It was just then that a voice called softly from the open window behindher, "Miss Tilly, Miss Tilly!" and there was Will beckoning to her. "What shall I do with that paper?" he whispered, as Tilly turned. "Iexpect Agnes to be after me for it as quick as she catches sight of meagain. " The window was a long French window, and Tilly stepped out and joinedhim upon the piazza. "Come around here where nobody can see or overhearus, " she said. He followed her down the steps to a sheltered rusticseat. "You haven't read it?" she asked. "Read it? No!" Will answered a little huffily. "You asked me not tountil I had seen you. " Tilly colored, and then, "You are a gentleman!" she burst outvehemently. "Well, I hope so, " Will answered. "And so is Tom Raymond. I had done him such an injustice; but he'sturned out so different from what I supposed he was. Oh, he's justsplendid! and if you--" But here--I'm half ashamed to record it of myplucky little Tilly--here, suddenly overcome by all the excitement shehad been through, Tilly broke down and began to cry. "Oh, don't! I wish you wouldn't, now! Oh, I say!" cried Will, in boyishembarrassment. Poor Tilly checked her sobs by a vigorous effort; but tears continued toflow, and she fumbled vainly for her handkerchief to dry them. "Here, here, take mine, " said Will, hastily thrusting the cambric intoher hand; "and don't you bother another bit about Agnes and hertantrums. I'll burn her old paper if you say so, and I won't read it atall. " "Oh, yes, yes, you'll have to read it now. She'll ask you, --she'll tellyou. Yes, read it, read it, Will. I know you'll pity Peggy, asgrandmother and I do. " Thus adjured, Will drew the bit of paper from his pocket. Tilly forgot her tears as she watched Will's face. He read it twice. Atfirst there was an entire lack of comprehension; at the second reading alook of shocked understanding, and, bringing his fist down upon hisknee, he exclaimed, -- "And Agnes was going to fling this bombshell straight at that poorthing!" Then Tilly knew that Will was on the right side; that he pitied Peggy, and that he would agree with all that grandmother had said about her andher innocence and ignorance of real facts. This estimate of MasterWill's sympathy was not a mistaken one. He not only agreed withgrandmother about Peggy's innocence and ignorance, but in grandmother'skind conclusion "that they must be good to her. " "But what did you mean about Tom? What has he done to make you think somuch better of him?" Will asked curiously. While Tilly was enlightening him upon this point, Tom's voice was heardsaying, "Oh, here they are, " and Tom himself came round the clump ofsheltering bushes accompanied by Peggy. And "We've been looking for youeverywhere, " said Peggy. "We've just had another of the Strauss waltzes, and the next thing is the 'Lancers;' and we want you and Tilly--" "Will Wentworth, I want my property, if you please; that paper I gaveyou to keep for me, " a very different voice--a high, sharp voice thatthe whole four recognized at once--interrupted here. Tilly started, and turned pale. "Don't be frightened, Tilly, she sha'n't have it, " whispered Will. Agnes flushed resentfully as she came forward and saw the confidentialfriendliness of the little group. For "that girl" she had been neglectedand disregarded like this! Not a moment longer would she bear suchinsults. It was all nonsense, --all that stuff about being prosecutedfor showing up facts. She would be stopped by that foolishness nolonger. She would first take her stand boldly, and let everybody knowwhat a fraud this Miss Smith was. These were some of the wild thoughtsthat leaped up out of the bitter fountain in Agnes's distorted mind atthat instant, and her voice was sharper than ever as she again said, -- "I want my property, --the paper I gave you to keep for me. " Will had risen to his feet, and answered very coolly, "I can't give itto you. " "What do you mean? Have you lost it?" "No, but I can't give it to you. " "Have you read it?" "Yes, and that's the reason I don't give it to you. I know if I shouldyou would--" "Probably give it to Miss Smithson, " cried Agnes, shrilly. "MissSmithson, " going toward Peggy, "I--" "Oh, Peggy, Peggy, come with me. We're all your friends, --grandmotherand I and Will and Tom; and we know how sweet and innocent you are. Oh, Peggy, come, come, and don't listen to her!" burst forth Tilly, in anagony of pity and horror, as she put an arm around Peggy to draw heraway. But Peggy was not to be drawn away. "What in the world is the matter? What is it all about? What do youmean, Tilly, dear, by 'innocent'? What has she, " glancing at Agnesdisdainfully "been getting up against me?" "Oh, Peggy, Peggy, don't!" moaned Tilly. "Well, this is rich, " laughed Agnes, jeeringly. "Nobody has been gettingup anything against you, Miss Smithson. " "What do you mean by calling me Miss Smithson? That isn't my name. " "Oh, isn't it?" derisively. "How long since did you change it forSmith?" "I have never changed it for Smith. " "Oh, I believe that 'Miss Smith' is down on the hotel register, and youanswer to that name. " CHAPTER VI. "I beg your pardon, " said Peggy, looking at Agnes with great scorn. "'Mrs. Smith and niece' are down on the register. It was the clerk whoregistered us in that way, and all of you seemed to take it for grantedthat _my_ name must be Smith also. Perhaps I ought to have corrected themistake at once; but after I overheard that conversation on the piazza, and--saw somebody examining the register a few minutes later" glancingaway from Agnes with a smile at Will, who looked rather sheepish--"afterthat I thought I'd let the mistake go until the rest of the familyarrived, it was so amusing. " "Oh, " retorted Agnes, "this all sounds very straight and pretty, but Idare say you've got used to telling such stories. Perhaps you'll tell usnow what name you do call your own, and if it is by that those SouthAmerican friends you write to are known. " "Perhaps Mr. Tom Raymond will tell you, " answered Peggy, quickly. "I'vethought for some time that he might be one of the Tennis Club that cameout to Fairview at my brother's invitation last summer, and I thought hesuspected who I was, and--and wouldn't tell because--because he saw, just as I did, what fun the mistake was. But now, if he will, he canintroduce me--to my friends, Tilly and Will Wentworth, as--" [Illustration: "Miss Pelham! Miss Margaret Pelham!"] "Miss Pelham! Miss Margaret Pelham!" shouted Tom, before Peggy could goany further. "Pelham!" cried Tilly, in a dazed way. "Pelham!" repeated Will. "Yes, Pelham! Pelham!" exclaimed Tom, exultantly, flinging up his capwith a chuckle of delighted laughter. "And you're not--you're not the daughter of that dreadful Smithson?"burst forth Tilly, in a little transport of happy relief. "'That dreadful Smithson'? Who is he, and who said I was his daughter?" "_She_ said it, " roared Will, darting a furious look at Agnes; "and shecooked it all up out of this, " suddenly pulling the paper from hispocket. "Give it to me!" cried Agnes, breathlessly, springing forward to snatchthe paper from his hand. "No, no, you wanted me to give it to Miss Smith a minute ago, and nowI'll give it to--Miss Pelham, and let her see what you've wanted tocirculate about the house, " answered Will. "I--I--if I happened to notice it before the rest of you--and--andthought that it might be this Miss Smith--" "That it _must_ be! you insisted, " broke in Will. "With all that about the change of name, and the age of the girl, and--and--the 'South America' I saw on the blotting-pad, and the SouthAmerican dress, " went on Agnes, incoherently, --"if I happened to bebefore you, you thought afterward, I know you did, that it might be;and--" "With a difference, with a difference!" suddenly rang out Peggy Pelham'sclear young voice in tones of indignation. She had read the newspaperslip; and there she stood, scorn and indignation in her face as well asin her voice. "Yes, with a difference, " she went on vehemently. "If theythought it might be, after you had paraded the thing before them, you, "with a renewed look of scorn, "thought it _must_ be, because you wantedit to be, because you had got to hating me. Oh, I can see it allnow, --everything, everything; how you patched things together, even tothat blotting-pad which I had used after directing my letter to myuncle, Berkeley Pelham, who lives in Brazil. Oh, to think of such pryingand peering, " with a shudder, "and to think of such enmity, anyway, allfor nothing! I've heard of such enmity, but I never believed in it, forI never met it before. And all this time there was Tilly Morris, --oh, Tilly, " whirling rapidly about, "what a dear, brave, generous, faithfullittle thing you've been, " the ringing voice faltering, "for in spiteof--even this--this dreadful Smithson, you stuck to me and tried toshield me. " "Oh, I knew, and so did grandmother, that you were innocent, whatevermight just possibly have happened to--to--" "Mr. Smithson--" And Peggy began to laugh. But the laugh ended insomething like a sob, and she hurriedly hid her face on Tilly'sshoulder. When an instant after she looked up, it was to see that Agneshad disappeared. "Yes, the enemy has fled, " said Tom Raymond. "The minute you droppedyour eyes she was off. We might have stopped her, Will and I, but therewasn't much left of her. Oh, oh, oh! isn't she finished off beautifully, though?" and Tom gave way at last to the hilarity he had so longmanfully repressed. "Finished off! I should say so!" cried Will, joining in Tom's laughter. "And to think that you were a Pelham, --one of Agnes's wonderful Pelhamsall the time, " put in Tilly, still with an air of bewilderment. "And am now, " laughed Peggy. "Oh, Tilly, you are such a dear!" "One of Agnes's wonderful Pelhams!" shouted Tom. "Guess she won't be ina hurry to set up a claim to 'em now!" and Tom burst out again in wildchuckles of hilarity. "And I never saw her, and I don't believe she ever met one of usbefore, " cried Peggy. "She told Amy that she didn't know the Pelhams yet, but that her AuntAnn did, and her aunt was coming next month and would introduce her tothem when they arrived, " said Tilly, with a demure smile. "Well, she'll probably like my sister Isabel's Skye terrier, with itsfine name of Prince, much better than she does my poor little plebeiandoggie, with its vulgar name of Pete, " remarked Peggy, her eyestwinkling with fun. "Oh, Peggy, to think of your hearing all that talk about the dog andeverything. " "And everything? I should say so!" cried Will, starting up and lookingrather red as he recalled his own words. "Yes, and everything, --all about the dogs and the difference between theWentworths and the Pelhams, " took up Peggy, dimpling with smiles. "Oh, I say now, " began Will. "Yes, you may say now just what you did then. I liked it, --I liked it. It was sensible and plucky of you, and it was such fun. Oh, when I thinkthat but for auntie and me coming on ahead of the rest, and without amaid, and the hotel clerk writing only 'Mrs. Smith and niece' in theregister, I should never have had all these wonderful experiences, andnever have known what a friend my Tilly could be, --when I think of allthis, I want to dance a jig, just such a jig as they are playing thisminute;" and up she jumped, this smiling Peggy, and, catching Tilly inher arms, went waltzing down the path with her toward the hall fromwhence floated the gay strains of the "Lancers. " But what was that sound, --that long-drawn, jubilant sound that suddenlyrang over and above the dance music? "Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra-a-a-a, " rang the clear, piercing notes; and outfrom halls and offices and parlors came a little flock of folk to seethat most interesting of arrivals at a summer resort, --a coaching-party. "Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra-a-a-a, " wound the coach horn; and up the carriagedrive rattled a superb vehicle, drawn by four superb gray horses. Thelong summer daylight yet lingered, and showed the faces of the partyatop of the coach. "It's the Pelham team, and that's young Berk Pelham holding the reins, "said a bystander. Dora and Amy Robson, who had run out with the others from thedancing-hall, caught Tom Raymond as he was passing them; and Dorawhispered, -- "Are they the Pelhams, --Agnes's Pelhams?" "'Agnes's Pelhams'? Oh, oh!" gurgled Tom, nearly choking with suppressedlaughter. Then, "Yes, yes, Agnes's Pelhams; but where is Agnes? Sheought to be here to welcome her Pelhams. " "She's gone to bed with a headache or something. She came in lookingdreadfully a few minutes ago. " "I should think she might; she had had a blow. " "What do you mean? But, look, look! those Pelhams are speaking to thatSmith girl. " "No, they're not. " "But they are, Tom; don't you see?" "No, I don't see any of them speaking to a Smith girl, but I do see MissPelham speaking to--Miss Peggy Pelham. " Dora tossed her head impatiently. "What a silly joke!" she thought;but--but--what was it that that tall young lady who had just jumped downfrom her top seat on the coach was saying? "The minute I read your letter, Peggy, telling me of this little dance, Berk and I planned to drive over with the Apsleys and waltz a littlewaltz with you. Twenty miles in an hour and a half. Isn't that finetime? And you are looking so much better, Peggy, for the salt air, andaway from all our racket. Mamma was wise when she sent you on ahead withauntie, but we're all coming to join you next week. " "Tom, Tom, you were not joking?" gasped Dora. "When I said that girl was Peggy Pelham? Joking? No, it's a solidfact, --so solid it's knocked Agnes flat. Oh!" and Tom began to shakeagain; "it's too rich, it's too rich. Come over here away from thecrowd, you and Amy, and let me tell you the whole story, and then you'llsee what a blow Agnes has had. " Never had a narrator a more excitingly interesting story to tell, andnever did narrator enjoy the telling more than Tom on this occasion; butthough his hearers hung upon his words, these words were full ofbitterness to them; and when at the close he flung his head back andsaid, "Isn't it the greatest fun?" Dora, out of her shame andmortification, cried, -- "Yes, fun to you, --to you and Will and Tilly, because you are on theright side of the fun; but I--we--are disgraced of course with Agnes. Oh, we've been just horrid--horrid, and such fools!" "Well, I--I sort of forgot about you, that's a fact, in Agnes, --for it'sher circus from the start; you and Amy, " giving his little chucklinglaugh, "are only humble followers, pressed into service, you know, bythe ringmaster. The thing of it was, you hadn't sand enough to stand upagainst Agnes. " "And Tilly had, " responded Dora, in a mortified tone. "Oh, Tilly! Tilly's a trump, always and every time. She's on the rightside of things naturally. " If Dora and Amy needed a still lower abyss of humiliation, they found itin this last sentence of Tom's, which showed them plainly what poorcreatures he thought they were "naturally" to Tilly. Before many hours the story of "that little Smith girl" was knownthroughout the house, and mothers and fathers and guardians heard withamazement that so serious a little drama had been going on without theirslightest knowledge until this climax. One mother, however, Mrs. Robson, was more than amazed when she found what an influence Agnes had exertedover her daughter and niece. "Don't offer as excuse that you didn't dare to tell me how things weregoing on for fear of offending Agnes Brendon, " she said indignantly. "Didn't Tilly Morris dare to tell her grandmother?" Everywhere it was Tilly Morris, --Tilly Morris, the kind, the brave, thehonest! Even Mrs. Brendon, who came at last to know the fact, in heralarm and irritation assailed her daughter one day in the presence ofthe Robsons with these words, -- "Why couldn't you have behaved amiably and sensibly, like the littleMorris girl? I don't see where you learned such suspicious, calculating, worldly ways of judging people and things?" And then it was that Agnes turned upon her mother and gave utterance tothese bitter, brutal truths, -- "I've learned them from the older people I've seen all my life, --thepeople who come to our house. They judge other people that they don'tknow anything about in just such calculating ways. They are alwaystalking with you about this one or that one's social position, and theynever make new acquaintances without finding out what set they belongto; and I was never allowed from a little girl to make acquaintanceswith any children whose mothers were not in the right set; andamiability and goodness had nothing to do with it, --nothing, nothing, nothing!" THE EGG-BOY. "Marge, Marge, here is the egg-boy!" Marge dropped her book and ran to join her sister Elsie, who by thistime was on the back piazza talking to a boy who had just driven up in afarm-wagon. "We want two dozen more, --all nice big ones, and by to-morrow, for it isonly three days before Easter, and they must be boiled and colored to beready in season. " The boy stared. "Colored?" he repeated in a puzzled, questioning tone. "Yes, " answered Elsie, "colored. Don't you color eggs for Easter?" "No. " "How queer! But you know about them, of course?" "No, I don't. " "Not know about Easter eggs? Where in the world have you lived not toknow about Easter? I thought everybody--" "I do know about Easter, " interrupted the boy, sharply. "All I said wasthat I didn't know about your colored eggs. " "Oh, well, I guess it is Episcopalians mostly who keep that old customgoing in this part of the country, and I suppose your people are notEpiscopalians, are they?" "No. " "Well, _we_ are, and we've lived in Washington, too, where everybody hascolored eggs, and all the boys and girls there used to go to theegg-rolling party the Monday morning after Easter; and a good many ofthem go now. " "Egg-rolling party?" cried the boy, with such wide-open eyes ofastonishment that Elsie and Marge both burst out laughing, whereat theboy flushed up angrily, and seizing the reins was starting off, when thecook called to him to wait until she had the butter-box ready for him totake back. "Oh!" whispered Marge, "we've hurt his feelings, Elsie; it is too bad. "Then she ran forward, and said gently: "'Tisn't anything at all strangethat you didn't know about the rolling. Elsie and I didn't until we wentto Washington to live, and saw the game ourselves, and had it explainedto us; and I'll explain it to you. We had a lot of eggs boiled hard, anddyed all sorts of pretty flower colors and patterns; and these we tookto the top of a little hill near the White House, and each one, or eachparty, started two or three or more eggs of different colors, and madeguesses as to which color would beat. After the game was over, weexchanged the eggs we had, and gave away a good many to the poorchildren. Oh, it was great fun. " The boy laughed. "Fun! I should call it baby play!" he said derisively. "Well, _you_ can call it baby play if you like, " returned Marge, withgreat dignity; "but the 'baby play' has come down through a good manyyears. It is an old Easter custom that was brought over from England byone of the early settlers at Washington. " "I--I didn't mean--I'm sorry--" began Royal, stammeringly; when-- "Royal! Royal Purcel!" called out a voice; and a little fellow scarcelymore than six or seven years old came running up the driveway, and madea flying leap into the wagon. "Do you belong to a circus?" cried Elsie. "No; wish I did. I belong to Royal. " "Who is Royal?" "Who is Royal?" repeated the child, making a cunning, impudent face ather. "He means me. My name is Royal, --Royal Purcel; and he, " nodding towardsthe child, "is my brother. " "Royal Purcel! _What_ a funny name! It sounds--" "Don't, Elsie, " remonstrated Marge. "It sounds just like Royal Purple, " giggled Elsie, regardless of hersister's remonstrance. Rhoda Davis, the cook, coming out just then with the butter-box, Royalthrust it hastily into the back of the wagon, and without another wordor glance at the sisters, drove off at a headlong pace. "Well, I never saw such a tempery boy as that in my life, " said Elsie. "A boy that can't take a joke I don't think is much of a boy. " "Them Purcels allers was pretty peppery, and I guess they're more'never so now, " said Rhoda. "Why?" asked Marge. "Why? Because they used to be the richest farmers about here. They ownedpretty nigh all Lime Ridge once. Now they hain't got nothin' but thatlittle Ridge farm. It's a stony little place, and how they manage to geta livin' off of it beats me. " "How'd they happen to lose so much?" "Oh, the boy's father took to spekerlatin', and then some banks they hadmoney in bust up. " "Well, he needn't fly up at everything because he isn't rich, " saidElsie. "That's regular cry-baby fashion. He's a royal purple cry-baby, that's what he is, and I mean to call him that, see if I don't;" andElsie laughed in high glee as this mischievous idea struck her. Andwhile she and her sister were discussing Royal and his temper, Royal wasdiscussing that very temper with himself. "To think of my being such a fool as to show mad before those girls. I'ma regular sissy, " was his final conclusion as he drove down the road. The next morning, bright and early, he was up at the Lloyds' with twodozen fine big eggs. "As handsome a lot of eggs as I ever see, "commented Rhoda, as she took them in. "Are they going to color them all?" asked Royal. "I s'pose so. Here are some of their old ones. They've been b'iled ashard as stones. They'll keep forever;" and Rhoda handed out of the openwindow a little basket of colored eggs. "But some of these are painted, " said the boy, taking up an egg with apattern of flowers on it. "No, they ain't; they're jest colored in a dye-pot. Them that looks asif they was painted were tied up in a bit of figgered calico and b'iled, and when they come out of the b'iling they took the calico off, andthere was the figgers set on the eggs. See?" "Yes, I see;" and Royal turned the egg round thoughtfully for a moment, then suddenly put it down, and started off towards his wagon on a run. "Land sakes!" called out Rhoda; "what's come to you all at once to setoff like that?" "Muskrats!" shouted Royal, with a laugh as he jumped into the wagon. "Ben a-settin' traps for 'em, eh?" Royal nodded as he went rattling down the driveway. "Did Royal Purple bring the eggs?" asked Elsie Lloyd, a little later. "His name ain't Purple; it's Purcel, " corrected Rhoda, innocently. Elsie giggled. "Well, did Royal _Purcel_ bring the eggs?" she asked. "Yes, there they be. " "Oh, oh! aren't they beauties?" "They be; that's a fact, " agreed Rhoda. "Royal, he's done his best forye now, anyway. He's kind o' quick, like all the Purcels, but he's realaccommodatin'. " "So he is, Rhoda, and I'll give him one of the prettiest eggs we turnout for being so 'accommodatin';' and we are going to have some extrapretty ones this time. See this now, and this, and this!" and Elsiewhipped out of her pocket several bits of bright calico. One was apattern of tiny rosebuds; another a little lily on a blue ground. "The lily ones will be just lovely if they turn out well, and they willbe the real Easter egg with that lily pattern, " said Marge, enthusiastically. By Saturday afternoon a goodly array of eggs of all colors and patternswere "ready for company, " as Elsie and Marge expressed it; for onSaturday night a party of their friends were coming to them for a threedays' visit. It was about an hour after these friends had arrived, andthey were all hanging admiringly over the pretty display of eggs, that abox was brought in by one of the servants. It was neatly tied, anddirected in a bold round handwriting to "Miss Elsie and Miss MargeLloyd. " "What _can_ it be?" said Marge, wonderingly. "We'll open it and see, " cried Elsie. And suiting her action to herword, she cut the string and lifted the cover; and there she saw sixeggs undyed, but each painted delicately with a different design. On onewas a cross with a tiny vine running from the base; on another a bunchof lilies of the valley; and another showed a little bough of appleblossoms. On the remaining three the subjects were strangely unusual, --apalm and tent, with a patch of sky; a bird with outstretched wings, soaring upward with open beak, as if singing in its flight; a cherubhead with a soft halo about it. "Oh! oh! oh!" exclaimed the girls, in a chorus; and, "Who _could_ havepainted them?" wondered Marge; and, "Who _could_ have sent them?" criedElsie. In vain they hunted for card or sign of the donor. They could findnothing to give them the slightest clew. "Perhaps, papa, it is Mr. Archer, " said Marge at last, turning to herfather. Mr. Archer was an artist friend. "Oh, no, this isn't Archer's work; it's a novice's work, though verypromising, " her father replied. "Cousin Tom's, then?" "And too strong for Tom. " "Then it must be Jimmy Barrows. " "Well, it may be Jimmy. We shall know when he comes with Tom on Monday. It's bold enough for Jimmy, but I didn't think he had so much fancy. " And finally it was settled that it could be no other than Jimmy Barrows. Jimmy was a great friend of their cousin Tom; but while Tom was only anamateur artist, Jimmy was studying to be a professional one. "It's such fun to have Jimmy do these, and send them without a word, "said Elsie to her sister. "Such a generous thing to do, too! I wonder if he would like some of_our_ eggs as specimens? We might give him one of each kind. " "Oh, Marge, don't think of offering him those calico-coloredthings, --anybody who can paint like this!" "Very well; but, Elsie, which one are you going to give to RoyalPurcel?" "To Royal Purcel?" "Yes; don't you remember you told Rhoda you were going to give him onefor being so accommodating?" "Oh, I'd forgotten. Well, here, I'll give him this, --it's the verything;" and Elsie snatched up a bright purple one. "Oh, Elsie, don't!" But Elsie fairly danced with glee as she cried, "I will, I will; it'sthe very thing, --royal purple to Royal Purple!" The young visitors, when all this was explained to them, joined in themerriment; but Marge--kind, tender little Marge--hid away one of theblue and white lily eggs, to get the advantage of Elsie's mischief bybestowing _that_ upon Royal. But Royal was quite out of Elsie's thoughts by Monday morning. It was abeautiful morning; and by nine o'clock, when Tom and Jimmy Barrowsarrived, the lawn and sloping knoll at the east of it were bright anddry with sunshine. On the piazza the various baskets of eggs werestanding; only "Jimmy Barrows's gift" had been set aside as "too good touse. " "My! haven't you got a lot, though?" cried Tom, as he surveyed them. "But what are these in the box here?" "Yes, what are they?" sparkled Elsie. "Ask Jimmy Barrows. " Jimmy, with a wondering expression on his face at this remark, came overand looked down at the treasured eggs. "Who did these?" he askedquickly. "'Who did these?'" mimicked Elsie. "Oh, you needn't try that. We foundyou out at once, or _I_ did. " "You think I painted 'em--I sent 'em?" queried Jimmy. "Of course I do. Now, Master Jimmy--" "Miss Elsie, just as true as I'm standing here, I never saw thembefore. " Elsie shook her head at him, but Jimmy did not see her. He was liftingthe eggs and examining them. "No, honest, I didn't paint 'em, Miss Elsie. I wish I had; but I can'tdo things like that--yet. I can draw as well, am a better draughtsman, maybe, but I haven't got the ideas. The fellow who did these has got alot of original ideas. " Mr. Lloyd came forward here with great interest. "Did any of you, "turning to Elsie and Marge, "ask who brought the box?" "Yes, " answered Elsie. "I asked Ann, and she said 'a bit of a boybrought 'em;' she didn't know who he was. " "Ask Rhoda to come here. She knows the neighborhood. " Rhoda came, and Mr. Lloyd put the matter before her. Had she any ideawho the "bit of a boy" was? "I didn't see him, but it might be Bert Purcel, " answered Rhoda. "Folksget him to do errands sometimes. He's just drove up with his brother tobring the chickens. I'll send him 'round, and you can ask him. " "Did you leave a box here Saturday night?" Mr. Lloyd inquiredpleasantly, when the boy stood before him. The red lips began to frame a "No, " then closed tightly together, whilethe slim little figure whirled about and made an attempt to leap overthe piazza railing, --an attempt that would have been successful if onefoot had not caught in a stout vine. Royal, waiting in the wagon at the back porch, heard a sudden cry, andhurried to see what had happened. He found Bert scrambling to his feet, brisk and angry. The child made a dash towards his brother, and seizedhis hand. "What's the matter?" asked Royal. No answer, but a renewed tug at hishand to draw him away. "The little fellow tried to jump the piazza railing and fell, " explainedMr. Lloyd, laughingly. "Papa just asked him a question, --if he brought us a box Saturday night;and as he didn't want to answer, he ran, " spoke up Elsie. "I didn't, I jumped!" cried the child. Everybody laughed. "Can't _you_ tell us?" asked Marge, looking at Royal. "_Did_ yourbrother bring it?" "Yes, " answered Royal, flushing up. "And who sent it?" asked Elsie, impatiently. She waited a moment for ananswer. As none came, she asked still more impatiently, "Do you _know_the person who sent it?" "Yes, " in a hesitating voice. "Did the person tell you not to tell?" "No, " in the same hesitating voice. "Then why in the world _don't_ you tell? You've no right to keep it backlike this. It is our affair, not yours, and so it is our right to knowwho it is. Don't you understand that we don't want people to send usthings--presents--and not know anything about who it is?" Royal looked startled, and the flush on his face deepened. Elsie thoughtshe had conquered him, and chirped out an encouraging, "Come, now, whowas it?" But to her surprise the boy flung up his head with an angrymovement, and with a defiant glance at her said stubbornly, -- "I've a perfect right _not_ to answer your question, and I sha'n't!" "Well, of all the brazen--" "Elsie!" warned her father, "don't say anything more. " "You'll let me say one thing more, papa. Rhoda told us that this boy wasvery accommodating, and he brought me such nice big eggs, I thought hewas, and meant to give him something to show my appreciation, and I'dlike to give it to him now. Here, " taking something from her pocket, "give this to your brother, " she said to little Bert, who stood eyingher curiously. The child's hand opened involuntarily. Into it dropped a_royal purple_ egg. Royal saw and understood. "Give it back to her!" he cried. Bert, feeling the passion in his brother's voice, drew off, and _flung_the egg with all his might at Elsie. Luckily for her, it missed its aimand whizzed past, striking some article with a breaking crash beyondher. "Oh! oh! oh! it's fallen on the painted eggs!" cried Marge, "and, "running forward, "it has spoiled the lovely cherub head; see, the shellis all cracked to pieces!" "You horrid, wicked boys!" cried Elsie, in the next breath. But Royal heard nothing of these comments. The moment he saw that Bert'srecklessness had injured no one, he had turned away with him, and wasnow driving out of the yard, scolding the youngster roundly for hisaction, and not a little subdued himself at what might have been theresult of it. "Papa, I think they ought to be punished, and the big boy made totell, " exclaimed Elsie, when she found the two were out of her reach. "What did you say was the name of the boys?" asked Jimmy Barrows, whohad taken up the cross and vine egg, and was peering at it very closely. "Purcel. " "Well, just look at this;" and with the tip-end of a tiny knife-bladeJimmy pointed out something in the delicate vined tendrils that hadhitherto escaped notice. It was the name "R. Purcel, " cunningly inwoundin the tendrils. Every one crowded up to inspect this discovery. "It must be some relation of the boy's, and that is why he felt he had aright to keep it secret, " said Mr. Lloyd. "But it was Royal's present, whatever relation he got to paint the eggsfor him, for it was only Royal who knew about _our_ eggs; and this isthe way we've paid him!" cried Marge, with a glance of indignantreproach at Elsie. "I don't think he got anybody to do it for him; I--I think he did ithimself, " spoke up Jimmy. "Royal Purcel! that--that farm-boy?" shrieked Elsie. "Yes, " answered Jimmy. "I thought so all the time, when you--when hewas standing under--under your questioning fire. " And Jimmy laughed. "But how did he learn?" cried Elsie, in astonishment. "I don't think the boy has had much instruction, " said Jimmy. "I thinkhe has great natural talent, and has had very little opportunity tostudy. " Jimmy was now peering at the palm and tent egg, and, "See, here's the name again, in this thready grass, " he said, "and he hasprobably marked all the eggs in this cunning way. " Jimmy was right. On the bird's wing, amid the lily leaves, and on theapple bough, they also found "R. Purcel" hidden deftly from casualobservation. Elsie was silent as, one after another, these discoveries were made. Finally she could contain herself no longer, and burst out, -- "To think of his painting all these beautiful things and giving them tous, --to me, when I've been such a horrid little cat to him! Oh, papa, Imust do something, --I just must!" "Well, I should think it would become you to say you are sorry and tothank him, " said Mr. Lloyd, smiling. "But, papa, I want to take the pony-carriage and go after him, and askhim to come back to the egg-rolling; and if Jimmy Barrows will go withme--" "I'd be delighted, Miss Elsie. " "He'd make it easier, --he'd know what to say, and Royal would know whatto say to him. The others will excuse us; we won't be long. Oh, mayI--may we, papa?" "Well, as you seem to have settled everything, I don't see but I must--" But Elsie did not wait to hear more. She knew she had not only herfather's consent, but his approval, and was off like a flash to orderthe carriage. If the Lloyds had been better acquainted in Lime Ridge, Royal's workwould not have been such a great surprise to them. A good many of theLime Ridge people could have told them of the boy's talent, and how ithad been discouraged by his family. There was no money now to supportand educate him in that direction, and it had been arranged with an oldfriend who was in the wool business that the boy should go into hisemploy as soon as he had graduated from the Lime Ridge High School. Thiswas considered a very lucky prospect for him, but Royal hated it. Froma little fellow he had shown a great love for pictures, and had coveredevery scrap of paper he could find with crude drawings. When he was eight years old, a visitor had given him a box of paints andbrushes. Two years later he had become acquainted with an artist who wasstaying a few weeks at Lime Ridge, and went with him on hissketching-tramps. With him he learned something about an artist'smethods, and received from him as a parting gift, various artist'smaterials that he had made industrious use of. The whim of painting the eggs and sending them to the sisters had cometo him as a sort of apology to them for his exhibition of temper, and hehad no idea that his name, so palpable to his artist eye, would escapetheir observation as it did. He expected his gift and its motives to berecognized at once. Instead, he was questioned as if he were nothing butan ignorant errand-boy; and, bitterest of all, even when he hadconfessed to a knowledge of the giver, the possibility of his being thepainter himself was not for a moment suspected. But while he stoodleaning over the farm-gate thinking these bitter thoughts, a stoutlittle pony was bringing him what he little dreamed of. "Catch me evergoing amongst 'em again, --an overbearing lot of city folks, " he wassaying to himself, when, patter, patter, patter, round the turn of theroad came the stout little pony, and before the boy could make amovement to get away, Elsie Lloyd had jumped from the wagon, and stoodin front of him. "I've come to ask you to go back with us, and forgive me for being sucha horrid little cat to you. I didn't understand. I thought--" and thenin a perfect jumble of words Elsie went on, and poured forth hercontrition and explanation, at the same time introducing Jimmy Barrows, who knew just what to say, and said it with such effect that Royal'sspirits went up with a bound, and almost before he knew to what he hadconsented, he was sitting on the little back seat of the phaeton, talking with these "city folks" as if they were his best friends, asthey turned out to be. All this happened four or five years ago, and to-day where do yousuppose Royal Purcel is, and what do you suppose he is doing? In Mr. Carr's mills, learning to pick and buy wool? Not he. He is in Paris with Jimmy Barrows, studying hard, and supportinghimself by making business illustrations for various newspapers. It ishumble work, but it serves for his support while he is preparing forhigher things; and the "higher things" are not far off, for two or threeof his sketches in oils have attracted the attention of the critics, andhe has furnished a set of drawings for a child's book that has been wellpaid for and well spoken of. And Jimmy Barrows wrote home to Tom Lloydthe other day, -- "Royal is going to be a howling success, as I always prophesied; butwhat a time your uncle and I had to persuade his family of thispossibility, and to get him off from that wool-picking! But I guess theybegan to believe we were right when this spoiled wool-picker wrote themlast week that he'd paid the last cent of his indebtedness to Mr. Lloyd. Houp-la!" "'A howling success'! And it's all through me, " laughed Elsie, as sheread this portion of Jimmy's letter; "for if I hadn't eaten humble-pie, and run after Master Royal that morning, he would not have met JimmyBarrows, and might have been wool-picking to this day. Yes; it's allthrough me and my humble-pie. Houp-la!" MAJOR MOLLY'S CHRISTMAS PROMISE. CHAPTER I. "Never had a Christmas present?" "No, never. " "Why, it's just dreadful! Well, there's one thing, --you _shall_ have onethis year, you dear thing!" and Molly Elliston flung down the Christmasmuffler she was knitting, and stared at her visitor, as if she couldscarcely believe what she had just confessed to her. The visitorlaughed, showing a beautiful row of small white teeth as she did so. Shewas a charming little maiden of twelve or thirteen, this visitor, --acharming little maiden with the darkest of dark hair that hung in athick shining braid tied at the end with a broad red ribbon. MollyElliston thought she was a beauty, as she looked at her dimpled smilingface, --a beauty, though she _was_ an Indian. Yes, this charming littlemaiden was an Indian, belonging to what was once a great and powerfultribe. When, three years ago, Molly Elliston had come out to the farNorthwest with her mother to join her father on his ranch, she hadthought she should never feel anything but aversion to an Indian. Mollywas then seven years old, and had always lived at some military post, for her father had been an army officer until the three years before, when he had given up his commission to enter into partnership with hisbrother upon a sheep and cattle ranch. A few miles from this ranch wasan Indian reservation. The tribe that occupied it had for a long timebeen quite friendly with white people, and were therefore not altogetherunwelcome neighbors to the Ellistons. Molly thought they were verywelcome, indeed, when one day, in the third summer of her ranch life, she made the acquaintance of this pretty Wallula, who was not onlypretty, but very intelligent, and of a loving disposition that respondedgladly to Molly's friendly advances. "But to think that you've never had a Christmas present!" exclaimedMolly again, as Wallula's laugh rippled out. "If I'd _only_ known youthe first year we came! But I'll make it up _this_ year, you'll see; andoh! oh!" clapping her hands at a sudden thought, "I know--I know whatI'll do! Tell you?" as Wallula clapped _her_ hands and cried, "Oh, tellme, tell me!" "Of course I sha'n't tell you; that would spoil the whole. Why, that's part of the fun that we don't tell what we are going to do. It is all a secret until Christmas eve or Christmas morning. " "Yes, I know, --Metalka told me; but I forgot. " "Of course your sister must have known all about Christmas after shecame back from school. Why didn't _she_ make you a Christmas present, then, Lula?" "Metalka?" A cloud came over the little bright face. "Metalka didn'tstay long after she came back. She didn't stay till Christmas; she went'way--to--to heaven. " "Oh!" "If Metalka had stayed, I might have gone to school this year. " "I thought you _had_ been to school, Lula. " "Oh, no! only to little school out here summers, --little school someladies made; and Metalka tole me--taught me--showed me ev'ry day aftershe came back--ev'ry day, till--til she--went 'way. I can read andwrite and talk, talk, talk, all day in English, "--smiling roguishly, then more seriously and anxiously. "Is it pretty fair English, --whiteEnglish, --Major Molly?" "'White English'!" laughed back Major Molly. "You are such fun, Lula. Yes, it's pretty fair--white English. " Lula dimpled with pleasure, then sighed as she said, "If I could go 'wayoff East to Metalka's school, two, three, four, five year, as Metalkadid, then I could talk splen'id English, and I could make heap--no, allsort things, and help keep house nice, and cook like Metalka. " "But why don't you go, Lula?" "Why don't I? Listen!" and Wallula bent forward eagerly. "I don't gobecause my father won't have me go. Metalka went. When she first cameback, she was so happy, so strong. She was going to have everythingwhite way, civ--I can't say it, Maje Molly. " "Do you mean civilized?" "Yes, yes; civ'lized--white way. And she worked, she talked, she tried, and nobody'd pay much 'tention but my father. The girls, some o' them, wanted to be like her; but the fathers and mothers would n' help, andsome, good many, were set hard 'gainst it; and then there was no moneyto buy white people's clothes, they said. It took all the money wasearned to pay big 'counts up at agency store, where Indians boughtthings, --things to eat, you know; so what's the use, they said, to tryto live white ways when everything was 'gainst them, and they stoppedtrying; and Metalka was so dis'pointed, for she was going do somuch, --going help civ-civ'lize. She was so dis'pointed, she by-'n'-bygot sick--homesick, and just after the first snow came, she--she went'way to heaven. And that's why my father won't have me go to the school. He say it killed Metalka. He say if she'd stayed home, she'd been happyIndian and lived long time. He say Indian got hurt; spoiled going offinto white man's country. " "How came he to let your sister go, Lula?" "Metalka wanted to go so bad. She'd heard so much 'bout the 'way-offschools from some white ladies up at the fort one summer, and my fatherheard too. A white off'cer tole him if Indian wanted to know how to haveplenty to eat, plenty ev'rything like white peoples, they must learn todo bus'ness white ways, be edg'cated. So he let Metalka go; _he_ couldn' go, he too old; but Metalka could go and learn to read all the booksand the papers and keep 'counts for him, so 't he'd know how to dealwith white men. When Metalka first took 'count for him, after she cameback, my father so pleased. He'd worked hard all winter hauling wood, and killing elk and deer for the skins; and my mother 'n' I had madebewt'ful moccasins and gloves out o' the skins, all worked with beads;and so he'd earned good deal money, and he 'd kept 'count of itall, --_his_ way, and 't was honest way; and kept 'count, too, what he'dhad out of agency store; and Metalka understood and reckoned it all up, and said he 'd have good lot money left after he'd paid what he owed atthe store. But, Maje Molly, he didn't! he didn't! They tole him he owed_all_ his money, and when he said they'd made mistake, and showed 'emMetalka's 'counts, they laughed at him, and showed him big book of_their_ 'counts, and tole him Metalka didn't know 'bout prices o'things. Then he came home and said: 'What's the use going to whitepeople's schools to learn white people's ways, when white people cancome out to Indian country and tell lies 'bout prices o' things?' Andthat's the way 't is ev'ry time, my father say; the way 't was beforeMetalka went to school. The bad white trader comes out to Indian countryto cheat Indians. _He_ knows white prices, but he don't tell Indianwhite prices; he tell Indian two, three time more price. That's what myfather say. And Metalka, when she see it all, she so disjointed, shenever get over it, and my father say it killed her, like arrow shot ather. " "But your father doesn't think all white people bad; he doesn't dislikeall their ways?" "No; it's only white traders he thinks bad, and the white big chiefs whobreak promises 'bout lands. He like white ways that Metalka broughtback, and he built nice log house to live in instead of tepee, 'causeMetalka wanted it; and he like all you here, Maje Molly, 'cause you goodto me. But, Maje Molly"--and here the little bright face cloudedover--"my mother say _all_ white peoples forget, and break promises toIndians. " "No, no, they don't, Lula; they don't, you'll see. _I_ sha'n't forget;_I_ sha'n't break _my_ promise, you'll see, --you'll see, Lula. OnChristmas eve I shall send you a Christmas present, sure, --nowremember!" answered Molly, vehemently. CHAPTER II. It was the day before Christmas, --a beautiful, mild day, very unlike theusual winter weather in the far West. At the Ellistons' windows hungwreaths of pine, and all about on tables and chairs tempting-lookingpackages were lying. Some of these were from their military friends, andmost of them were directed to "Major Molly, " the name that had beengiven to Molly when she was a little tot of a thing, and the pet of thefort where she lived. On this Christmas day, as she watched her motherfold up the pretty bright tartan dress that was to be her Christmaspresent to Wallula, she said gleefully, -- "Don't forget, mamma, to write on the box, 'Wallula's Christmas presentfrom Major Molly. '" It had been Molly's intention to have Wallula to tea on Christmas eve, and then and there to bestow upon her the pretty gift. But invitationsto dine at the fort had frustrated this plan, and so it was arrangedthat Barney McGuire, one of the ranchmen, should come up and carry thebox over to the reservation late that afternoon; and as the short winterday progressed, and Molly found that she must have a little more time tofinish off the table-cover she wanted to take up to the Colonel's wife, she said to her mother, -- "Instead of going on with you and papa at five o'clock, let Barneyescort me to the fort after he leaves Wallula's present; that will giveme plenty of time to finish the cover, and plenty of time to get to thedinner in season. " "Very well, " answered Mrs. Elliston; "but you must promise me to startwith Barney as soon as he comes back for you, whether the cover isfinished or not. You mustn't be late. " At five o'clock, when Captain Elliston and his wife rode off, Molly wasworking away at her cover with the greatest industry. Now and then, asshe worked on, she glanced up at the clock. If everything wentsmoothly, --if the silk didn't knot or the lace didn't pucker, --she wouldbe through long before Barney came back for her. But presently shethought, where _was_ Barney. He ought to be there for the box by thistime. She worked on a little longer, her ear alert for the sound ofBarney's horse. At last she went to an upper window and looked out. Shecould see, even in the gathering dusk, a great distance from thatwindow, away across toward the sheep-corrals and cattle-pens; but nobodywas in sight. What did it mean? Barney was punctuality itself. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes more she worked with flying fingers, and still there was no sight or sound of Barney; but her work wasfinished, and now--now, what then? There was only Hannah and John, the two house-servants, at hand. Hannahcouldn't go, and John had strict orders never to leave the premises inCaptain Elliston's absence. She looked at the clock; every second seemedan age. If Barney didn't come, if _no one was sent in his place_, herpromise to Wallula would be broken, and Molly remembered Wallula'swords, "My mother say all white peoples forget, and break promises toIndians;" and her own vehement reply, "_I_ sha'n't forget; I sha'n'tbreak _my_ promise, you'll see, you'll see, Lula!" Break her promiseafter that! Never, never! Her father himself would say she mustnot, --would say that _somebody_ must go in Barney's place, and therewas nobody, --nobody to go but--herself! "Yer goin' alone, yer mean, over to the Injuns!" demanded John, as Mollytold him to bring her pony, Tam o' Shanter, to the door. "Yes, yes, and right away, John; so hurry as fast as you can. " "Do yer think yer'd orter, Major Molly? Do yer think the Cap'n wouldlike it?" asked John, disapprovingly. "John, if you don't bring Tam 'round this minute, I'll go for himmyself. " "'T ain't safe fur yer to go over there alone!" cried Hannah. "Safe! I know the way, every inch of it, with my eyes shut, and so doesTam; and I know the Indians, and Wallula is my friend; and I told hershe should have her present Christmas eve, sure, and I'm going to keepmy promise. Now bring Tam 'round just as quick as you can. " John obeyed, though with evident reluctance, and Hannah showed herdisapproval by scolding and protesting; but they had both of them livedon the frontier for years, and their disapproval therefore was not whatit might have been under different circumstances. Molly, they knew, could ride as well as a little Indian, and was familiar with every inchof the way, as she had said, and Wallula was her friend. "And 't wouldn't 'a' done the least bit o' good to hev set myself anymore against her. If I had, just as like as not the Cap'n would 'a'sided with her and been mad at me, for he thinks the Major's ekal to'most anything, " John confided to Hannah, as he brought the pony round. The pony shied a little as Wallula's Christmas present was strapped tohis back. But at Molly's whispered, "Tam! Tam! be a good boy. We'regoing to see Wallula, --to carry her something nice, just as quick as wecan go, " the little fellow whinnied softly, as if in response; and thenext moment, at Molly's "Now, Tam, " he started forward at his bestpace, --a pace that Molly knew so well, and knew she could trust, --firmand even and assured, and gaining, gaining, gaining at every step. "Good boy, good boy!" she said to him as he sped along. But as he beganto hasten his pace, it occurred to her that it was only about half anhour's easy riding to the reservation, and that after leaving there shecould easily reach the fort in another half-hour, --so easily that therewas no need of hurrying Tam as she was doing; and she pulled him up witha "Take it easy, Tam dear. " As she spoke, Tam flung up his head, prickedup his ears, and made a sudden plunge forward. What was it? What was thematter? What had he heard? He had heard what Molly herself heard in thenext instant, --the beat of a horse's hoofs. But the minute it struckupon Molly's ear she said to herself, "It's Barney; for that's oldRanger's step, I know. " Ranger was an old troop horse of her father'sthat Barney often rode. But in vain she tried to rein Tam in. In vainshe said to him, "Wait, wait! It's Ranger and Barney, Tam!" The pony snorted, as if in scorn, and held on his way. What _was_ thematter with him? He was usually such a wise little fellow, and alwaysknew his friends and his enemies. _And he knew them now_! He was wiserthan she was, and he scented on the wind something that spurred him on. But, hark! What was that whirring, singing sound? Was that a new signalthat Barney was trying? Was it--Whirr, s-st! Down like a shot droppedTam's head, and like an arrow he leaped forward, swerving sideways toescape the danger he had scented, --the danger of a lariat flung by apractised hand. Oh, Tam, Tam! fly now with all your speed, your mistress understands atlast. She is a frontier-bred girl. She knows now that it is no friendlyperson following her, but some one who means mischief; and that mischiefshe has no doubt is the proposed capture of Tam, who is well known formiles and miles about the country as a wonderful little racer. Yes, Molly understands at last. She has _seen in the starlight_ the lariat asit missed Tam's head, and she knows perfectly well that only Tam's speedand sure-footedness can save them. Her heart beats like a trip-hammer;but she keeps a firm hold upon the rein, with a watchful eye for anysudden inequalities of the road, while her ears are strained to catchevery sound. Tam's leap forward had given him a moment's advantage, andhe keeps it up bravely, his dainty feet almost spurning the ground as hegoes on, gaining, gaining, gaining at every step. In a few minutes morethey will be out of the reach of any lariat, then in another minute safeat Wallula's door. In a few minutes! As this thought flashes through Molly's mind, wh-irr, s-st! cuts the still air again. Tam drops his head, and plunges forward. Though the starlight is brighter than ever, Molly does not _see_ thelariat, but there is something, something, --what is it?--that promptsher to fling herself forward face downwards upon Tam's mane; and thelariat that was about to drop over her head once more falls harmless tothe ground, and Tam once more seems to know what danger has beenescaped, and starts forward again with an exultant bound. They arealmost there! Molly sees the smoke from the tepees of the reservation, and a light from a log cabin, and draws a breath of relief. But not yet, O brave little frontier girl, O gallant little steed, is the race wonand the danger passed! Not yet, oh, not yet! for just ahead there is atreacherous pitfall which neither Tam nor his mistress sees, --a hollowthat some little animal has burrowed out, and into this Tam plunges aforefoot, stumbles, and falls! CHAPTER III. "She _said_, 'I sha'n't forget; I sha'n't break _my_ promise. You'llsee, on Christmas eve, I shall send you a Christmas present, sure. Nowremember. ' On Christmas eve! And to-night is Christmas eve!" Wallula had said this over and over to herself ever since the sun wentdown. She had kept count of the days from the day that Molly had madeher that vehement promise. That promise meant so much to Wallula. Itmeant not merely a gift, but keeping faith, holding on, making realfriends with an Indian girl. And her mother had said, "_She'll_ forget, like the rest. White peoples always forget what they say to Indians. "And her father had nodded his head when her mother said this. ButWallula had shaken _her_ head, and declared with passionate emphasismore than once, -- "Major Molly will never forget, --never! You'll see, you'll see!" Wallula had awakened very early that morning, and the minute she openedher eyes she thought, "This is the day before Christ's day. To-night, 'bout sundown, Major Molly'll keep her promise. " All through the daythis happy thought was uppermost. In the afternoon she followed MajorMolly's instructions, and hung pine wreaths about the cabin. The short afternoon sped on, and sundown came, and the gray dusk, andthen the stars came out. "Where's your Major Molly now?" asked the mother. There was a sharpaccent in the Indian woman's voice, and a bitter expression on her face. But it was not for Wallula; it was for the white girl, --the Major Mollywho, in breaking her promise to Wallula, had brought suffering upon her;for on Wallula's face the mother could see by this time the shadow ofdisappointment gathering. It made her think of Metalka. Metalka had goneamongst the white people. She had come back full of belief in them, andit was the white people's white traders with their lies and their brokenpromises that had hurt Metalka to death. There was only little Wallulaleft now. Was it going the same way with Wallula? These were some ofthe Indian mother's bitter resentful thoughts as she watched Wallula'sface. Wallula found it very hard to bear this watchfulness. She felt as if hermother were glad that her prophecy had proved true, that the white girlhad broken her promise; but Wallula was wrong. Her mother's bitternessand resentment were the outcome of her anxiety. She would have givenanything, have done anything, to have saved Wallula this suffering. Ifsomething would only happen to rouse Wallula, she thought, as shewatched her. There had come a visitor to their cabin the other day, --thechief of a neighboring tribe. When he saw Wallula, he said he would comeagain and bring his little daughter. If he would only come soon! If hewould only--But, hark! what was that? Was it an answer to her wish, --herprayer? Was he coming now--_now_? And, jumping to her feet, the womanran to the door and flung it open. Yes, yes, it was in answer to herprayer; for there, over the turf, she could see a horse speeding towardsher. It was coming at breakneck speed. "Wallula! Wallula!" she turnedand called. An echo seemed to repeat, "Lula, Lula!" At that echoWallula leaped up, and sped past her mother with the fleetness of afawn, calling as she did so, "I'm coming, coming!" In the next instantthe wondering woman saw her child running, as only an Indian can run, bythe side of a jet-black pony whose coat was flecked with foam, and whosebreath was well-nigh spent. As they came nearer into the pathway oflight that the pine blaze sent forth from the open door, something thatlooked like a pennon of gold streamed out, and a clear but rather shakenvoice cried, "Lula, Lula, I've kept my promise; I've kept my promise!" The next moment the owner of the voice had slid from the pony's backinto Wallula's arms, and Wallula was stroking the streaming golden hair, and crying jubilantly, "She's kept her promise, she's kept her promise!" "Yes, I've kept my promise. I've brought your Christmas present. Thereit is in that box strapped across Tam. If somebody'll unstrap it and seeto Tam, we'll go into the house, and I'll tell you what a race I've had. I can only stay a few minutes, for I must get to the fort if yourfather'll go with me. I don't dare to go alone now. " "To the fort?" asked Wallula, wonderingly. "Yes, I'm going there to dinner; but let's go in. I'm so tired I canhardly stand; and Tam--" But as a glance showed her that Tam was being cared for, and thatWallula's mother was carrying the box into the house, Major Mollyfollowed on with a sigh of relief, and, doffing the riding-suit thatcovered her dress, flung herself down before the blazing fire, and beganto tell her story. When she came to the point where Tam stumbled andfell forward, she burst out excitedly, -- "Oh, Lula, Lula! I thought then I should never get here, and I don'tknow how we did it, Tam and I; I don't know how we did it, but I kept myseat, and I gave a great pull. I felt as strong as a man, and I cried, 'Tam! Tam! Tam!' and Tam, --oh, I don't know how he did it, --Tam got tohis feet again, and then he flew, flew, _flew_ over the ground. We'dlost a minute, and I expected every second the lariat would catch ussure after that, but it didn't, it didn't, and I'm here safe and sound. I've kept my promise, I've kept my promise, Lula. " "Yes, she kep' her promise, she kep' her promise!" repeated Wallula inglad triumphant accents, glancing at her mother, and at the tall gauntfigure of her father standing in the shadow of the doorway. [Illustration: Wallula clapped her hands with delight] Wallula was a young girl, and this mystery of a Christmas-box was fullof delight to her; but just then a greater delight--the joy of MajorMolly's fidelity--made her forget everything else. But Molly did notforget. The minute she had finished her story she sprang to her feet, and produced the contents of the box. Wallula clapped her hands withdelight when the pretty bright dress was held up before her. "Just like Major Molly's, --just like Major Molly's! See! see!" shecalled out to her father and mother. The mother nodded and smiled. The father's eyes lighted with anexpression of deep gratification; then he leaned forward eagerly, andsaid to Molly, -- "Tell 'gain 'bout where you saw--heard--lar'yet. " "Just as we got to the little pine-trees where the old Sioux trailstops, " answered Molly, promptly. "Yah!" ejaculated the Indian, grimly, in a tone of conviction. Then, turning, he took down a Winchester rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and started towards the door, saying to Molly as he did so: "You stayhere with Wallula. I go up to fort and tell 'em 'bout you. " "Oh, take me with you, take me with you!" cried Molly, jumping up. The Indian shook his head. When Molly insisted, he said tersely: "No, not safe for little white girl yet. Maje Molly stay here till I comeback. " Molly's face fell. Wallula stole up to her. "I got bewt'ful Chris'maspresent for Maje Molly, " she said softly. "Maje Molly stay see it withWallula. " "You dear!" cried Molly, flinging her arm round Wallula. The Indian father nodded his head vigorously, and his face shone withsatisfaction. "Yes, yes!" he said. "Wallula take care you. You stay tillI come back. " In looking at and trying on the "bewt'ful Chris'mas present, "--a pair ofelaborately embroidered moccasins lined and bordered with rabbitfur, --and in dressing Wallula up in the tartan dress, the time flew sorapidly that long before Molly expected it the cabin door opened again, and the tall gaunt figure reappeared. Behind it followed another figure. Molly ran forward as she saw it, and, "Papa, papa!" she cried, "I waited and waited for Barney, and hedidn't come; and I couldn't bear for Lula not to have her Christmaspresent to-night, for I'd promised it to her to-night. She told me, whenI promised, that white people always broke their promises to Indians, and I said over and over that _I_ wouldn't break _my_ promise; and Icouldn't--I couldn't break it, papa. " "You did quite right, my little daughter, --quite right. " There was something in her father's manner as he said this, aseriousness in his voice and in his eyes, that surprised Molly. She wasstill more surprised when the Indian suddenly said, -- "She little brave; she come all 'way 'lone to keep promise, so she nothurt my Wallula. She make me believe more good in white peoples; so I goto fort, --I keep friends. " "You've been a friend indeed. I sha'n't forget it; we'll none of usforget it, Washo, " said Captain Elliston; and he put out his hand as hespoke, and grasped the brown hand of the Indian in a warm friendlyclasp. At the fort everything was literally "up in _arms_, "--that is, set inorder for business, and that meant ready for resistance or attack. Mollyhad lived most of her fourteen years at some Western military post, andshe recognized at once this "order" as she rode in. "What _did_ it mean?" she asked again, as the Colonel himself met herand hurried her into the dining-room; and the Colonel himself answeredher, -- "It means, my dear, that Major Molly has saved us from being surprisedby the enemy, and that means that she has saved us from a bloody fight. " "I--I--" faltered Molly. Then like a flash her mind cleared, and shestruck her little hand on the table and cried, -- "It was an Indian, an unfriendly Indian, who followed me, and Washo knewit when I told my story!" "Yes, Washo knew it, and, more than that, he had known for some daysthat those particular Indians had been planning a raid upon us, and hedidn't interfere; he didn't warn us because he had begun to think thatwe were all bad white traders, and he wouldn't meddle with these braveswho proposed to punish us, though he wouldn't go on the war-path withthem. But, Major Molly, when he heard your story, when he saw how one ofus could be a little white brave in keeping a promise to an Indian, _foryour sake_ he relented towards the rest of us. " "And when he asked me to tell him where I first heard the lariat--" "When he asked you that, he was making sure that it was his Siouxfriends, --for he knew they were to send out a scout who would takeexactly that direction. " "But why--why did the scout chase _me_?" "He was after Tam, no doubt, --for this Sioux band is probably short ofponies, and Tam, you know, is a famous fellow, --and the moment the scoutcaught sight of him he would give chase. " "Did he get Ranger that way? And where, oh, where is poor Barney?" "The probability is that the scout visited the corral first, andcaptured Ranger, who is almost as famous as Tam. " "But, Barney--oh, oh, _do_ you think Barney has been killed?" "We don't know yet, my dear. Your father has gone off to the ranch witha squad of men. He'll soon find out what's happened to Barney. Anddon't fret, my dear, about your father, " seeing a new anxiety on Molly'sface. "The raiders by this time have seen our signals, and have foundout we're up and doing, and more than a match for them; so don'tfret, --don't fret, any of you, " turning to his wife and Mrs. Elliston. "I don't think there'll be so much as a skirmish. " And the Colonel was right. When the Indians saw the signals and theother signs of activity, they knew that their only chance of overcomingthe whites by taking them unawares was gone. There were a few shotsfired, but no skirmish; and by the time the moon rose, the fort scoutsbrought in word that the whole band had departed over the mountains. Afew minutes after, when Captain Elliston rode in, the satisfaction wascomplete, for he brought with him the news of Barney's safety. Ranger, however, was gone. The Indian--or Indians, for there were two of them atthat point--had succeeded in capturing him just as Barney had startedout from the corral. A stealthy step, a skilful use of the lariat, andBarney was bound and gagged, that he might give no alarm; and all thiswith such quiet Indian alertness that a ranchman farther down thecorral heard nothing. So harmlessly ended this raid, that might have been a bloody battle butfor Major Molly's Christmas promise! POLLY'S VALENTINE. CHAPTER I. Polly was seven years old before she knew anything about valentines. This may seem very strange to most girls, for most girls have heard allabout Valentine's Day by the time they are three or four, and have hadno end of fun sending and receiving these friendly favors. But Pollydidn't know a thing about them until she was seven. I'll tell you why. Polly was one of a number of children who lived in an Orphan's Home, andPolly herself was the youngest of the orphans. One morning as she looked out of the window, she saw the postmansuddenly surrounded by a whole flock of little girls, and heard one ofthem say, "Oh, _haven't_ you got a valentine for me?" And then the wholeflock cried, "And for me? and for me?" And the postman laughedgood-naturedly, and, looking through his pack of letters, took out twoor three quite big square envelopes, and handed them to one and anotherof the clamorous little crowd. Polly, hearing and seeing all this, wondered what a valentine could be. She did not ask anybody the question, however, just then; but when thepostman came around at noon, and she saw the same scene repeated, hercuriosity could not be restrained any longer, and she started off tofind Jane McClane, --for Jane was fourteen years old and knew everything, Polly thought. Jane was in the linen-room mending a sheet when Polly found her, andbeing rather lonesome was quite willing to enter into conversation withany one who came along. But Polly's question made her open her eyes withsurprise. "A valentine?" she exclaimed. "You don't mean to say, Polly, you neverheard of a valentine before?" "No, never, " answered Polly, feeling very small and ignorant. "Well, to be sure, " said Jane, "you're very little, and ain't 'roundmuch, but I _should_ have thought you'd have heard _somebody_ saysomething about valentines before this; but you ain't much for listeningand asking, I know. " "No, " echoed Polly; "but I'm listening now. " Jane laughed. "Yes, I see you are. Well, a valentine is just a piece ofpoetry, with a picture to it, that anybody sends to a person onValentine's Day. " "What's Valentine's Day?" "Why, it's the day you send valentines, to be sure, --the 14th ofFebruary. " "Is it like Christmas? Was Valentine very good, and is it his birthdayas Christmas is Christ's birthday?" "Mercy, no! What queer things you do ask when you get going, Polly!Valentine's Day is just Valentine's Day, when folks send these poetryand picture things for fun, and don't sign their own names, only 'YourValentine, ' and that means somebody who has chosen--chosen to beyour--well, your beau, maybe. " "What's a beau?" asked innocent Polly. "Polly, you don't know _anything_!" cried Jane, in an exasperated tone. "A beau is--is somebody who likes you better 'n anybody else. " "Oh, I wish I had one!" "Had one--what?" asked Jane. "A beau to like me like that; to send me a valentine. " "Oh, oh! you are such a baby, " laughed Jane. "I ain't a baby!" cried Polly, indignantly; and then her lip quivered, and she began to cry. "Hush, hush!" said Jane; "if Mrs. Banks hears you, she'll send you outof here quicker 'n a wink. " But Polly could not "hush" all at once, and continued to sob and sniffbehind her apron; Jane trying in the mean time to soothe her, but notsucceeding very well, until she thought to say, -- "If you won't cry any more, Polly, I'll get Martha"--Martha was thechambermaid--"to show you _her_ valentine; it's a beauty. " Polly dropped her apron and began to swallow her sobs, while Jane ran toMartha, who was very proud of her valentine, and very glad to show iteven to little Polly Price; and the valentine _was_ a beauty, as Janehad said. Polly, looking through the tears that still hung on herlashes at the group of little cherubs that were dancing out of lily-cupsand roses, cried, "Angels, angels!" winding up with, "Oh, I _wish_somebody 'd send me a valentine!" "She didn't know a thing about valentines; never heard of them till justnow, " Jane explained to Martha. "Well, to be sure, " said Martha, "she is the greenest little thing; butthen she ain't never been to school like the rest of ye, and things isvery quiet and out-of-the-way like in the Home here, and she's nothin'but a baby. " "I ain't a baby! I ain't, I ain't!" screamed Polly. "Polly, Polly!" warned Jane. But Polly only burst out afresh in loudsobs and cries. Jane was a good-natured girl, but she could not standthis, and, reaching forward, she gave Polly a little shake, and said, "Now, Polly Price, you just stop and be a good girl, or I'll never haveanything more to do with you. " Polly gasped. Three years ago, when she was first brought to the Home, she had been assigned to a little bed next the one that Jane occupied, and had been more or less under the elder girl's care. Jane had beenvery good to the child, and with her womanly ways and superiorknowledge she stood to Polly for both mother and sister. No wonder, then, that she gasped at Jane's threat. What would she do if that threatwere carried out, and Jane had nothing more to do with her? What wouldlife be in the Home without Jane? Polly did not ask herself these questions in exactly these words, butshe felt the desolate possibility that had been suggested to her; and itwas so appalling that it quite overpowered her flare of temper, andstopped her sobs and cries as effectually as Jane could have desired. But Jane herself, busy with her darning, did not notice the expressionof Polly's face, and had no idea how deeply her words had penetrated thechild's mind until hours afterwards, when, as she was preparing to go tobed, Polly's voice called softly, -- "Jane, haven't I been a good girl since?" Jane started. "What in the world are you awake for now, Polly Price?"she asked. "It's nine o'clock. You ought to have been asleep long ago. " "I couldn't go to sleep, I felt so bad, " answered Polly. "You felt so bad; where? Have you got a sore throat?" inquired Jane, remembering that a good many of the children's illnesses began with sorethroat. "No, 'tisn't my throat. " "Where is it, then--your stomach?" "No, it's--it's my feelin's. I felt bad 'cause--'cause you said if Ididn't stop cryin' and be a good girl, you wouldn' ever have anythin' todo with me any more. But I did stop, and I _have_ been a good girlsince, haven't I?" "Yes, oh, yes, you've been good since, " bending down to tuck Polly in. As she stooped, Polly flung her arms around Jane's neck, andwhispered, -- "Do you love me just the same, Jane?" "Yes, I guess so, " replied Jane, smiling. "I love you better 'n anybody in the world, Jane. " "And you'd choose me to be your valentine, then, wouldn't you?" laughedJane. "Oh, yes, yes; and if I could only send you one of those po'try picturethings, I'd send you the most bewt'f'lest I could find. Don't you wish Icould, Jane?" "Yes, of course I do. " "Did you ever have a valentine, Jane?" "No, never. " "Those girls 'cross the street had 'em, and Martha had one. Why don'tyou and I have 'em, Jane?" "You 'n' I? Those girls across the street know girls and boys who havefathers and mothers to give them money to buy valentines with. " "Why don't we know such girls and boys?" "'Cause we don't. We're poor, and live in an Orphans' Home. Those girlsonly know folks that live like themselves. " "But Martha lives right here, just where we do, and Martha had avalentine. " "Martha's different. She's only paid for staying here to work. She's gotfolks outside that she belongs to. It was a cousin of hers sent her thatvalentine. " "Oh, " and Polly gave a soft sigh, "I wish _we_ had folks that webelonged to! Don't you, Jane?" "_Don't_ I!" and as Jane said this, she dropped down upon Polly's littlebed, and covered her face with her hands. "Oh, Jane, Janey! what's the matter? Has somebody hurted your feelings?" "No, no, " answered Jane, brokenly; "nobody in particular. I--I feltlonesome. I do sometimes when I get to thinking I don't belong toanybody and nobody belongs to me. " "Janey, _I_ belongs to you, don't I?" And around Jane's neck two littlearms pressed lovingly. "You don't belong to me as a relation does. You ain't a sister or acousin, you know. " "Can't you 'dopt me, Jane?" Jane laughed through her tears. "What do you know about adopting?" sheasked. "Martha tole me 'bout it. She said folks of'n 'dopted children to betheir very own, and that mebbe some time somebody'd 'dopt me; and I toleher then I didn' want anybody to 'dopt me, but--I'd like you to 'doptme, Jane. Couldn't you?" with great earnestness. "Of course not, Polly. Folks who adopt children are older 'n I am, andhave money to take care of 'em. But I do wish some nice lady would adoptyou, --some nice lady with a nice home. " "But I'd rather stay here 'long o' you, Jane. I don't want to go 'wayfrom you; I'd be lonesome. But mebbe they'd 'dopt you too. Would youlike to be 'dopted, Jane?" "I don't know's I would. I'm too old now; I couldn't get to feel as ifthey were own folks, as if I really belonged to them, as you could. But, Polly, " suddenly sitting up and looking very seriously at Polly, "you mustn't think I'm finding fault with the Home here. It's a verycomfortable place, and we are treated well. I only feel kind of lonesomesometimes when I see girls like those across the street, who havemother-and-father homes. " "And valentines, " cried Polly. "Oh, Polly, Polly! you'll dream of valentines to-night, " laughed Jane;"and mind you send me one in your dream, and the very prettiest you canfind. " "I will, I will!" exclaimed Polly, flinging her arms again about Jane'sneck, and giving her a good-night hug and kiss. "The very prettiest Ican find! the very prettiest I can find!" And saying this over and over, Polly drifted away into the land of sleep. CHAPTER II. And sure enough, when it was well on towards morning, she did dream ofvalentines, --piles and piles of them, and out of them all she washunting for the prettiest, when she heard a strangely familiar voice, calling, -- "Come, come, Polly! It's time to get up if you want any breakfast. " Polly opened her eyes to see Martha looking down at her. "Oh, Martha, Martha, " she cried, "if you hadn't waked me, I should have got it. I'd_almost_ found it, and in a little minute I'd 'a' had it sure. " "Had what?" asked Martha. "Janey's valentine;" and, sitting up, Polly told her dream. Martha laughed till the tears came. "You _are_ the funniest young one weever had here, " was her comment, when she caught her breath. "Some timeyou'll dream you're an heiress, and wake up counting out your money tobuy valentines with. " "What's an heiress?" inquired Polly. "Oh, a girl that has a bankful of money, " replied Martha, carelessly. Polly gave one of her long-drawn "O--hs, " then slipped out of bed, andbegan to dress so slowly that Martha said to her, -- "What are you dreaming about now, Polly?" But Polly didn't answer. She was too busy pulling on her stockings, andthinking of something else that Martha had said, and this "something"was "a girl with a bankful of money. " Martha little suspected whateffect her words had had, little thought what a fine scheme she had setgoing. If she had, the scheme would certainly never have been carriedout, or never have been carried out as Polly planned it. And Polly knewthis perfectly well, and kept as still as a mouse all throughbreakfast, --so still that the matron, Mrs. Banks, asked, "Don't you feelwell, Polly?" whereat Polly choked over her oatmeal as she confusedlyanswered, "Yes, 'm. " If it had been any other child, Mrs. Banks would have suspected thatthere was some mischief brewing behind this stillness; but Polly hadnever been given to mischief, so she was not further questioned orobserved, and thus left to herself she scampered back to the dormitoryafter the chamber-work was done, and, going straight to a small bureauthat stood between Jane's bed and her own, she cautiously pulled out thelower drawer, and took from it a little toy house. This pretty toy housewas nothing more nor less than a child's bank that had been given toPolly one Christmas, and into which she had dropped the pennies that hadbeen bestowed upon her from time to time. Polly had long yearned for apaint-box; and whenever she went out, she used to stop at a certainshop-window where these tempting things were displayed, and wonder howmuch they cost. One day she summoned up courage to go in and ask theprice of the smallest. "Twenty-five cents, " the clerk told her. Polly at first was dismayed. Twenty-five cents seemed a vast sum to her. But it was a long time yetto next Christmas, and perhaps by then she _might_ find even as much asthat in her bank. This hope had warmed her heart for weeks, so that whenshe was smarting under the first sense of disappointment about thevalentines, she consoled herself with the thought of the littlepaint-box that might soon be hers. But when Martha had said, "Some timeyou'll dream you're an heiress, and wake up counting your money out, "and had told her an heiress meant a girl with a bankful of money, like aflash of lightning came another thought into Polly's mind, --the thoughtthat then and there from _her_ little bank she might count the money tobuy a valentine for her dear Jane; and once this thought had enteredPolly's head there was no putting it out. Over and above everything itkept gaining, until it sent her to tugging at that red chimney. Thensuddenly the chimney that had stuck so fast gave way. Polly nearly fell backward, it was so sudden; but righting herself, sheshook the treasure into her lap, and fell to counting it. She counted upto ten; that was as far as her knowledge of arithmetic went. Puttingaside the ten pennies into a little pile, she began to count the rest. "One, two, three, " she went on until--why, there was another pile often, and more yet; and the "more yet" counted up to five. Polly couldn't"do sums. " She couldn't add these two piles of ten and the "more yet, "and she couldn't ask Jane or any one else in the house to do it for her. But what she _could_ do, what she _would_ do, was to slip the wholetreasure back into the bank, and take it around to the shop on thecorner, the shop where she had seen the paint-boxes, and where she wassure she should also find plenty of valentines. So getting into herlittle coat and hood, she scampered out and off, unseen and unheard byany of the household. It was rather terrifying to find several othercustomers in the shop, but she had no time to wait until they had left, and, going bravely forward, she called out, "Please, I want avalentine. " But the clerk was busy, and paid no attention to her; so shepressed a little nearer, and piped out again in a louder tone, "Please, I want a valentine. " But even this did not succeed in getting his attention. Oh, what_should_ she do! Perhaps in another minute Jane or Martha or Mrs. Bankswould have missed her, and be hunting for her; perhaps they would besending a policeman after her. Oh dear! oh dear! And summoning up allher courage, she cried out in a voice full of sobs and tears, "Oh, please, _please_, I want a valentine right off now this minute!" "Don't you see I'm busy now?" said the clerk, sharply. But the lady he was waiting upon had turned and looked at Polly as shespoke, and immediately said to the clerk, -- "Oh, do attend to the child now. Her mother has probably told her tomake haste. " "She hasn't any mother. She's one of the children at the Orphans' Home, "replied the clerk in a lower tone. "Oh!" And the lady started and looked at Polly with new interest, andthen insisted still more earnestly that she should be attended to atonce, at the same time beckoning Polly to come forward. Polly obeyed her; but as she glanced at the cheap little five-centvalentines the clerk put before her, she shook her head disdainfully. "Iwant a bigger one; I want the bewt'f'lest there is, " she informed him. The young man laughed. "How much money have you got?" he asked. Polly produced her bank, and triumphantly shook out its contents. "Oh, "--laughing again, --"all that? How much is it?" "I don't know jus' exac'ly. I can count up to ten, and there's two tenpiles, and--and--five cents more. " "Oh, two tens and five. Yes, I see, "--running his fingers over thelittle heap, --"that makes twenty-five. You've got twenty-five cents. Here are the twenty-five-cent valentines;" and he uncovered another box, and left her to make her choice. "Twenty-five cents!" echoed Polly. Why, why, why, that was enough to buythe little paint-box! She glanced down at the twenty-five-centvalentines. They presented a dazzling sight of cherubs' heads and wingsand flowery garlands. She lifted her chin a little higher, and there, staring her in the face, was the very little paint-box, with its twobrushes and porcelain color plate, and it seemed to say to her: "Come, buy me now; come, buy me now. If you don't, somebody else will get me. "And she _could_ buy it now, if only--she gave up the valentine--Jane'svalentine; and--why shouldn't she? She hadn't told Jane anything aboutit; Jane didn't expect it; Jane wouldn't ever know about it. Whyshouldn't she? And Polly drew a deep sigh of perplexity as she askedherself this question. "What is it?" a soft voice said to her here. "What is it that troublesyou? Tell me. Perhaps I can help you. " Polly started, and turned to see the lady who had made way for herstanding beside her. The lady smiled reassuringly as she met Polly'sperplexed glance, and said again, -- "What is it? Tell me. " And Polly, looking up into the kind sweet face, told the wholestory, --all about the long saving for the little paint-box, Jane'svalentine, and everything, winding up eagerly with the appeal, --"Andwouldn't _you_ buy the paint-box now 'stead of the valentine, 'cos thepaint-box mebbe'll be gone when I get more money?" "Wouldn't I? Well, I don't know what I should have done when I was alittle girl like you. I dare say, though, that I should have felt justas you do--have done just as you, I see, are going to do now. " "Bought the paint-box!" cried Polly. "Yes, bought the paint-box, " laughed the lady. Polly beamed with smiles, and gave a rapturous look at the treasure thatwas so soon to be hers. But presently the rapture faded, and a newexpression came into her face. The lady was watching her veryattentively. "Well, what now?" she inquired. "Doesn't the paint-box suit you?" Polly gave an emphatic nod. Perhaps it was that nod that sent two littletears to her eyes. "Then, if it suits you, shall I speak to the clerk, and tell him you'vechanged your mind about the valentine, and will buy the paint-box?" Polly shook her head, and two more tears followed the first ones. "You're not going to buy the paint-box?" "N-o, I--I gu-ess not. I guess I'll buy the valentine. Jane didn't everget a valentine, and she hasn't got anybody to give her one but me. " The blurring tears made Polly's eyes so dim here, she could scarcelysee; but through the dimness she sent one last good-by look at the dearpaint-box, and then resolutely turned to the valentines, from which sheselected the biggest and "bewt'f'lest" she could find, the lady crowningher kindness by stamping and directing it, and finally mailing it in theletterbox just outside the shop door. CHAPTER III. "What yer watchin' for, Polly?" Polly didn't answer. "Guess I know, " said Martha, laughing; "yer watchin' for the postman tobring yer a valentine. " "I ain't, " said Polly. Just then the postman crossed the street, and ring, ring, went the Homebell. "I told you so, " said Martha, as she ran down to answer it. In a minuteshe was back again holding out a big square envelope, and saying again, "I told you so. " "'T ain't for me, " cried Polly. "Ain't your name Polly Price?" "Yes, " faltered Polly. "Well, here 's 'Polly Price' written as plain as print. Just look now!"and Martha held forth the missive. Polly looked. She could read her own name in writing; and there it was, sure enough, plain as print, --Polly Price, and it was written on anenvelope exactly like the one she had chosen to send to Jane. A fearfulthought came into Polly's mind. She had told the lady her ownname, --Polly Price, --and it was Polly Price she had written on theenvelope instead of Jane McClane. Oh! oh! oh! and then Polly burstout, -- "It ain't mine, it ain't mine, it's Jane's. The lady made a mistake. " "What lady?" "The lady in the shop. " "What shop?" And then Polly had to tell the whole story. "And that's where you were after breakfast, you little monkey, breakinga bank, and running away with it, to buy Jane McClane a valentine. Well, if this isn't the funniest thing I ever heard of. Jane! Jane! come uphere and show Polly _your_ valentine!" And up came Jane, her facebeaming with smiles, holding in one hand a big square envelope, and inthe other an open sheet all covered with lilies and roses and cherubs'faces; that very "bewt'f'lest valentine" that had been chosen for her. Polly, staring at it in amazement, cried out, "Why, she's got it! she'sgot it!" And then, pulling open the envelope addressed to Polly Price, she stared in amazement again, and cried out, "Why, this is just like_that_ one, --the one I bought for you, Janey!" And then it was Jane's turn to cry out in amazement, to say, "_You_bought it; how did _you_ buy it, Polly?" "She broke a bank and ran away with the money, " laughed Martha. "I didn't, either. The chimney's made to come out, and the bank's mybank, " retorted Polly, indignantly. "You took _your_ money, --your money you've been saving to buy thepaint-box with, to buy this valentine for me?" asked Jane. "Yes, " faltered Polly. "And gave up the paint-box! Oh, Polly, Polly, you're a dear;" and Janeswooped down upon Polly with a tremendous hug. Polly returned theembrace with ardor, and then, "Who d' you s'pose, " she asked, "who d'you s'pose sent _me_ one jus' exactly like yours? It must be somebodythat likes me jus' as I like you, Janey. " "Mrs. Banks wants you to go down to the parlor, Polly. There's some oneto see you, " a voice interrupted here. "To see _me_?" cried Polly. "Yes, --don't stop to bother, --run along. " And Polly ran along as fastas her feet could carry her, wondering as she went who had come to see_her_, who had never in her life had a visitor before. At the foot ofthe stairs she stopped in shy alarm. Then she tiptoed across the hallwayto the parlor threshold, and there she saw the lady who had been so kindto her in the shop. "Oh, it's you!" exclaimed Polly, joyfully. The lady laughed, and held out her hand. "Yes, it's I, " she said. "DidJane get the valentine all right, and did she like it?" Polly nodded, and then burst out with the story of her ownvalentine, --"Jus' like Janey's!" "And who d' you s'pose sent it?" she asked confidingly, nestling againstthe lady's knee. "I think it must have been one of the good Saint Valentine'smessengers, " answered the lady. Polly's eyes opened very wide. "Saint Valentine! Tell me 'bout him, " shesaid. "A very wise man has told about him, --a man by the name ofWheatley, --and he says that this Valentine was a good bishop who livedlong ago, and so famous for his love and charity that after he died hewas called Saint Valentine, and a festival was held on his birthday, when all the people would send love tokens to their friends. " Polly's face was radiant. "Oh, I _thought_ Valentine was a somebody verygood, and that Valentine's Day was his birthday. I asked Jane if 'twasn't. Oh, Janey, Janey!" running to the foot of the stairs in herexcitement, "come down and hear 'bout Saint Valentine!" "Polly!" said Mrs. Banks, reprovingly. "Oh, don't stop her, " cried the lady. "I like to hear her, and I want tosee Janey. " After this there was nothing for Mrs. Banks to do but tosend for Jane. As the strong, womanly-looking girl entered the room, anew idea entered the lady's mind. "It's the very thing, " she said toherself, --"the very thing. " At that instant carriage wheels were heardat the door, and the bell was rung sharply and impatiently. "Oh, it mustbe my Elise, " said the lady. The next instant the door was opened, and in hopped--that is the onlyword to use--a little lame girl of ten or eleven, lifting herself alongby a crutch. She was very pale, and her eyes were sunken with suffering;but she looked about her with a smile, and said in a quick, livelyway, -- "I got tired of driving 'round the square waiting for you, mamma; so Ithought I'd come in. " "I'm glad you did; I wanted you to see--" "I know--Polly! Mamma 's told me all about you, Polly, you and Jane andthe valentine; and that's Jane. How do you do, Polly? how do you do, Jane?" nodding and laughing at them in a way that made Polly and Janelaugh too, whereupon this odd little girl exclaimed, "That's right, laugh, do! I like laughy folks;" and then, as she said this, her littlefigure swayed and would have fallen, if Jane, who was very quick ofmotion, hadn't sprung forward and caught her in her arms. The girl'sface was all puckered up into little wrinkles of pain; but as soon asshe could speak, she said, "Aren't you strong, though, Jane!" Jane couldn't say a word, but Polly piped out, "If I let you have myvalentine to look at a little while, do you think you'd feel better?" "Lots, Polly, lots. Mamma told me about you; and when you come to staywith us, you'll be a regular treat. " "Stay with you?" cried Polly, wonderingly. "Yes; what, " turning to her mother, "haven't you asked her yet, mamma?" "No; I've only talked with Mrs. Banks. " "Well, I'll talk to Polly. Polly, we've been looking for a nice littlegirl like you to come and stay at our house. I'm lame, and I can't domuch. When mamma came home and told me about you and the bank and thepaint-box and the valentine, I said, 'That's the girl for me; let's goand ask her to come. ' And _won't_ you come, Polly?" "I--I'd like to if--if Jane can come too. " "Don't. Polly. I can't--I can't!" whispered Jane. "Oh, mamma, mamma!" cried the lame Elise, entreatingly. "Mamma" turned to Mrs. Banks. "If she _would_ only come and helpus, --come and try us, at least, --I'm sure we could make satisfactoryarrangements. " Mrs. Banks nodded, and smiled approval. "Of course Jane can go if shechooses. " "And you _will_ choose, --you will, won't you, Jane?" "Course she will, " cried Polly; and then everybody laughed, andeverything was as good as settled from that moment. Then it was thatPolly burst out, "I should be puffickly happy now if I only knew jus'who that mess'nger was that sent my valentine. " "Tell her, mamma, tell her!" called out Elise; and "mamma" bent down, and said to Polly, -- "It was somebody who saw what a loving heart a certain little girl hadwhen she chose to give up her paint-box to buy her dear Jane avalentine. " "'Twas you, 'twas you!" cried Polly, joyfully. "Oh, I jus' loveValentine's Day, and I knew it must be Somebody's birfday, --some verygood Somebody!" SIBYL'S SLIPPER. CHAPTER I. When Sir William Howe succeeded General Gage as governor and militarycommander of the New England province, he at once set to work to makehimself and the King's cause popular in a social way by giving a seriesof fine entertainments in the stately Province House. To these entertainments were bidden all the Boston townsfolk who wereloyal to the British crown. Amongst such, none were more prominent ormade more welcome than Mr. Jeffrey Merridew and his pretty young niece, Sibyl. Mr. Merridew was a stanch royalist, though he was by no means a violenthater of the rebels. Many of them were his old friends and neighbors;and his only brother, Dr. Ephraim Merridew, --Sibyl's father, --was arebel at heart, though in far-away Barbadoes, where he was at that timeengaged in business, he could not serve the rebel cause in person, as hewould gladly have done. But he left behind him a son who, in fullsympathy with his father's views, ranged himself boldly on the rebelside, as part and parcel of the American army. A rebel relative in Barbadoes was not a matter to trouble oneself aboutgreatly, but a rebel relative on the spot, so to speak, --for youngEphraim was only four miles away at the Cambridge rallying-ground, --wasa different thing; and, amiable and easy-going as Mr. Jeffrey Merridewwas disposed to be, his nephew's close proximity could not, under thepeculiar circumstances, but be embarrassing and disturbing on occasions;for the young man, besides being his nephew, was Sibyl's brother, andSibyl, as a member of a royalist's family, --for her father on hisdeparture for Barbadoes had left his motherless girl in her uncle'scharge, --could not, of course, be allowed free intercourse with one whohad placed himself in an attitude of active hostility to the royalcause. When Sibyl was apprised of this dictum, she at once made passionateprotest against it. "What harm do the King's soldiers think poor Eph cando them by now and then paying a visit to his sister?" she asked heruncle scornfully. "Harm? You are very young, Sibyl, and don't understand these things. Your brother has chosen very foolishly to join the rebel forces, and sohas made himself one of our acknowledged enemies; and I never heard ofdeclared enemies in time of war walking in and out of each other'shouses like tame cats, " answered Mr. Merridew, sarcastically. "But Eph, such a boy as Eph, only nineteen, only two years older than I!What harm could he do now, more than he has ever done, by coming to hisuncle's house as a visitor?" still persisted Sibyl, rather foolishly. "What harm!" exclaimed Mr. Merridew, impatiently. "What a child you are, Sibyl! Why, his coming here would compromise me fatally with the royalgovernment. I should be suspected of disloyalty, and do you think thathe, your brother, could be in any such communication with us and fail tosee and hear many things that might bring us disaster if reported to hisofficers?" "You think Eph would be so mean as to tell tales?" exclaimed Sibyl, inhigh indignation. "Tell tales!" repeated Mr. Merridew, flinging back his head withirrepressible laughter at Sibyl's ignorance. Why, my dear, the reportingof important facts, however gained in times of war, is part of wartactics; it is not called 'telling tales. '" "And would you--would you, if you were in Ephraim's camp as avisitor, --would you--" "Tell tales?" laughed Mr. Merridew. "Indeed I would, if I heard anythingworth telling, --anything that I thought would save the cause I believedto be a righteous cause. " Then, more seriously: "Why, Sibyl, it would bemy duty to do it. " "Oh! oh!" cried Sibyl, "it is odious, odious, all this war business. " "Yes, I grant you that; but who is to blame for bringing this odiousbusiness upon us? Who but these foolish malcontents, these rebels, like--" "Like my father and my brother, " broke in Sibyl, hotly, as Mr. Merridewhesitated. "Yes, like your father and your brother, I am sorry to say, " concludedher uncle, gravely. "No, no, no!" cried Sibyl, excitedly. "It is not they who are to blame. They are good and brave and wise. They only want justice and fair play. It is the King's folk who are to blame, --the King's folk who want tooppress the people with unjust taxes, that they may live in greatergrandeur. " Mr. Merridew stared in silent astonishment at this unexpected outburst. Then, in a severer tone than his niece had ever heard from his lips, hesaid, -- "So this is the treasonable talk you have heard from your brother; theseare the teachings that he has been instilling into you? Ah, it is nonetoo soon that you are cut off from the influence of that headstrongboy. " "But it was my father who instilled these teachings into my brother. They are his principles, and they are my principles too!" "Your principles!" and Mr. Merridew, his sense of humor immenselytickled at the sound of this fine word, that rolled off with such anassumption of dignity from those rosy young lips, burst into a greatlaugh. Yet then and there he said to himself, "That Jackanapes of a boy, to fill her head with this treasonable stuff! But we'll see, we'll seeif we can't crowd all such stuff out with livelier things when we havethose fine doings at the Province House Sir William is talking of. Herprinciples! The little parrot!" and he laughed again. CHAPTER II. "And you're to dance the last dance with me, remember, Miss Merridew. " "Indeed, Sir Harry, I will not promise you that. " "You will not promise? But you _have_ promised. " "_Have_ promised? What do you mean, sir? I think you are forgettingyourself!" and Miss Sibyl Merridew lifted up her graceful head with alittle air of hauteur that was by no means unbecoming to her piquantbeauty. But young Sir Harry Willing was not to be put down by this pretty littleprovincial, --not he; and so, lifting up _his_ head with an air ofhauteur, he said to Miss Sibyl, -- "I crave Miss Merridew's pardon, but perhaps if she will reflect amoment she will recall what she said to me yester morning when I beggedher to give me the pleasure of dancing the last minuet with herto-night. " Waving her great plumy feather fan to and fro, Sibyl looked across it ather companion, and answered in a little sweetly impertinent tone, -- "But I never reflect. " "So I should judge, madam, " retorted the youth, wrathfully; "butperhaps, " he went on, "if Miss Merridew will deign to bestow a glanceupon this"--and the young fellow pulled from his pocket a gold-mountedcard and letter case, out of which he took a tablet upon which waswritten: "Met Miss Sibyl Merridew this morning on the mall. She promisedto dance the last minuet with me to-morrow night. Mem. Send roses ifthey are to be had in the town!" Sibyl blushed as she read this. Then lifting the flowers--Sir Harry'sroses--to her face for a moment, she dropped a demure courtesy and said, with a gleam of fun in her eyes, -- "If Sir Harry finds that it is necessary for _him_ to recall his friendsand engagements by memorandum notes, he certainly cannot expect anuntutored provincial maid, who carries no such orderly appliance aboutwith her, to charge _her_ mind unaided. " "An untutored provincial maid!" exclaimed Sir Harry, all his wrathextinguished by her pretty recognition of his flowers and his admirationof her ready wit, --"an untutored provincial maid! By my faith, MissSibyl, you'd put to shame many a court dame. But, hark, what's that? AsI live, the musicians are tuning up for the minuet. " And smilingly heheld out his hand to her. [Illustration: A very pretty pair] "A very pretty pair, " said more than one of the assembled company, asthe two took their places in the beautifully decorated ball-room; and asthe dance progressed, Mr. Jeffrey Merridew, watching his niece from hispost of observation, said to himself with, a congratulatory smile, -- "Where now are Miss Sibyl's fine rebel principles? I scarcely think theywould stand a test. " Almost at that very moment Sir Harry, boy as he was, spite of hisone-and-twenty years, was giving vent to a little boastful talk about"our army" and "those undisciplined rebels who would never stand thetest against a full regiment of regulars. " "Why, " Sir Harry declared at length, led on by Sibyl's air of greatinterest, "we have positive information that their troops at Cambridgehave neither arms nor ammunition to carry on a defence, and they are ina sorry condition every way; it is impossible for them to resist ussuccessfully. We shall literally sweep them off the face of the earthif they attempt it. " "And you--the King's troops?" inquired Sibyl. "We--well, we have been a little straitened ourselves for the munitionsof war, " replied the young aide-de-camp, "but by to-morrow night avessel will arrive for us that will relieve all such necessities. Ah, "with a gay smile, "what would not these rebels give to get possession ofthis information, and put their cruisers on the alert to capture such aprize!" "But there is no possibility of this?" "Not the slightest. But you are pale, --don't be alarmed; there is nodanger. The rebels have no suspicion of the expected arrival, we arecertain. " "But if they had?" "Well, that might alter the case. Their seamen know their businessbetter than their landsmen. " All this in the pauses of the dance. When they started up again, themusic had accelerated its time, and down the great hall they led the wayat a fine pace; but in swinging about to return, Sir Harry felt hiscompanion falter. "What is it?" he asked anxiously. "My slipper, " she replied with a vexed laugh; and, stooping as shespoke, she whisked off a little satin shoe, the high hollow metal heelof which had suddenly given way. Certainly no more dancing that night. For that matter, though, it was near the end of the ball. But could not_he_ do something? Sir Harry asked. He had tinkered gunscrews; why not aslipper? No, no; nothing could be done then and there. A new heel mustbe hammered and fitted on. But then and there Sibyl had a sudden inspiration. _Something could_ bedone. She was to go to Madame Boutineau's rout the next evening. Sheneeded these very slippers for that occasion. Would Sir Harry--on hisway to his quarters that night--would he think it beneath his dignity toleave the slippers at Anthony Styles the shoemaker's? It was just thereby the tavern at the sign of the gilded boot. He had only to drop theshoe, with a message she would write to go with it, into the tunnel-boxby the door, and Anthony would find it by daylight and set to work uponit at once, that she might not be disappointed, for it was a longishjob, she knew. Beneath his dignity! Sir Harry laughed. He was only too glad to do herbidding. And would he then give her a bit of paper and pencil and take her tothe cloak-room for a moment? Alone in the cloak-room, Sibyl wrote her message to Anthony Styles. Folding the paper in the slipper, and wrapping the whole in herpocket-handkerchief, she fastened the parcel securely with the silkencord that had held her fan. "And may I have the last dance to-morrow night?" asked Sir Harry, smilingly, as he took leave of her a few minutes later. "Perhaps, if I may depend upon you--and Anthony Styles, " she answered. Her eyes sparkled like dark jewels as she spoke; her cheeks burned likered twin roses. CHAPTER III. Robe of satin and Brussels lace, Knots of flowers and ribbons too, Scattered about in every place, For the revel is through. And there, in the midst of all this pretty disorder of satin and laceand flowers, sits Sibyl, far into the night, or rather morning, turningover and over in her mind something that effectually banishes sleep. By and by, as she turns it over for the twentieth time, she says aloudto herself: "To think that it should be given to _me_ to do, --made _my_duty! Uncle Jeffrey taught me that, as he has taught me many thingsthese past months, --to keep my own counsel, for one thing. "Ah, Uncle Jeffrey, you have fancied me all these months naught but avain little puppet who could be led to forget anything in a round ofrouts and balls. Well, I like the routs and balls dearly, dearly, but Ilike something else better. I like what my father has taught us, whatmy dear Eph is going to fight for, and perhaps die for, far, far better. Yet I felt like a cheat to-night as I led Sir Harry on to tell me whathe did, --Sir Harry, who thinks me, as all the rest do, a stanch littleTory, for I have kept my counsel indeed, and no one suspects. But oh, itis odious, it is odious, this war business; yet I have been taught howto do my duty, and I have done it. Yes, I have done my duty, for 'thereporting of important facts, however gained, in times of war, is partof war tactics. ' Yes, these are your words, Uncle Jeffrey, and oh, howthey flashed up to me to-night when Sir Harry told me of the Britishvessel, and how they fairly rung in my ears like an order, when itsuddenly came to me how I could get this important fact that I hadgained sent to the right quarter by means of good Anthony Styles andthat parcel-box of his, through which so many messages have gone safely. "Oh, I could laugh, I could laugh, if I didn't shiver so, when I thinkof it! Sir Harry, Sir Harry of all persons, dropping that message intoAnthony Styles's hands, --Anthony Styles, the stanch rebel whom theythink a stanch Tory! Oh, I could laugh, I could laugh! And now ifeverything goes well, --if everything goes well, my dear rebels will notbe swept off the earth by British arms quite yet! [Illustration: Sibyl's reflections] "But, hark! that is the clock; it is striking one, and I out of bed andgabbling to myself in this foolish way of mine, 'like a play-actingwoman, ' as Uncle Jeffrey would say of me. But I will not stay up aminute longer. So good-night, good-night, my dear rebels, g--ood-night!" * * * * * The clock was striking four the next afternoon when a weather-beatenman, who had a look as if he had once been a seaman, knocked at the sidedoor of Mr. Jeffrey Merridew's mansion and asked to see young MistressMerridew. "It's Shoemaker Styles, " the maid informed Sibyl, "and he says you mustcome down and try on the slipper he has brought; he's not sure about theheel. He's in the hall-room, mem. " It was with a wildly beating heart that Sibyl, obeying this summons, randown to the little hall-room where Anthony Styles awaited her. He stood with the slipper in his hand as she entered the room; andbefore he could close the door behind her, he called out in a frank, loud voice: "I thought you had better try on the shoe, miss; I wasn'tsure of the heel. " The moment the door was closed, however, he came forward eagerly, and ina low tone said: "It's all right, little mistress. I heard the click ofthe tunnel-box last night, for I hadn't turned in, and afore manyminutes I was up and off in my boat with the message in my head; I burntthe paper! There was a stiff breeze, and I reached the cutter in thequickest time I ever made, and got back afore daylight with nobody thewiser. Shoemaker Styles understands his old sailor business better thanshoemaking, " with a grim laugh, "and no Tory knows these waters as Ido. " "And it's all right, and the end will be all right?" faltered Sibyl, anxiously. "All right! You'll know for yourself by nightfall, perhaps; and now Godbless you, little mistress. You've done a great service; and if everAnthony Styles can sarve you, he'll do it with a whole heart, --God blessyou, God bless you!" and with these words Shoemaker Styles hurried off, leaving Sibyl with the slipper still in her hand, and both of them quiteoblivious of that important trying-on process. The day after the ball was a busy one for Sir Harry Willing, and it wasnot until late in the afternoon that he felt himself at liberty to takehis accustomed saunter about town. As he came in sight of the gilded boot, he smilingly thought: "I wonderif Shoemaker Styles has done his duty by the little slipper; if he has, I shall dance with my lady Sibyl at Madame Boutineau's this evening. " But Sir Harry did not dance at Madame Boutineau's that evening, for whenat nightfall he returned to his quarters, he was met by the disastroustidings that the long-looked for, eagerly expected British brig, loadedwith supplies for the King's army, had been captured off Lechmere'sPoint by the Yankee rebels. It was not many months after this capture that the British evacuatedBoston. When Sir Harry Willing took leave of Sibyl Merridew, he pleadedfor some token of remembrance. "You will not promise yourself to me, " he said in reproachful accents, "but give me some token of yourself, some gage of amity at least. " "But what--what can I give you, Sir Harry?" asked Sibyl, not a littletouched and troubled. "Give me the little slipper you wore that night we danced together atthe Province House. " "That--that slipper?" and Sibyl blushed and paled. "Yes--ah, you will, you will. " A moment's hesitation; then with a strange smile, half grave, half gay, Sibyl answered, "I will. " A LITTLE BOARDING-SCHOOL SAMARITAN. CHAPTER I. It was Saturday afternoon, and Eva Nelson and Alice King were sitting intheir little study parlor at the Hill House Seminary poring over theirlesson chapter for the next day. It was the tenth chapter of St. Luke, with the story of the good Samaritan. At last Eva flung herself back andexclaimed, "We _can't_ be good as they were in those Bible days, nomatter _what_ anybody says; things are different. " "Of course they are, " responded Alice. "Who said they weren't?" Eva turned to the volume before her, and read aloud about the man whohad fallen among thieves, and the good Samaritan who came along andbound up his wounds and took care of him. "Now how can we do things like that?" she said. "Oh, Eva, I should think you were about five or six years old instead ofa girl of thirteen. Nobody means that you are to do just thoseparticular things. What they do mean now is that you are to be good topeople who are in trouble, --people who need things done for them. " "Well, I'd be good to them if I had a chance; but what chance do I havenow with all my lessons? When I grow up, I shall belong to charitablesocieties, as mamma does, and give things to poor folks, and go to seethem. I can't now; girls of our age can't, of course. " "We can do some things in vacations, --get up fairs and things of thatkind, and give the money to the poor. " "Oh, I've done that. I helped in a fair last summer, and we gave themoney to the children's hospital. But Miss Vincent said last week thatall of us could find ways of doing good every day if we would keep oureyes and ears and hearts open; and I've felt ever since that she waskeeping her eyes open on the watch for something she expected _me_ todo. " "Nonsense! She knows as well as we do that we haven't time to do anymore now. She means when we grow older. But look at the clock, --fiveminutes to supper-time, and I've got to 'do' my hair all over, the braidis so frowzely. " "What makes you braid it? Why don't you let it hang in a curl, as youused to?" "I told you why yesterday, --because that Burr girl has made me sick ofcurls, with that great black flop of hers stringing down her back. She'dmake me sick of anything. I haven't worn my red blouse since she cameout with that fiery thing of hers. _Isn't_ it horrid?" "Yes, horrid!" A few minutes after, as Eva and Alice were stirring their cocoa at thesupper-table, the girl they had been criticising came hastily into thedining-room and took her place. She was a tall girl for her age, with aheavy ungainly figure, a swarthy skin, and black hair which was tiedback in a long curl. She wore a dark plaid skirt, with a blouse of fieryred cashmere, and a hair ribbon of a deep violet shade. Nothing couldhave been more ill-matched or more unbecoming. The girl who sat besideher, pretty Janey Miller, was a great contrast, with her blond curls, her rosy cheeks, and simple well-fitting dress of blue serge. Her everymovement, too, was as full of grace as Cordelia Burr's was exactly thereverse. Everything seemed to go well with Janey; everything seemed togo ill with Cordelia. She spilled her cocoa, she dropped her knife, shecrumbled her gingerbread, and she clattered her cup and saucer. Certainly she was not a very pleasant person to sit near. But Janeytried to conceal her annoyance, and succeeded very well, until at theend of the meal Cordelia, in her headlong haste in leaving her seat, tipped over a glass of water upon her neighbor's pretty blue dress. Thiswas too much, for Janey, and it was little wonder that she jumped upwith an impatient exclamation, nor that she declared to Eva and Alice alittle later that Cordelia ought to be ashamed of herself for being socareless, and that she did wish she didn't have to sit next to her. "I suppose, though, I shall have to sit there until the end of thisterm; but there's _one_ thing I'm not going to do any more, --I'm notgoing to dance with her. She doesn't keep step, and she _does_ dressso!" concluded Janey. "Yes, she does dress dreadfully; and to think it's her own fault. Shechooses her things herself, " said Eva. "No!" exclaimed Janey. "Yes, she does; her mother is 'way off somewhere, and Cordelia gets whatshe likes. " "And she doesn't know any better than to like such horrid things!Sometimes she looks as if she'd lived with wild Indians!" "That's it; that's it, I forgot!" shouted Eva. "She _has_ lived 'way offout in a Territory on an Indian reservation. Her father is an armyofficer of some kind. " "Young ladies, young ladies, look at your clocks!" suddenly called avoice outside the door. "Why, goodness, it's bedtime!" whispered Janey. "Good-night, good-night. " The next afternoon, when the Sunday classes were in session in the greathall, Janey, who was not in the same class with Eva and Alice, wonderedas she looked across at them what they could be talking about thatseemed so interesting. This is what they were talking about: Alice, inher clever exact way, had told Miss Vincent the whole of that littleSaturday-night talk concerning the good Samaritan. Miss Vincent smiledwhen Alice told of Eva's odd simplicity of application; but as Alicewent on and presented Eva's perplexity and her plea for girls of herage, --their lack of time and all that, and her own assurance to Eva thatMiss Vincent did not mean what Eva fancied that she did, --Miss Vincent, in a quick, decided, almost eager way, started forward and cried, -- "Oh, but I did! I did mean it. Girls of your age can do--oh, so much!You are thinking of only one way of doing, --helping the poor, visitingpeople in need. I _don't_ think you can do much of that. I think that_is_ mostly for older people; but you live in a little world of yourown, --a girls' world, where you can help or hurt one another every dayand hour by what you do or say. Oh, I know, I know, for I went throughsuch suffering once, --was so hurt when I might have been helped. But letme tell you about it, and then you'll see what I mean. It was when I wasbetween twelve and thirteen. We had just come to Boston, and I was sentto a strange school. I was very shy, but ashamed to show that I was. Sowhen the girls stared at me, as girls will, and giggled amongstthemselves about anything, I thought they were staring in an unfriendlyway and laughing at _me_, and I immediately straightened up and put on astiff and what I tried to make an indifferent manner. This onlyprejudiced them against me, and the unfriendliness I had fancied becamevery soon a reality, and I was snubbed or avoided in the most decidedway. I tried to bear this silently, to act as if I didn't care for awhile, but I became so lonely at length I thought I would try toconciliate them. I dare say, however, my shy manner was stillmisunderstood, for I was not encouraged to go on. What I suffered atthis time I have never forgotten. The girls were no worse than othergirls, but they had started out on a wrong track, and gradually thewhole flock of them, one led on by what another would say or do, weredown upon me. It was a sort of contagious excitement, and they didn'tstop to think it might be unjust or cruel. Things went on from bad toworse, until at last I gave up trying to conciliate, and turned on themlike a little wild-cat. I forgot my timidity, --forgot everything but mydesire to be even with them, as I expressed it. But it wasn't an evenconflict, --thirty girls against one; and at length I did somethingdreadful. I was going from the school-room to a recitation room with myink-bottle; that I had been to have filled, when I met in the hall threeof 'my enemies, ' as I called them. In trying to avoid them I ran againstthem. They thought I did it purposely, and at once accused me of that, and other sins I happened to be innocent of, in a way that exasperatedme. I tried to go on, but they barred my progress; and then it was thatI lost all control of myself, and in a sort of frantic fury flung theink-bottle that I held straight before me. I could never recall thedetails of anything after that. I only remember the screams, the openingof doors, the teachers hastening up, a voice saying, 'No; only thedresses are injured; but she might have killed somebody!' In the answersto their questions the teachers got at something of the truth, not allof it. They were very much shocked at a state of things they had noteven suspected; but my violence prejudiced them against me, as wasnatural, and they had little sympathy for me. Of course I couldn'tremain at the school after that. I was not expelled. My father took meaway, yet I always felt that I went in disgrace. " "They were horrid girls, --horrid!" cried Alice, vehemently. "No; they were like any ordinary girls who _don't think_. But you seehow different everything might have been if only _one_ of them hadthought to say a kind word to me; had seen that I might have beensuffering, and"--smiling down upon Eva--"been a good Samaritan to me. " "They were horrid, or they _would_ have thought, " insisted Alice. "I'msure _I_ don't know any girls who would have been so stupid. " "Nor I, nor I, " chimed in two or three other voices. But Eva Nelson wassilent. CHAPTER II. "You are the most ridiculous girl for getting fancies into your head, Eva; and you never get things right, --never!" "I think you are very unkind. " "Well, you can think so. _I_ think--" "Hush!" in a warning voice; "there's some one knocking at the door;"then, louder, "Come in;" and responsive to this invitation, Janey Millerentered. "What were you and Eva squabbling about?" she asked, looking at Alice. "Cordelia Burr!" replied Alice, disdainfully. "Cordelia Burr?" "Yes. What do you think? Eva wants to take her up and be intimate withher. " "Now, Alice, I don't, " cried Eva. "I only wanted to be kinder to her. When Miss Vincent told us that story yesterday, I couldn't help thinkingof Cordelia, and that we might be on the wrong track with _her_, asthose horrid girls were with Miss Vincent. " "'Those horrid girls'! What does she mean, Alice?" asked Janey. Alice repeated Miss Vincent's story. "And Eva, " she went on, "has got itinto her head that Cordelia is like what Miss Vincent was, and that weare like those horrid girls. " "Not like them; not as bad as they were, _yet_; but we might be if wekept on, maybe. " "But it isn't the same thing at all, Eva, " struck in Janey. "That sweet, pretty Miss Vincent could never have been anything like Cordelia; andwe--I'm sure none of us have been like those horrid girls. I don't likeCordelia, but I don't say anything hateful to her, and none of us girlsdo. " "But you--we don't want her 'round with us, and we show it. We won'tdance with her if we can help it, and we've managed to keep her out ofthings that we were in, a good many times. " "Well, nobody wants a person 'round with them who makes herself sodisagreeable as Cordelia does; and as for dancing with her, she's neverin step, and is always treading upon you and bumping against you; and ineverything else it's just the same. " "Maybe she's shy, as Miss Vincent was. " "Shy! Cordelia Burr shy!" shouted Alice, in derision. "No; she's anything but shy, " said Janey; "she's as uppish andindependent as she can be. " "But maybe she puts that on. Maybe--" "Maybe she's a princess in disguise!" cried Alice, scornfully. "Well, I don't care. I think we ought to try and see if perhaps we arenot on the wrong track with her; and I--" "Now, Eva, " and Alice looked up very determinedly, "if you begin to takenotice of Cordelia, there'll be no getting away from her; she'll bepushing herself in where she isn't wanted, constantly. And there's justone thing more: I'll say, if you _do_ begin this, you'll have to do italone. I won't have anything to do with it; and, you'll see, the rest ofthe girls won't; and you'll be left to yourself with Miss Cordelia, anda nice time you'll have of it. " Eva made no answer. Indeed, she would have found it hard to speak, forshe was choking with tears, --tears that presently found vent in "a goodcry, " as Alice and Janey left the room. What should she do? What _could_ she do with all the girls against her?If she could only tell Miss Vincent, she could advise her. But MissVincent had been summoned home by illness that very morning. Poor Eva! the way before her looked extremely difficult. She was verysensitive, and Miss Vincent's story had made an impression upon her thatcould not be got rid of. She was astonished to find it had not made thesame impression upon Alice, --that Alice had not seen in it, as she had, a clear direction what to do, or what to try to do; and now here wasJaney, as entirely out of sympathy, and Alice had said that all the restof the girls would be the same. If Alice was right, it might--it mightmake a bad matter worse; it might make the girls dislike Cordelia more, to--to interfere. For a moment Eva felt that this view of the matterwould solve her difficulty, by exonerating her from undertaking hertask. The next moment there flashed into her mind these words of MissVincent's: "If only one of them had thought to say a kind word to me. " About half an hour later Alice and Janey, with three or four of theother girls, were practising in the gymnasium together. "I wonder where Eva is?" whispered Alice. "She's always here at thistime; she is so fond of the gym. " "She didn't like what we said, so perhaps she won't come to-day, "whispered Janey. "Well, I had to say what I did; if I hadn't, Eva would have--But thereshe is now, " as the door opened. Then aloud, "Eva, Eva, come over hereand try the bars with us. " Eva 's heart gave a little jump of gladness as she accepted thispleasantly spoken invitation. She hated to be on ill terms with anybody, and especially with Alice, of whom she was fond; and as she went forwardand swung herself lightly up beside her, she forgot for the momenteverything that was unpleasant. There was a pretty little running exercise up and down a gently inclinedplane that was in great favor at the school; and when the three swungdown from the bars, Alice proposed that they should try the race-track, as they called it. They were just starting off when the door opened, and Cordelia Burr camein. She stared about her in her odd frowning way, and then hurriedforward to join the runners. Eva gave a little start of recoil. Alicegave more than a start. She seized Eva and Janey by the wrists, and, pushing them before her, sent a nod and backward to several others whohad left the bars to come over to the race-track. She did not say evento herself that she meant to crowd Cordelia out; but the fact wasaccomplished, nevertheless, for by the time Cordelia reached the trackthere was no room for her. Eva had seen this same kind of stratagemenacted before, and thought it "fun. " Now, with her eyes and ears andheart open, through Miss Vincent's influence, the fun took on adifferent aspect. But what--what ought she to do? What _could_ she dothen? She might slip out and offer her place to Cordelia. But the girls, and Alice--Alice specially--would be _so_ angry. Oh, no, no, shecouldn't; it wouldn't do to brave them like that! Looking up as she cameto this conclusion, she saw Cordelia standing all alone, her faceflushed with anger or mortification, perhaps both. "If only one of them had thought to say a kind word to me!" flashedagain through Eva's mind. "Go on, go on; what are you lagging for?" whispered Alice, as Eva's pacefaltered here. Eva's eyes were fixed upon Cordelia, who had crossed the room and wasgoing towards the door. "Go on, go on; you are stopping us all!" exclaimed Alice, impatiently. But with a sudden supreme effort Eva flung away her cowardice, anddashed off the track, crying, "Cordelia! Cordelia!" Cordelia turned her head a moment, yet without staying her steps. Eva sprang forward and put out her hand, crying again, "Cordelia!Cordelia!" The runners had all stopped with one accord, as Eva sprang forward. Whatwas it, what was she going to do, to say, to Cordelia? Even Alice andJaney, who knew more than the others what was in Eva's mind, --even theywondered what she was going to do, to say. And when in the next instantshe cried breathlessly, "We--I--didn't mean to crowd you out; it--itwasn't fair; and--and you'll come back and take my place, Cordelia, won't you?" they, even Alice and Janey, forgot to be angry; forgoteverything at the moment in their astonishment and an involuntaryadmiration for Eva's courage in daring to do as she did--_against themall_! What Alice might have said or done when that moment had gone, andher mortification at Eva's disregard of her opinion had had chance tostart afresh, it is impossible to tell, for before that could takeplace something very unexpected happened, and this was a mostunlooked-for action on Cordelia's part. They all looked to see her turnwith one of her haughty, or what Alice and Janey called her uppish, independent glances upon Eva, and reject at once her appeal and offer. Instead of that--instead of coldness and haughty independence--they sawher, they heard her, suddenly give a shuddering, sobbing sigh, and then, dropping her face into her hands, break down utterly in a paroxysm oftears, --not tears of anger, of violence of any kind, but tears that, like the shuddering, sobbing sigh, seemed to come from a sore heartafter long repression. "Oh, Cordelia! Cordelia!" burst out Eva, putting her arm about Cordelia, "don't, don't cry. " Cordelia could not respond to this appeal, could not stop her tears; butas Eva bent over her in tender pity, she leaned forward and rested herhead against the arm that encircled her. As the girls who stood watchingsaw this, as they saw Eva with her own pocket-handkerchief try to wipeaway those tears, as they heard her say again, "Oh, Cordelia! Cordelia!don't, don't cry!" they looked at one another in a confused, questioningsort of way; and then, as they heard Eva speak again and with a breakingvoice, as they saw the bright drops of sympathy and pity and regretgather in her eyes and roll down her cheeks, they started uneasily, andone and then another moved forward in a half-frightened, embarrassedfashion towards the door. Eva glanced up at them reproachfully as theypassed. Were they not going to say a word, not a single word, toCordelia? Hadn't they any pity for her; hadn't they any shame for whatthey had done? Goaded by these thoughts, she burst out passionately, "Oh, girls, I should think--" and then broke down completely, and bowedher head against Cordelia's, unable to say another word. But somebodyelse took up her words, --the very words she had used a secondago, --somebody else whispered, -- "Don't cry, don't cry. " At the same moment a hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up to see--Alice King standing beside her. And then itseemed as if all the others were anxious to press forward; and one ofthem, the youngest of all, little Mary Leslie, a girl of ten, suddenlypiped out, -- "We--we didn't know as you'd care, like this, Cordelia. " And then Cordelia lifted up her swollen tear-stained face, and falteredout: "Care? How--how could I hel--help caring?" "But we thought--we thought you didn't like us, " said another, hesitatingly. "And I--I thought you hated and despised me, and I thought you'd despiseme more if--if I showed that I cared!" and Cordelia gave another littlesob, and covered her poor disfigured face again. "Oh, Cordelia, Cordelia!" cried one and then another, pityingly; andthen a voice, it sounded like Alice's, said, "We've been on the wrongtrack. " Just here a bell in the hall--the signal to those in the gymnasium thattheir half-hour was up--rang sharply out, and ashamed and sorry andrepentant the girls hurried away to their rooms to change their dressesand prepare for dinner. "Oh, Alice, Alice, you were so good!" cried Eva, flinging her armsaround Alice's neck the moment they were alone together. "Good? Don't--don't say that, " exclaimed Alice, starting back. "But you _were_. I--I was so afraid you'd be angry with me. I--" Alice now flung _her_ arms around her friend, and gave her a little hug, as she cried: "Oh, Eva, it's you who've been good. I--I've been--alittle fiend, I suppose, and I _was_ horridly angry at first; but whenI--I saw how--that Cordelia really was--that she really felt what shedid, I--oh, Eva!" laughing a little hysterically, "when you stoodmopping up Cordelia's tears, all I could think was, _there's_ a littleSamaritan. " "Oh, Alice!" "I did truly, and you'll go on as good as you've begun, and end byliking and loving Cordelia because you pity her, I dare say. But thoughI'm going to behave myself, and _bear_ with her, I shall never come upto that, for she is so queer and so clumsy, and she _does_ dress so! I'mgoing to behave myself, though, I am, --I am; but I hope she won't expecttoo much, that she won't push forward too fast now. " "Oh, Alice, I don't believe Cordelia's that kind of a girl at all; she'stoo proud. I think she's awkward and queer, and don't know about dressand things, because she's lived 'way out there on the plains, butshe'll improve when she finds we mean to be friendly to her; you see ifshe doesn't. " And Eva was right. By the end of the term Cordelia had improved so muchin the friendlier atmosphere that surrounded her that she was quite likeanother girl. No longer uneasy and suspicious, she lost herself-consciousness, and with it a good deal of her awkwardness andapparent ill temper, and began to blossom out happily and cheerily as agirl should. Even her face brightened and bloomed in this atmosphere, and by and by she took Eva and Alice and Janey into her confidence sofar that she shyly asked their advice about her dress, and profited byit to such an extent that Alice could no longer say, "She _does_ dressso!" ESTHER BODN. CHAPTER I. "Oh, Laura, I want you to come home with me to-morrow after school anddine, and stay the evening. We shall be alone together, for mamma andpapa are going out to a dinner-party. You'll come, won't you? Mamma toldme to ask you. " "If it was any other evening. " "Now, Laura, you are not going to say you can't come!" "I must, Kitty. I have promised to take tea with Esther Bodn. " "Esther Bodn!" "Yes, she asked me to fix a day this week when I could come, and Ifixed Thursday, --to-morrow. " "But, Laura, can't you postpone it? Tell her how it is, --that mamma andpapa are going away, and that Mary and Agnes are in New York, and Ishall be all alone unless you come. Can't you do that, Laura?" "I don't want to do that, Kitty. " "Oh, you'd rather go to that little Bodn girl's than to come to me!" "I didn't say that, and I didn't mean that, Kitty. I meant that I didn'twant to do what you asked, because it wouldn't be polite or kind. " "Well, it seems to me, Laura Brooks, that you are putting on veryceremonious airs all at once. Didn't you postpone until another day avisit to Amy Stanton last winter, for just such a reason as this, --thatyou might go to Annie Grainger's when her mother went to Baltimore, --andAmy never thought of its being impolite or unkind. " "But that was different, Kitty. " "Different? Show me where the difference is, please. " "Oh, Kitty, you _know_. " "But I _don't_ know. " Laura's delicate face flushed a little, but after a moment's hesitationshe said: "Esther is--is not like Amy Stanton or you; that is, shedoesn't live in the same way. The Bodns are poor, --quite poor, Kitty. " "Well, I don't see how that alters the case, " still obstinatelyresponded Kitty. "Now, Kitty, you _do_ see. Esther is shy and sensitive. She doesn'tvisit the people that we do. " "She doesn't visit _anybody_, so far as I know. " "Yes, that is just it, " Laura went on eagerly; "and so you see that whenshe and her mother have made preparations for company--even oneperson--it would put them to a great deal of trouble and inconvenienceto change the time, and it would be unkind and impolite to ask them todo it. " "How do you know that they have made such unusual preparations for you?"asked Kitty, sarcastically. Laura flushed again as she answered: "I didn't mean unusual in one way, but I thought that they didn't often invite company by something thatEsther said. When she asked me to fix a day, she told me that her motherwasn't very well, and that they didn't keep a servant. " "Not keep a servant! Not a single one! Why, they must be awfully poor, like common working-people!" exclaimed the young Beacon Street girl, ina wondering tone. "Esther isn't common, if she is poor, " Laura instantly asserted withdecision. "I don't understand how anybody so poor as that should be sent to MissMilwood's school. I shouldn't think they could afford it, " went onKitty; "why, the place for her is a public school. " "But, Kitty, don't you know that Esther assists Miss Milwood, --that itis Esther who looks over all the French and German exercises, and makesthe first corrections before mademoiselle takes them?" "Esther Bodn?" "Yes, --why, Esther, you must have noticed, is very proficient in Frenchand German. She and her mother have lived abroad and here, in French andGerman families, to prepare her for being a teacher. She has a greatnatural aptitude, too, for languages. " "How in the world did you find all this out, Laura?" "I didn't _find it out_, as you call it, --there is no secret aboutit, --Esther would no doubt have told you as much, if you had got as wellacquainted with her as I have. " "I don't see how you came to get so well acquainted with her. She's niceenough, but I could always see that she wasn't like the rest of us, --ofour set. " "Like the rest of us! She's just as good as the rest of us, and betterthan some of us. " "Oh, I dare say, " said Kitty, in a patronizing tone. "She may not be of our set, as you say, Kitty; but when I think of howMaud and Florence Aplin talk sometimes, I don't feel very proud ofbelonging to 'our set. '" "Yes, I know, Maud and Flo do brag awfully now and then; but they arenice girls, and it is a nice family, mamma says. " "Every one seems to say that about them, and I've often wondered whatthey meant. I'm sure Mr. Aplin isn't very nice. He has no end of money, I know, but he can be so rude, and Mrs. Aplin is so patronizing. Now, why should they be called such 'nice people'?" Kitty straightened herself up, put on a very knowing look, and repeatedparrot-like what she had heard older persons say, -- "Mrs. Aplin was a Windlow. " "What in the world is a Windlow?" asked Laura, rather sarcastically. Kitty was a worldly young woman, but she was also full of fun; and thisquestion of Laura's amused her mightily, and with a suppressed giggleshe answered demurely: "I think it has something to do with windows. TheWindlows were English, and I believe their business was to open and shutthe windows in the king's palaces, --perhaps to wash them. This all beganages ago, and it was considered a great honor, a tip-top thing to do, especially when the windows were high up. The honor has descended fromgeneration to generation, and the name with it, I believe. They had somevery ordinary name at the start. " The giggle, that had been suppressed up to this point, now burst forthin a shout of laughter, wherein Laura herself joined, exclaiming, as shedid so, "Oh, Kitty, you are so ridiculous!" "Why don't you make a rhyme and say, 'Oh, Kitty, you're so witty'? But, Laura, it is you who are odd and ridiculous, to pretend that you don'tknow that Windlow is one of the oldest names of one of the oldestfamilies who came over to America in the Mayflower, --regular oldaristocrats. " "Now, Kitty, I'm up in my history, if I'm not on this society stuff, andjust let me tell you that those first settlers of America who came overin the Mayflower were _not_ aristocrats. " "Oh, Laura, when everybody who can, brags of a Mayflower ancestor! Iheard Mrs. Arkwright say to mamma, the other day that the Aplins were ofthe real old Mayflower blue blood. " "Then Mrs. Arkwright, with the 'everybody' you tell of, doesn't knowwhat history says. " "Why, I'm sure I thought that was history. " "Well, it isn't. Last year I went with my father to Plymouth, and hetook me to the famous rock where the Mayflower pilgrims landed, andafterward he gave me a lovely book called 'The Olden Time, ' by EdmundSears, that told me all about the pilgrims, --who they were, and why theycame over, and everything, and I remember it said in this book that thePlymouth pilgrims were constantly confounded--those were the verywords--with the Puritans who came over nine years later toMassachusetts. " "But Plymouth is in Massachusetts. " "Yes, I know, but it wasn't in that day. It was simply Plymouth Colony. The Mayflower sailed by Cape Cod into Plymouth Bay. They named the bayPlymouth, as they named the town Plymouth, for the old Plymouth inEngland. " "Did they name Cape Cod too?" "No; that name was given years before by Captain Gosnold, an earlyvoyager. " "Oh, I know, he caught such a lot of codfish there. I wish he'd neverdiscovered the place; I hate codfish. But go on with your historylesson, Miss Brooks. I haven't any Mayflower ancestors, and so I'm morethan resigned to have them taken down from their aristocratic peg. " "But they were lovely people, --lovely; kind and good to everybody, whether they believed as they did or not, for they had been persecutedthemselves in the old country they had left for their opinions, and theymeant that every one in the new country should worship as they pleased. They were very intelligent people, too, though, as this history says, 'from the middle and humbler walks of English life. ' It was the men whocame over to Massachusetts Bay and settled in Boston who were thearistocrats, and they were not nearly so liberal and generous as thePlymouth men. The head ones were stiff and overbearing, and meddled andinterfered with people who didn't think as they did, and made a lot ofstrict little laws about all sorts of things, so that the name of'Puritan' and 'puritanical' came to be used for anything that wasbigoted and narrow-minded; and these names have stuck to all NewEngland, and papa says that at this day people mix up things, and thinkthat the Mayflower people and Boston people were all alike. " Kitty Grant gave a little hop, skip, and jump here, to Laura'sastonishment. "Oh, Laura, it's such larks, " she cried out. The two girlswere walking down Beacon Street on their way home from school, and Lauralooked about her to see what Kitty had so suddenly discovered to callout such an exclamation. Seeing nothing unusual, she asked, "_What_ issuch larks?" Kitty laughed. "Oh, Laura, can't you see that this little fact you havepulled out from this tangled-up colony business, this dear dreadfullittle fact that the Mayflowers were not aristocrats, only--what doesyour history book say? Oh, I have it--'from the middle and humbler walksof English life;' not blue Mayflowers, but common colors--can't you seethat it will be such larks for me to use this little fact like a littlebombshell, when Mrs. Arkwright, or Maud, or Flo Aplin, or any of theseMayflower braggers begin to hold forth?" "Why, Kitty, I thought you liked Maud and Flo!" "I do when they don't give me too much Mayflower. I've always thought, and so has mamma, that this was their one fault, --that if it wasn't forthat, they would be pretty near perfect; and now--and now, Brooksie, Ishall proceed to be the means of grace that shall make them paragons ofperfection. Oh, Laura, you're a treasure with that head of yours crammedfull of facts, and I'll forgive you anything for this last little fact, even for neglecting me for that little Bodn girl!" "I haven't neglected you. " "Well, snubbed me, then. " "Nor snubbed you. I only want to be considerate and polite to Esther;that's all. " "What a horrid name she has! Did you ever think of it, Laura--EstherBodn--Bodn?" "I don't think it's horrid at all. I like it. " "B-o-d-n--Bodn--it sounds awfully common. " "Why, Kitty, it's spelled B-o-w-d-o-i-n, the same as our Bowdoin Street, and pronounced Bod'n, as that is!" "Is it, really? I didn't know that. " "I'm sure Bowdoin Street sounds well enough. " "Well, yes, I've always rather liked the sound of it; but then, youknow, I always _saw_ and _felt_ the spelling, when I saw it. What in theworld was the pronunciation ever snipped off like that for? It ought tobe pronounced just as it is spelled. I've a good mind to pronounce it sothe next time I speak to Esther. " "No, I wouldn't do that; but you might _think_ of her as Miss Bowdoin, "answered Laura, dryly. "Oh, Laura, what a head full of wisdom you've got! I don't see how Iever lived without you. But--see here, tell me what street Miss Bowdoinlives in. " Laura hesitated a moment; then answered, "McVane Street. " "Where is McVane Street, for pity's sake? I never heard of it, --one ofthose horrid South End streets, I suppose?" "No, it is at the West End, beyond Cambridge Street, down by theMassachusetts Hospital. " "No, no, Laura Brooks, you _don't_ mean that she lives down there by thewharves?" "It isn't by the wharves, " cried Laura, indignantly. "Well, it isn't far off. One of the regular old tumble-down streets, given up long ago to cobblers and tinkers of all kinds, and you're goingto take tea with a girl who lives in that frowsy, dirty place!" "It isn't frowsy and dirty. It's only an old, unfashionable street, butnot frowsy or dirty. It's quite clean and quiet, and has shade-trees andlittle grass plots to some of the houses. Why, it used to be the courtend of the town years ago. " "So was North Bennet Street, and all the rest of the North End; and nowit's turned over to the rag-tag of creation, --Russian Jews, and everyother kind of a foreigner, --and look here!" suddenly interruptingherself, as a new idea struck her, "I'll bet you anything that thisEsther Bodn is a foreigner, --an emigrant herself of some sort. " "Kitty!" "Yes, I'll bet you a pair of gloves, --eight-buttoned ones, --and I don'tbelieve her name is spelled at all like our Bowdoin Street. I believethey--her mother and she--spell it that way _to suit themselves_. Ibelieve it's just Bodn; and that is an outlandish foreign name, if I--" "Kitty, I think it's positively wicked for you to talk like this, --it'sslander. " Kitty laughed, and, wagging her head to and fro, sang in a merry littleundertone, -- "Taffy is a Welshman, Taffy is a thief Flaunting as a Yankee man; that's my belief. " Laura couldn't help joining in this laugh, Kitty was so droll; but thelaugh died out in the next breath, as she said, -- "Now, Kitty, don't go and talk like this to the other girls; don't--" "Laura, how _did_ it ever come about that the Bodn invited you to tea?"interrupted Kitty. "It came about as naturally as this: One day I was going along BoylstonStreet, and just as I got to the public library I met Esther coming outwith her arms full of books. I joined her, and insisted upon carryingsome of the books for her; and after a little hesitation she accepted myoffer, and led the way across the Common to the opposite gateway uponCharles Street. Here she stopped, and held out one hand for the books, and said, 'It was so kind of you to help me. Thank you very much. ' "'But I'm not going to leave you here, ' I said; 'I'll walk home withyou. ' 'But it's a long walk to where I live, ' she answered. I told her Ididn't think anything of a long walk, and insisted on going further withher. I felt sorry, however, a minute after, for I saw that I had made amistake, --that she didn't want me to go with her; but I didn't know howto turn back at once then, as she had started up briskly at myinsistence with another 'Thank you. ' But when we turned into CambridgeStreet, I began to understand why she didn't want me, --she feltsensitive and afraid of my criticism; and I don't wonder--" "Nor I, either, " struck in Kitty, in a flippant tone. "I should have felt sensitive, " went on Laura, pityingly, "and I was sosorry for her; but I was determined to keep on then, and seem to takeno notice, and somehow make her understand that it made no difference tome where she lived. I felt sorrier and sorrier for her, though, as shewent on down Cambridge Street, past all those liquor and provision andsecond-hand furniture shops, with the tenements over them, and I was sothankful for her when she turned out of all this, and we crossed overand went into a quiet old street, and came out upon the pretty groundsof the Massachusetts Hospital; and as soon as I saw these grounds, Isaid, 'Oh, how pretty!' and then we turned again, and it was into thestreet opposite the hospital. It was almost as quiet as the countrythere. There were no shops at all, and the houses, though they lookedold, were in very good repair, and some of them had been freshlypainted, and had little grass plots beside them; and it was before oneof these that Esther stopped, and then she said, 'If we had come overthe hill, the way would have been pleasanter, ' and I said just what Ifelt, --that I thought it was very pleasant, anyway, when you got there, and that the sunset must be beautiful from the windows. She was takingthe books from me as I said this, and she looked up at me for a second, as if she were studying me, and then she asked me if I would like tocome in some bright day, and see her and the sunsets, --that they werevery beautiful from the upper windows. I told her I would like to comevery much, and thanked her for asking me; and then I kissed her, for--" "And struck up an intimate friendship at once, " burst in Kitty, laughing. "No, for this was some weeks ago, and she's only just asked me to setthe day when I could come. Oh, Kitty, you may make fun all you like; butshe is a very interesting girl, --my mother thinks she is too. " "Oh, you've introduced her to your mother, have you?" "I have told mamma about her, and I brought her in one afternoon to seethe pictures, --she's very fond of pictures, --and mamma asked her to stayto luncheon, but she couldn't. " "And now it is you who are going to make the first visit, going tosunsets and tea on McVane Street!" "Laura! Laura!" called a voice here; and Laura looked up, to see herbrother Jack in his T-cart pulling up at the curbstone. The next minuteshe was whirling off with him, bowing good-by to Kitty; and Kitty wascalling after her mischievously, -- "Laura, Laura, tell your brother you are going to take tea with a girlwho lives on McVane Street!" CHAPTER II. The spirited horse that young Jack Brooks drove held his attention socompletely at that moment that he had no time to bestow upon anythingelse; but when he was well out on the broad, clear roadway of the"Neck, " he turned to his sister, and asked, "What did Kitty Grant; meanby your going to take tea with a girl who lives on McVane Street?" "It is one of the girls at Miss Milwood's school, --Esther Bodn. " "How does a girl who lives on McVane Street come to go to Miss Milwood'sschool?" "She assists Miss Milwood. " And Laura told what she knew of Esther'sassistance in the way of the French and German. "Oh!" and the young man gave a satisfied sort of nod as he uttered this, as much as to say, "That explains it;" and then, dismissing the subjectfrom his mind, turned his whole attention again to his horse, whileLaura drew a deep breath of relief. She had begun to think that if herbrother were to take up Kitty's cry against McVane Street, she mightfind her anticipated visit set about with thorns. "But I shall go, Ishall go!" she said to herself, "whatever Jack may say, when mamma saysthat I may. " But Jack said no more on that occasion, nor when his mother, the nextday at luncheon, asked Laura what time Miss Bodn expected her, did theyoung gentleman make any remark. He had evidently forgotten the matteraltogether; and Laura, without further anxiety, set out upon her littlejourney to McVane Street. Kitty Grant had laughed that morning when Laura had told her that shewas to go to Esther's at four o'clock and leave at six, that she mightbe in time for her own dinner hour, --had laughed and said, "Oh, aregular 'four-to-six, '--a sunset tea! The little Bodn is 'up' on'sassiety' matters, isn't she? Dear me, I wish _I_ could go with you, --Inever went to a sunset tea. Couldn't you take me along?" "No, I'm sure I couldn't, " Laura had answered, laughing a little, but alittle irritated, nevertheless, at Kitty's tone; and when Kitty had goneon and declared that nobody could be more appreciative than herself, Laura had retorted, -- "Yes; but you make great mistakes in your appreciations. You wouldn'tappreciate Esther's own sweetness and refinement at their real worth, ifthe carpets and curtains and chairs and things in the house on McVaneStreet didn't happen to please your taste. " These words of hers returned to Laura with great force as the door ofthe house on McVane Street was opened to her, and she found herself in achilly hall, darkly papered and darkly and shabbily carpeted; and whenshe followed Esther up the stairs, --for it was Esther who had answeredher ring, --and noted the general dreariness of the whole, she thoughtpityingly, "Poor Esther, to be obliged to live in such a dismalfashion. " It was in this depressed state of mind that she came to the top of thestairs. Here Esther was waiting for her; and as she pushed wide open adoor in front of her, she said brightly, "Here we are, " and Laura, turning, stood for a moment dumb with surprise, as she saw a room thatby contrast with the dinginess of the halls looked almost luxurious, forit was all lightness and brightness and warmth and sweet odors, withthe sunshine streaming in upon a window full of plants, and touching upa quantity of woodcuts, photographs, and water-colors, with a few oils, and two or three fine etchings, --all of which pretty nearly hid the uglydark wallpaper. A little coal fire in a low grate made things stillbrighter, and brought out the soft faded reds of the rug, and purplesand yellows of the worn chintz covers of lounge and chairs. And right inthe lightest and brightest spot of all this lightness and brightnessstood a little claw-footed round table, bearing an old-fashionedtea-service of china. The sunshine seemed actually to fill up the cupsand spill over into the gilt-bordered saucers, as Laura looked. "It is a'sunset tea, ' indeed, " she said to herself; "and if Kitty Grant couldsee how pretty and refined were the simple arrangements, she wouldn'tmix Esther up with any horrid common emigrants, if she _does_ live onMcVane Street. Esther a foreigner of any kind! Nothing could be moreabsurd. Esther was a New England girl, if ever there was one, --a littleNew England girl, who had come up with her mother to Boston from theCape perhaps to learn to be a teacher. Yes, that must be the explanationof McVane Street. The Bodns were people who had come up from thecountry, and country people of small means wouldn't be likely to knowwhere to choose a home. " Laura had all this settled satisfactorily in her mind after she hadchatted awhile with Esther in the sunny room, and taken in morecompletely its various details, such as the fishnet drapery by thewindows, the group of shells on the plant-stand, and several photographsof a sea-coast. And when shown other sea-country treasures, --bits ofcoral and ivory and mosses, --things grew plainer than ever, and shebegan to have a very clear notion of Esther's past surroundings, andpictured her mother as one of those neat, trim, anxious-faced littlewomen she had often seen in her sea or mountain summerings. It was justwhen she had got this fancy picture sharply defined that she heardEsther say, as a door leading from the next room opened, -- [Illustration: A tall, handsome woman smiled a greeting] "Mother dear, this is my friend Laura Brooks, I've told you about;" andLaura, rising hastily, turned to see no trim, anxious-faced littleperson, but a tall, handsome, dark-eyed woman smiling a greeting to herdaughter's guest over the pot of tea and plate of bread and butter thatshe carried. Not in the least like the fancy picture; but who--who wasit she suggested? All through the little meal this question kept recurring to Laura. Where_had_ she seen that dark, handsome face before? It recurred to heragain, as she followed the mother and daughter up to the littlethird-story room, to see the beautiful sunset effects. Where _had_ sheseen just that profile against such a sunset light? Then all at once, asthe declining beams sent a redder ray across the nose and chin, thequestion was answered. The red ray had also illumined Laura's own face, and Mrs. Bodn, turning suddenly, caught the girl's curiously animatedexpression, and asked inquiringly, "What is it, my dear?" and Lauraanswered eagerly, -- "Oh, do you know that picture of Walter Scott's 'Rebecca, ' painted bysome great English artist, I think? My uncle has a copy of it in hislibrary, and it is so like you, _so_ like you, Mrs. Bodn. The moment Isaw you I was sure that I had met you before; but just now, when thesunset lit up your face, I knew at once what made it so familiar. It wasits great resemblance to the 'Rebecca. ' Oh, _do_ you know the picture, Mrs. Bodn?" "Yes, perfectly well, " answered Mrs. Bodn, quietly; "but it was notpainted by an English artist, it was the work of a young German who isnow dead. He was very little known, though he did some fine work. " "And did you know that the picture was so like you, Mrs. Bodn?" "Well, yes, I knew that it was thought to be like me when it waspainted; and it ought to be, you know, for I sat for it, --I was themodel. " "You were a--a--the model, " gasped Laura, in astonishment. "Yes, I was a--a--the model, " answered Mrs. Bodn, repeating Laura's ownhalting syllables, with an accent half of amusement, half of sarcasm. Then, more seriously, she added, "It was years ago, when I was living inMunich. " "Esther, where are you?" a voice from the floor below here called out. "We are up in your room looking at the sunset; it's lovely; come up andsee it, " Esther called back. And the next moment Laura was beingintroduced to "My cousin, David Wybern, "--a tall, good-looking boy offifteen or sixteen, with beautiful dark eyes like Mrs. Bodn's. The nextmoment after that, when this tall, good-looking boy, in addressing Mrs. Bodn, called her "Aunt Rebecca, " like a flash these thoughts went flyingthrough Laura's mind, -- "A model for Rebecca the Jewess, and her own name Rebecca, and herdaughter's and her nephew's names, --Esther, David, --these also Hebrewnames!" What did it signify? Kitty--Kitty would say that it proved _she_was right, --that they _were_ the very people she had said they were. But, oh, they were not; they were not of that common kind that Kitty hadclassed so scornfully! No matter if her mother _had_ been a model yearsago, it was through poverty, of course, and she was very brave not to beashamed of it; and Esther, --Esther was lovely, a girl to be good to, tobe true to, and she, Laura Brooks, would be good to her and true to her, no matter what happened. Poor Laura, she little knew how this resolvewould be put to the test within the next few hours, for she could notforesee that the fact of the coachman's forgetfulness to call for her, as he had been ordered to do, and her consequent acceptance of DavidWybern's attendance, was to bring such a storm about her. It had seemedthe simplest thing in the world, when half-past six struck, and nocarriage came for her, to accept David's attendance, and just as simple, when the street cars rushed by, without an inch of standing-room, towalk on and up over the hill to Beacon Street. But in this walk ithappened that her brother had passed her as he drove by with one of hisfriends, and he had gone straight home and into the dining-room with thewords, "What does this mean?" and then he proceeded to tell how he hadpassed his sister accompanied by a young man or boy who looked to himlike one of the clerks in Weyman & Co. 's importing-house. What did it mean, indeed? Her father and mother also wondered andexclaimed; and when Laura appeared, and told them what it meant, therewas a general outcry of disapproval and criticism, led on by herbrother, who told her she should have waited and sent a message to themby this boy, instead of permitting him to walk home with her. In vainLaura spoke of the boy's good manners, of the refined aspect of thelittle home which she had just visited, and the intelligence and dignityof Mrs. Bodn and her daughter. Nothing she said seemed to ameliorate thedisapproval or criticism; and at last, stung by a sore sense ofinjustice, the girl turned upon her father and said, "Papa, I've alwaysheard you say that everybody should be judged by their worth, and you'veoften and often quoted from that poem of Robert Burns that you are sofond of, about honest poverty, and I remember two lines particularly, that you seemed to like most of all, -- "'That sense and worth o'er a' the earth May bear the prize and a' that;' "and yet now, now--" "But, my dear child, " as Laura here broke down with a little sob, --"mydear child, it isn't that these people are poor, --it is because we don'tknow anything about them. " "I--I think it is because you _do_ know that--that they live on McVaneStreet, " faltered Laura. "Well, that _is_ to know nothing about them, in the sense that fathermeans, " broke in her brother, sharply. "Their living there shows thatthey are the kind of people that are out of our class entirely, --peoplethat we don't _want_ to know. I didn't think it mattered much the otherday, when you told me you were going down there to take tea with yourteacher; but when I find you are to make friends with the young clerkswho are the relations of your teacher, I think it matters a good deal. " "But this clerk, as you call him, has a great deal better manners thanCharley Aplin. He behaves a great deal more like a gentleman. " "And he has a much longer nose, " retorted her brother, with a sneeringlittle laugh. "The fellow's a Jew, I'm certain; he has a regular Jewishface. " "He has _not_, " began Laura, indignantly, and then stopped suddenly. Itwas the low trader-type of Jewish face reflected from her brother's mindthat she saw as she spoke; then Mrs. Bodn's beautiful profile and thatof her nephew rose before her! If they--if they--her brother, herfather, could see these faces, --these faces so fine and intelligent, andsaw, too, the likeness that she had seen to the portrait in her uncle'slibrary, --would they feel differently, --would they do justice to Estherand her relations, though they _were_ Jews, --would they admit that theywere of the higher type, that they were fit friends for her? No, no, no, she answered herself, as soon as these questions started up in her mind, and, stung through all her generous young heart by these instinctiveanswers, she burst forth: "You talk about Jews as if there were but oneclass, --the lowest class. What if all Americans were judged by thelowest class? Would you call that fair? And you think the Bodns are thelowest kind just because they are poor and live on McVane Street! Thatgreat novelist who lived in England and who was prime minister there, Lord Beaconsfield, was a Jew, and he was proud of it; and theMendelssohns were Jews; and there are those wonderful musical novelsUncle George gave me to read last summer, 'Charles Auchester' and'Counterparts, ' they are full of Jews and their genius--" "Laura, Laura, there is no need of your talking like this, " interruptedher father; "we are not going to deny the worth or respectability ofyour new acquaintances, but it is entirely unnecessary for you to rushinto any intimacy with such strangers. " There was a look in her father's face, as he spoke, that told Laura veryplainly that all she had said had done more harm than good, and thathenceforth there would be no more "sunset teas" with Esther Bodn. Allher little plans, too, for making Esther's life brighter, by welcomingher into her own home, and bringing her into a better acquaintance withthe other girls, were rendered impossible now. But if she could not begood to her in this way, she would be more than ever kind and cordial toher at school, and she would try to enlist Kitty Grant's interest. Shewould tell Kitty about that pretty refined home, and ask her to be kindand cordial too; and she was sure that Kitty would not refuse, for, inspite of her fun and her worldliness, Kitty had really a kind heart. Yes, she would enlist Kitty, and Kitty was all powerful. If she once gotinterested in a person, she could make everybody else interested. But, alas, for this scheme! CHAPTER III. Alas! because Kitty had already taken her stand on the other side. Shehad already told the girls that Esther Bodn lived on McVane Street, innear neighborhood to a lot of rum-shops and foreigners, and had then"made fun, " in the same rattling way that she had used with Laura, airing all her little suspicions and suggestions about the name of Bodn, in the half-frolic fashion that always had such effect upon thelisteners. It had such effect on this occasion, that Laura found thatevery girl had passed from indifference to an active prejudice againstEsther. Kitty herself had not meant to produce this result. Indeed, Kitty had had no meaning whatever but that of amusing herself, --"makingfun;" and when the girls, relishing this "fun, " laughed and applauded, she did not realize that she had done a mischievous thing. Poor Laura, however, realized everything as the days went by, and she saw Esthersubjected to a certain critical observation. Her only hope was that theperson most interested did not notice this; but one day she came uponEsther at recess, bending over a pile of exercises, at which she wasapparently hard at work. "What's the rush, Esther, that you've got to work at recess?" she asked. Esther murmured an unintelligible reply, and bent her head still lower;and then it was that Laura, to her dismay, saw a tear drop to theexercises upon the desk. "Esther, Esther, what is the matter? Tell me!" "I--I don't know, " faltered Esther, "but things seem different. I alwaysknew that the girls didn't care very much for me, but they were notunkind. Now--they--seem unkind some way. Perhaps it's only my fancy, but--but they seem to look down on me as they didn't before, and--andsometimes they seem to avoid me, and--I'm just the same as ever, except--except I'm a good deal shabbier this spring. I've always beenrather shabby, but this spring it's worse, because we've lost somemoney, --not much, but it was a good deal to us, and I couldn't haveanything new; and--and there's another thing--one morning I overheardone of the girls say to Kitty Grant, 'McVane Street, that is enough!'They must have been talking about me and where I live. Nobody else herelives on McVane Street, and we--mother and I--wouldn't live there if wecould afford to live where we liked; but we came here strangers, andthis was much the most comfortable place we could find for what we couldpay. I know it's in a disagreeable part of the city; but it _isn't_ bad, it _isn't_ low, where we are, it's only run down and shabby. But Ithought Boston people were above judging others by such things. I'dalways heard that Boston girls--" "Boston girls! oh, don't talk to me of Boston girls, don't talk to me ofany girls anywhere, " burst in Laura. "I'm sick--sick of girls. Girlswill do things and say things--little, mean, petty things--that boyswould be ashamed to do or say. " "Then you _do_ think it's because of my shabbiness and where I livethat--that has made them--these girls so--so different; but why shouldthey--all at once? I can't understand. " "Don't try to understand! Don't bother your head about them--they don'tmean--they don't know--they are not worth your notice. You are a long, long way above them!" "Mother didn't want to come to Boston to live; but when my uncle JohnWybern, mother's brother, died three years ago, --he died in Munich; hewas an artist, like my father, and we'd all lived together, since myfather's death, --we came on here, as uncle had advised, because he knewsome one here in an importing-house who would get David a situation. Hedidn't want David to be an artist. He said it was such an anxious, hand-to-mouth life, if one didn't make a quick success of it; and _heknew_, for _he_ hadn't made a success any more than my fatherhad, --and--and this is why we came here, and are here now on McVaneStreet, though my mother didn't want to come. But _I_ wanted to comefrom the first. I'd heard and read so much about Boston, I thought I wassure to be happy here, for I thought the people were so noble andhigh-minded, and--" There was a pathetic little faltering break again atthis, which was resolutely repressed, and the sentence resumed with, "and then I knew my father's people had once--" But at this point, "Esther, " called out Miss Milwood from the doorway, "bring the exercisesinto my room, and we'll finish them together. " Almost at that very moment Kitty Grant came running down the aisle, calling out, "Laura, Laura, are you going this afternoon to the ArtClub?" "To hear Monsieur Baudouin? Yes. " "Well, we'll go together, then. " "Very well. " "Very well, " mimicking Laura's cool tones; then with a change of voice, "Laura, what _is_ the matter? You are enough to freeze anybody. Whathave I done?" "You've done a very cruel thing. " "Laura!" "Yes, I sha'n't take back my words, --you have done a very cruel thing. " "For pity's sake, what do you mean?" "You may well say 'for _pity's_ sake;'" and then Laura burst forth andrepeated, word for word, the conversation that had transpired betweenEsther and herself, concluding with, "And you--_you_, Kitty, are toblame for this, for it is you who have prejudiced the girls againstEsther with your talk about McVane Street and the foreigners in thatneighborhood. " "I? Just my little fun about McVane Street and your sunset tea there?" "Yes, just your little fun! I know what your fun is! Oh, Kitty, Kitty, I _did_ think you had a kind heart! But to be the means of hurtinganybody, as you have hurt Esther, --it is--it is--" "Laura, Laura, don't, " as Laura here broke down in a little fit ofsobbing. "Of course I didn't know--I didn't think. Oh, dear, I'll tellthe girls I didn't mean a word I said, --that I'm the biggest liar intown; that Esther is an heiress; that--that--oh, I'll do or sayanything, if you'll only stop crying, Laura. There, there, " as Lauratried to stifle a fresh sob, "that's right, take my handkerchief, --yoursis sopping wet, and--My goodness, there comes Maud Aplin--she _must_ notsee us sniffing and sobbing like this, she'll say we've had a quarrel. Here, let us go into the little recitation-room, quick now, before shesees us. " And into the little recitation-room Laura was very willing to go andhide her tear-stained face from inquisitive eyes, while Kitty, penitentand overcome more by the spectacle of these tears than by a sense of herown shortcomings, followed briskly after, with this cheerful littlerunning fire of remarks, anent the Art Club lecturer: "I'm justcrazy--_crazy_ to see this Monsieur Baudouin; for what do you think FloAplin says? That he is a real viscomte or marquis, or something of thatsort, but that he came into his title only a year or two ago, and ismuch prouder of his reputation as an art authority and critic and hisname, Pierre Baudouin, --it's his own name, you know, --and he won hisreputation under that. The Aplins met him last year in Paris. WindlowAplin, who is studying art there, just swears by him, and says theartists dote on him, and Flo says he is perfectly elegant. Etching ishis great fad now, and he is going to lecture this afternoon on etchingand etchers. Oh, I'm just crazy to see and hear him, aren't you?" Laura had by this time conquered her tears, thanks to Kitty'sadroitness, and, with a half-humorous, half-grateful appreciation ofthis adroitness, she thought to herself as she walked round to the ArtClub with Kitty that afternoon, "Kitty _has_ a good heart, after all. " The Art Club hall was quite full as they entered; but there were seatswell down in front, and there they found most of the school girls underMiss Milwood's charge. Esther was one of this party; and Kitty made agreat point of leaning forward and bowing to her with much graciousness. The next moment she was whispering to Laura, "There, didn't I behaveprettily to Esther this time? You'll see now--" But at that instant aslender dark-eyed gentleman, accompanied by one of the artists, was seencoming rapidly up the aisle, and, "Look, look, there he is!" criedKitty, "and _isn't_ he elegant?" And Laura looking, as she was told, found no reason to disagree withthis comment. "But I _do_ hope, " whispered the irrepressible Kitty again, as MonsieurBaudouin ascended the platform, --"I _do_ hope he is as interesting as helooks; appearances are deceitful sometimes. " But no one of that audiencefound Pierre Baudouin's appearance deceitful. He was more thaninteresting, --he was enthralling as he went on with his almost lovingconsideration of his subject, setting before his hearers, in a melodiousvoice and very good English, some of the results of his great knowledgeand experience. You could have heard a pin drop, as the saying goes, sospell-bound was the audience; and at the end there was a warm outburstof applause, and then a gathering about him, as he left the platform, of the various artists, and others who were eager to speak with him. Hewas standing with this little group, when Laura, watching and listeningjust outside of it, heard him say, "There is a remarkable etching that Iwish I could show you, for it proves completely the theory I have justplaced before you. I saw it but once, in the artist's own studio, as Iwas passing through Munich. When a little later I heard that the artistwas dead, and his effects for sale, I tried to buy the etching, but wastold that it had been given to a friend, a Mr. John Wybern. Since then, I have learned that Mr. Wybern has also died, and I started again on mysearch; but it has been fruitless so far, though I still hope I may comeacross it, and be able, if not to add it to my collection, to examine itagain. The artist, by the way, is the same one that painted thatremarkable picture, 'Rebecca the Jewess. '" Laura turned hastily around to look for Esther. She had not to look far. Esther was just behind her. "Esther, did you hear?" she asked. Esther nodded. "Do you know about the etching?" [Illustration: She was addressing Monsieur Baudouin] "Yes, it hangs in our parlor. I wish I dared go forward now and tellhim. " "Oh, Esther, do, do!" But Esther hung back. Then Laura obeyed an impulse that forever afterfilled her with astonishment. She pressed forward, and, before she hadtime to think twice, was addressing Monsieur Baudouin, and telling himwhat she knew. "What! you can tell me where this etching is? You can take me to it?" heexclaimed, with a sort of joyful incredulity. Laura answered by turning to Esther and saying. "This young lady cantell you more about it. The etching is in the possession of her family. " "Ah, and this young lady is--" Laura reached back, seized Esther's hand, and pulled her to her side. "Is Miss Bodn. " "Mees _Bodn_!" he repeated with a start. "Mees _Bodn_! Ah, pardon me, doyou spell this name B-o-w-d-o-i-n?" "You do, you do, " as Esther answered in the affirmative; "and, pardonagain, are you related to one Henri--Henry, you call it here--HenryPierre Bowdoin?" "My father's name was Henry Pierre Bowdoin. " "Then, Mademoiselle, " and Monsieur Baudouin stretched out his hand, anda smile lit up his face, "you must be a relation of mine; and threeyears ago, when I was in this country, and tried to find the Americanbranch of our family that spelled its name Bowdoin and was called Bodn, but which was originally Baudouin, the old Huguenot name, I was told ithad died out. Where were you then, Mademoiselle?" "In Munich, where my mother and I had lived with my uncle John Wybern, since my father's death, years ago. " "Your uncle! John Wybern was your uncle? So--so is it possible, is itpossible? And I find the two objects I have been hunting, so far apart, together! It is most astonishing and yet most simple. And yourmother--your mother is living? Yes, and you will give me your address, that I may hasten to pay my respects to her;" and Monsieur whipped out alittle note-book and wrote down, probably with greater satisfaction thanit had ever been written before, "McVane Street. " "Most astonishing and yet most simple, " as Monsieur had truly said; yetto the flock of Miss Milwood's girls, who, well down to the front, hadlost nothing of this surprising interview, it was only "mostastonishing, " and to some of them most humiliating and mortifying. KittyGrant was the first to voice this mortification, by turning upon themand saying, as Esther disappeared with Monsieur Baudouin, "Say, girls, how do you feel now? _I_ feel like one of Cinderella's sisters. Lauranow--Laura, where are you?" But Laura had also disappeared. She wantedto be by herself and think it over. But what of Esther, --Esther, who hadbeen neglected and disregarded and despised? What of Esther, as shestood there, and as she walked away with Monsieur Baudouin? Esther wasthe least astonished of them all, for years ago she had been familiarwith the facts of her paternal family history, and knew that she was adescendant of Pierre Baudouin, a French Huguenot, who had fled toAmerica to escape religious persecution, and knew that the name Baudouinhad suffered a change to Bowdoin; knew, too, that as Bowdoin it had beenmade illustrious in America's annals, and worn the honors of the highestoffices of the State. She knew all this; but she knew also that this waslong ago, and that her father was the last of his name in America, andwhen he died, after a wasting illness that exhausted his fortune, therewas little thought given to the fact that the old Huguenot root stillexisted in France, though half-playful, half-serious mention had now andthen been made of the kinsfolk in France they would sometime go to seek. All this Esther had stored away in her memory, so that when MonsieurBaudouin announced himself as the kinsman from France, it was more likea long-anticipated event than a surprise. And all this she told to Laurain the days that followed, --those dear, delightful days, when there wasno difficulty put in the way of going to McVane Street; when McVaneStreet, indeed, according to Kitty, became quite the fashion with theartists flocking to see the wonderful etching, and Monsieur Baudouinholding forth upon its merits to them as he made himself at home withhis American kinsfolk, who were now discovered to be such charming folk. Laura sometimes in these days blazed up with indignation and disgust asshe noted the sudden attentions that were bestowed upon Esther and hermother. No one now spoke of emigrants and foreigners in connection withthese dwellers on McVane Street. Jack Brooks himself seemed to forgetthat David Wybern looked like a Jew, even before it was found that Davidand all of his people were of the most unmixed Puritan stock! "And I, too, " thought Laura, --"I, too, muddled and mistook things as Ishouldn't, if Esther and her mother had lived in a different quarter. Ifthey had lived anywhere over the hill, should I have fancied, thoughthey _were_ so poor, that Mrs. Bowdoin must have been a professionalmodel? No, no, I should have thought at once, what I _know_ now, thatthe artist was her friend, and that she sat to him as a friendly favor, like any other lady. " But while Laura thus scourged herself with the rest, Esther and hermother had set her apart from all the rest for their special love andconfidence, --a love and confidence that are as fresh to-day as when themother and daughter sailed away with Monsieur Baudouin, a year ago, tovisit their French kinsfolk. BECKY. CHAPTER I. "Number five!" called out shrilly and impatiently the saleswoman at thelace counter in a great dry-goods establishment. The call was repeatedin a still more impatient tone before there was any response; then thererushed up a girl of ten or eleven, whose big black eyes looked forthfearlessly, some people said impudently, from a little peaked face, sothin and small that it seemed all eyes, and in the neighborhood wherethe child lived she was often nicknamed "Eyes. " "Why didn't you come when you were first called?" asked the saleswoman, angrily. "Couldn't; I'se waitin' for somethin', " answered the child, coolly. "You were staring at and list'nin' to those ladies at the ribboncounter; I saw you, " retorted the saleswoman. "Well, I tole yer, I'se waitin' for somethin', " the girl answered, showing two rows of teeth in a mischievous grin. A younger saleswoman, standing near, giggled. "Don't laugh at her, Lizzie, " rebuked the elder; "she's getting too bigfor her boots with her impudence. " "They ain't boots; they're shoes. " And a thin little leg was thrustforward to show a foot encased in a shabby old shoe much too large forit. Then, like a flash, the "imp, " as the saleswoman often termed her, seized the parcel that was ready for her, and darted off with it. "You'll get reported if you don't look out, " the saleswoman called afterher. The "imp" turned her head and winked back at the irritated saleswoman insuch a grotesque fashion that the lively Lizzie giggled again, for whichshe was told she ought to be ashamed of herself. Good-natured Lizzieadmitted the truth of this accusation, but declared that Becky was sofunny she "just couldn't help laughing. " "You call it 'funny, '" the other exclaimed; "_I_ call it impudence. Sheain't afraid of anything or anybody. Look at her now! there she is backat the ribbon counter. I wonder what those swells are talking about, that she's so taken up with. She's up to some mischief, I'll bet you, Lizzie. " "I guess it's only her fun. She's going to take 'em off by 'n' by, " saidLizzie. This was one of the "imp's" accomplishments, --taking people off. She wasa great mimic, and on rainy days when the girls ate their luncheon inthe room that the firm had allotted to them for that purpose, Miss Beckywould "take off, " the various people that had come under her keenobservation during the day. "Private theatricals, " the lively Lizziecalled this "taking off, " as Becky strutted and minced, with her chinup, her dress lifted in one hand, while with the other she held a pairof scissors for an eyeglass, and peered through the bows at a piece ofcloth, which she picked and pecked and commented upon in fine-ladyfashion, --"just like the swells, " Lizzie declared. It was quite naturalthen for her to conclude that it was fun of this sort that Becky was "upto, " in her close attention to the "swell" customers at the ribboncounter. "She was studyin' 'em, just as actresses study theirplay-parts, " Lizzie thought to herself; and half an hour later, when shemet Becky in the lunch-room, she called out to her, -- "Come, Becky, give us the swells at the ribbon counter. " "Eh?" said Becky. Lizzie repeated her request, and the other girls joined in: "Yes, Becky, give us the swells at the ribbon counter; we want some fun. " "They warn't funny, " answered Becky, shortly. "Oh! now, Becky, what'd you stand there lis'nin' and lookin' at 'em solong for?" "'Cause they were sayin' somethin' I wanted to hear. " "Of course they were. What was it about, Becky?" "May-day, flowers and queens and baskets. " "Oh, my! Well, tell us how they said it, Becky. " "I tole yer they warn't funny; they warn't o' that kind that peeksthrough them long stick glasses and puckers up their lips. They talkedstraight 'long, and said very int'restin' things, " said Becky. "Well, tell us; tell us what 'twas, " exclaimed Lizzie. "Oh, you wouldn't care for what they's talkin' 'bout. They warn't sayin'anythin' 'bout beaux or clothes, " Becky replied with a grin. A shout of laughter went up from the rest of the company, who all knewthe lively Lizzie's favorite topics. Lizzie joined in the laugh, andcried good-naturedly, -- "Never mind, Becky, if I'm not up to your ribbon swells talk; tell usabout it. " "Oh, yes! tell us, tell us!" echoed the others. Becky took a bite out of a slice of bread, and munching it slowly, said, -- "I tole yer once 't was 'bout May-day and flowers and queens andbaskets. " "What May-day? There's thirty-one of 'em, Becky. " Becky looked staggered for a moment. In her little hard-worked life shehad had small opportunity to learn much out of books, and she had neverhappened to hear this rhyming bit:-- "Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November, All the rest have thirty-one, Excepting February alone. " Recovering her wits, however, very speedily, she said coolly, -- "The first pleasant one. " "Well, what were they telling about it? What were they going to do thefirst pleasant day in May?" "They didn't say as _they_ was goin' to do anythin'; they wastellin'--or one of 'em was tellin' t' other one--what folks did whenthey's little, and afore that, hundreds o' years ago, how the folks thenused to get all the children together and go out in the country and putup a great big high pole, and put a lot o' flowers on a string and wind'em roun' the pole; and then all the children would take hold o' han'sand dance roun' the pole, and one o' the children was chose to be queen, and had a crown made o' flowers on her head, and the rest o' thechildren minded her. " "You'd like _that_, --to be queen and have the rest mind you, Becky, wouldn't you?" laughed one of the company. "I bet I would, " owned Becky, frankly. "But what about the baskets?" asked somebody else. "Oh, the kids, " said Becky, forgetting in her present absorbed interestthe term "children, "--which she had learned to use since she had come updaily from the poor neighborhood where she lived, --"the kids use to filla basket with flowers and hang it on the door-knob of somebody'shouse, --somebody they knew, --and then ring the bell and run. Golly!guess _I_ should hev to hang it _inside_ where I lives. I couldn't hangit on no outside door and hev it stay there long, --them thieves o' alleyboys would git it 'fore yer could turn. I guess, though, they wascountry kids who used to hang 'em; but the lady said she was goin' totry to start 'em up again here in the city. " "What kind o' baskets were they?" asked Lizzie, suddenly sitting up witha new air of attention. "Oh, ho!" laughed one of the girls; "Lizzie wants to hang a basket forsomebody _she_ knows!" "Hush up!" said Lizzie, turning rather red. Then, addressing Beckyagain: "Did the lady who was telling about 'em have a basket with her?Did you see it?" "No, but she hed a piece o' that pretty wrinkly paper jes' like thelamp-shades in the winders, and she said the baskets was made o' that, and she was buyin' some ribbon to match for handles and bows. " "Oh, I _wish_ I could see one of 'em, " said Lizzie. "I went to a kinnergarden school wonst when I was a little kid, " struckin Becky here, "and we was put up there to makin' baskets out o' paper. " "Could you do it now?" asked Lizzie, eagerly. "Mebbe I could, " answered Becky, warily; "but it's a good bit ago. " "When you were young, " cried one of the company with a giggle. "Yes, when I was young, " repeated Becky, in exact imitation of thespeaker, whose voice was very flat and nasal. Everybody laughed, and one of the girls cried: "Becky'll get the best ofyou any time. " They were all of them impressed with this fact, when, afew minutes after, the wary Becky agreed to show Lizzie what she knew of"kinnergarden" basket-making, if Lizzie would agree to pay her for hertrouble by giving her materials enough to make a basket for herself. "Ain't she a sharp one?" commented one of the girls to another when theyhad left the lunch-room. "Ain't she, though? She'll get what she can, and hold on to what she'sgot every time. " "But she's awful good fun. Didn't she take off Matty Kelley's flatnose-y way of talkin' to a T?" "Didn't she!" and the two girls laughed anew at the recollection. CHAPTER II. Becky was the only one of the parcel-girls who was in the lunch-roomwhen this talk about May-day took place. The others lived nearer to thestore, and had gone home to their dinners. They were all a trifle olderthan Becky, and a good deal larger. For these reasons, as well as forthe fact that they had been in the establishment quite a while whenBecky entered it, they had put on a great many disagreeable airs towardthe pale-faced little girl when she first appeared, and attempted, asBecky put it, to "boss" her. They soon found, however, that thenew-comer was too much for them. They expected her to be afraid ofthem, --to "stand round" for them. But Miss Becky was not in the leastafraid of them, or, for that matter, of anybody; and as soon as sheunderstood what they meant, she turned upon them the whole force of thatinimitable mimicry of hers, and "took off" their airs in a manner thatsoon set the small army of salesmen and saleswomen into such fits oflaughter that the tables were completely turned upon the tormentors, and they were only too glad to drop their airs and treat Becky with therespect that pluck and superior power invariably command. But while thusconstrained to decent behavior before Becky's eyes, behind her back theygave way to the resentment that they felt against her for her triumphover them, and let no opportunity slip to say slighting things of her. Good-natured Lizzie would laugh when they said these things toher, --when they told her that Becky Hawkins was nothin' but one o' thatlow lot who lived down amongst that thieving set by the East Covealleys, --that jus' as like as not she was a thief herself; that she wasawful close and stingy, anyway, and saved up every scrap she could find;that they'd seen her themselves pick up old strings and buttons and suchduds from the gutters! But if Lizzie laughed out of her light livelyheart, and declared she didn't believe what they said was true, anddidn't care if it _was_, there were others not so good-natured asLizzie, who, though often vastly entertained by Becky, were quite readyto believe that the spirit of mimicry she possessed had somethinglawless about it, especially when she broke forth into the slang of thestreet, --"gutter-slang, " the other parcel-girls called it, --thelawlessness seemed to gather a sort of proof. And so it was that, inspite of the entertainment she afforded, and a certain kind of respectin which her "smartness" was held, Becky was considered as rather anoutsider, and an object of more or less suspicion. "A sharp one!" the saleswoman had called her, the other agreeing; andwhen the next day, which was also a rainy day, the little companygathered in the lunch-room again, and Lizzie brought forth a variety ofpretty papers, there was a general watchfulness to see how much Beckyknew, and what she would claim. Two other of the parcel-girls were nowpresent. They had heard all about the basket-making plan of yesterday, and pushed forward with great interest. Becky looked at them withmischief in her eyes, but made no movement to join Lizzie. "Come, " said the older of the two, "why don't you begin, Becky? Lizzie'swaitin', and so are we. " "What _yer_ waitin' for?" asked Becky, with an impudent grin. "To see how you make the baskets. " "Well, yer'll hev to wait. " "Why, you told Lizzie you'd show her how to make baskets out o' paper!" "But I didn' say I'se goin' to show anybody else. This ain't a freekinnergarden. These are private lessons. " A shriek of laughter went up at this, while somebody cried, -- "And private lessons must be paid for, mustn't they, Becky?" "Every time, " answered Becky, with unruffled coolness. "Where's the private room to give 'em in?" piped out one of theparcel-girls with a wink at the other. "In here!" cried Becky, with a sudden inspiration, jumping up andrunning into a little fitting-room that had that morning been assignedto her to sweep and put in order after the lunch hour. "Good for you!" cried Lizzie, with one of her laughs, as she followedher teacher. "And you didn't get ahead o' me _this_ time, either!" called out Becky, as she bolted the door upon herself and companion. "You're too sharp for any of _us_, Becky, " called back one of thesaleswomen. "_Ain't_ she sharp?" agreed one and another; and "I told you so, " saidstill another. "She's a regular little cove-sharper, as Lotty said. "Lotty was the older parcel-girl. And thus, though most of them laughed at Becky's last "move, " they wereprejudiced against her for it, and thought it another evidence of herstinginess and sharpness. They all agreed, however, that she had "got'round' Lizzie to that extent that that young woman would stand up forher, anyway, no matter what she'd do or didn't do. "An' I'll bet yer, " said the younger parcel-girl, "she'll lie out o'that basket bizness, an' get a lot o' paper too. _She_ know how to makebaskets! Not much. You see now when they come out o' the fitting-roomthere'll be some excuse that 't ain't done, an' they can't show itnow, --you see. " This prophecy was received in silence, but without much sign ofdisagreement; and when the fitting-room door finally opened, it wasfunny to watch the looks of astonishment that were bestowed upon thepretty little basket of green and white paper that Lizzie held swungupon her finger. "Well, I never! She _did_ know how, didn't she?" exclaimed one of theparty. [Illustration: the pretty little basket of green and white paper] "Of course she did, " answered Lizzie. Becky only shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. "Bet yer she hooked it out o' some shop, and had it in that bag shecarried in, " whispered Lotty Riker, the parcel-girl. "Hush!" warned one of the company. But it was too late. Becky had heard, and for the first time since shehad been in the store, those about her saw hot wrath blazing from hereyes as she burst forth savagely, -- "Yer mean low-lived thing yer, yer must be up to sech tricks yerself tothink that!" "What is it? What did she say?" asked Lizzie. Becky repeated Lotty's words, her wrath increasing as she did so. "Hooked it! You know better, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Lotty Riker, " said Lizzie. "Becky and I made the basket ourselves. Seehere now!" and, opening one hand, she displayed the ends of the paperstrips as they had been cut off, and where they fitted the protrudingends on the basket. "But, " turning to Becky, "Lotty knows better; sheonly wanted to bother you. " "She wanted to bully me! She's been at it ever since I come here, --sheand t' other one. I made 'em stop it wonst, an' I'll make 'em ag'in. Ican stan' a good deal, but I ain't a-goin' to stan' bein' called athief, I ain't. I ain't no more a thief 'n they be, if I do live downCove way, and don't wear quite so good clo'es as they does. _Hookedit_!" going a step nearer to the two girls. "I wish we was boys. I'd--I'd lick yer, I would, the minit I got yer out on the street; but, "with a disgusted sigh, "I'm a girl, and I carn't. 'Tain't 'spectable forgirls, Tim says, an' I mus'n't. But lemme jes' hear any more sech talk, an'--I'll _forgit I'm a girl for 'bout five minutes_!" This conclusion was too much for Lizzie's gravity, and she burst intoone of her infectious laughs. Several of the others joined in, and thenBecky herself gave a sudden little grin. Lotty Riker and her sister, who had been thoroughly frightened, feltimmensely relieved at this, and for the moment everything seemed thesame as before the outbreak; but it was only seeming. The majority ofthe company, without taking into consideration the provocation Becky hadreceived, thought to themselves: "_What_ a temper!" Becky's wild littlethreats, and the way she expressed herself, had made a strongimpression; and when presently Lizzie laughingly asked, "Who's Tim, Becky?" and Becky had answered in that lawless manner of hers: "Oh, he'sa fren' o' mine, --a great big fightin' gentleman what lives in the housewhere we do, " there was a general exchange of glances, and a generalconviction that the Riker girls had not been altogether wrong in some oftheir statements. And when the next day they heard Miss Becky confide toLizzie that she had made "a splendid basket, " and was going to hang itfor Tim on that "fust pleasant day of May, " they whispered to eachother, "A May-basket for a prize-fighter!" But they took very good care that the whisper did not reach Becky. Shewas "great fun, " but they had found out how fiercely she could turn fromher fun. CHAPTER III. The first day of May turned out to be a most beautiful day, bright andsunny; and when Lizzie hung her pretty basket filled with PlymouthMayflowers on the door-knob of a great friend of hers, she laughed, andwondered if Becky had hung hers for that "fightin' gen'leman, Tim. " Shewould ask Becky the minute she got to the store. But the minute she gotto the store she had a customer to wait upon, and had no time to bestowon Becky until she needed her service. Then she called "Number Five;"but, instead of "Number Five, " Lotty Riker responded. "Where's Becky?" asked Lizzie. "I dunno. She hain't come in; mebbe she's hangin' that May-basket forthe prize-fighter, " giggled Lotty. Business was very brisk that day, and Lizzie had no leisure for anythingelse. But at noon, when she was going out to her lunch, it occurred toher that Becky had not yet appeared. Where _could_ she be? She hadalways been punctual to a minute. The afternoon was busier than the morning, and once more Becky wasforgotten. It was not until the closing hour--five o'clock--that Lizziethought of her again, and then she burst out to Matty and Josie Kelly, as they were leaving the store together, -- "Where _do_ you suppose Becky Hawkins is? She hasn't been here to-day, and she's _always_ here, and so punctual. " "Mebbe she's taken it into her head to leave, " answered Matty. "'T wouldbe just like her; she's that independent. " "Catch her leaving when she'd have anything to lose. She'd lose a week'spay to leave without warning, and she knows it. She's too sharp to dothat, " put in Josie, laughing, "I hope she ain't sick, " said Lizzie. "Sick! _her_ kind don't get sick easy. Those Cove streeters are tough. Lizzie, how much did she get out of you for showing you how to make thatbasket?" "Why, what I agreed to give, --enough to make a basket for herself; andlast night, when she was going home, I gave her some of myMayflowers, --I had plenty. " "Well, I'm sure you are real generous. " "No, I'm not; it was a bargain. " "Yes, _Becky's_ bargain, and she'd like to have made a bargain with therest of us. The idea of taking you off into that fitting-room, so't therest of us wouldn't profit by her showing you, and then her talkingabout private lessons!" "Oh, that was only her fun. " "Fun! and when one of the girls said, 'And private lessons must be paidfor, mustn't they, Becky?' and she answered, 'Yes, every time, ' do youthink that was only fun?" "Yes; and if it wasn't, I don't care. She's a right to make a littlesomething if she can. They're awful poor folks down there on CoveStreet. " "Make a little something! Yes, but I guess you wouldn't catch any of theother girls here making a little something like that out of the friendsshe was working alongside of. " "Friends!" exclaimed Lizzie. "And say, Lizzie, " went on Josie, paying no attention to Lizzie'sexclamation, "I'll bet you anything she _sold_ her basket, and verylikely to that prize-fighter, --that Tim. " "I don't care if she did. But don't let's talk any more about her. Ihate to talk about folks, and it doesn't do any good to think bad thingsof 'em. But, hark, what's that the newsboys are crying? 'Awful disasterdown--' Where? Stop a minute, I'm going to buy a paper. " "Yes, here it is, awful disaster down in one of the Cove Streettenement-houses, " read Lizzie; and then, bringing up suddenly, shecried, "Why, girls, girls, that's where Becky lives, --in one of thosetenements. " "Go on, go on!" urged Matty; and Lizzie went on, and read: "'At sixo'clock this morning one of the most disastrous fires that we have hadfor years broke out in the rear of the Cove Street tenement-houses, and, owing to the high wind and the dryness of the season, it had gained suchheadway by the time the engines arrived, that it looked as if not onlythe whole block but the adjoining buildings were doomed; but after hoursof untiring effort on the part of the firemen, it was finally broughtunder control. Several of the tenements were completely gutted, and thewildest excitement prevailed as the panic-stricken tenants, with criesand shrieks of terror, jumped from the windows, or in other ways soughtto save themselves. It is not yet ascertained how many lost their livesin these attempts, but it is feared that the number is by no meanssmall. '" "I'm going down there! I'm going down there!" Lizzie cried out here, breaking off her reading, and starting forward at a rapid pace. "But, Lizzie--" "You needn't try to stop me, I'm _going_. Becky's down there somewhere, and mebbe she's alive and hurt and needs something, and I'm going tosee. _You_ needn't come if you're afraid, but _I'm_ going!" The two girls offered no further remonstrance, but silently turned; andthe three went on together toward the burned district. "What yer doin' here?" asked a policeman gruffly, as they entered CoveStreet. "Go back! 't ain't no place for anybody that hain't got businesshere. " "I'm looking for little Becky Hawkins, --one of the girls in our store, "answered Lizzie. "Becky Hawkins?" "Yes; do you know her?" "Should think I did. This is my beat, --known her all her life prettymuch. " "Did she get out, --is she alive?" asked Lizzie, breathlessly. "Yes, she's alive; she's down there in that corner house with her friendTim. " The policeman's lips moved with a faint odd smile as he said this, --asmile that Matty and Josie interpreted to mean that Becky was just whatthe Riker girls had said she was, --a little Cove Street hoodlum, --whileTim, the prize-fighter, was probably one of the friends of her familythat the policeman had probably now under arrest down in that "cornerhouse. " Thrilling with this interpretation, Josie pulled at Lizzie'ssleeve, and made a frantic appeal to her to come away as the policemanhad advised, adding, -- "We are decent girls, and--it's a disgrace to have anything to do withsuch a lot as Becky and her family and--" "What yer talkin' 'bout?" suddenly interrupted the policeman, --"what yertalkin' 'bout? Becky Hawkins a disgrace to yer! Come down here 'n' seewhat the Cove Street folks think of Becky Hawkins!" and he wheeledaround as suddenly as he had spoken, and beckoned the girls to followhim. They followed him down to the corner house, which stood blackened withsmoke and water, but otherwise uninjured, for it was just here that theflames had been arrested, and in the hall-way the few poor remnants ofthe household goods that had been saved from the other tenements werehuddled together. Pushing past these, the policeman stopped at an opendoor whence issued a sound of voices. Lizzie started forward as afamiliar tone struck her ear, and smiling she exclaimed, "That's Becky!" But the policeman pulled her back. "Wait a minute!" he said. "Who's that speakin' to me?" called out the familiar voice. "Is itLizzie Macdonald from the store?" "Yes, yes!" and, the policeman no longer holding her back, Lizziestepped over the threshold. There were two or three others in the room;but over and beyond them Lizzie caught sight of Becky's big black eyes, and hurrying forward cried: "Oh, Becky, I've only just got out of thestore, and just read about the fire, and I thought mebbe you were hurt, and I came as fast as I could to see if I couldn't do something for you;but I'm so glad you are all right--But, " coming nearer and finding thatBecky was not standing, as she supposed, but propped up on a table, "you're _not_ all right, are you?" "No, I--I guess--I'm all wrong, " responded Becky, with a queer littlesmile, and an odd quaver to her voice. "Oh, Becky, Becky, they ought to have taken better care of you, --alittle thing like you!" "'Twas _she_ was takin' care of other folks, " spoke up one of the womenin the room. "Yes, 'twas a-savin' my Tim that did it, " broke forth another. "She'dgot down the stairs all safe, and then she thought o' Tim and ran backfor him. She know'd I wasn't to home, and he was all alone; and shesaved him for me, --she saved him for me! She helped him out onto theroof; 'twas too late for the stairs then, and a fireman got him down the'scape; but Becky--Becky was behind, and the fire follered so fast, shemade a jump--and fell--oh, Becky! Becky!" "Hush now!" said the other woman. "Don't keep a-goin' over it; yer worryher, and it's no use. " "Went back for Tim, saved Tim the prize-fighter!" thought Lizzie, indumb amazement. "The kid'll be all right soon, " broke in another voice here. Lizzie looked up, and saw a rough fellow, who had just come in, gazingdown at Becky with an expression that strangely softened his hard face. Becky lifted her eyes at the sound of the voice. "Hello, Jake, " she said faintly. "Hello, Becky, yer'll be all right soon, won't yer?" "I'm all right now, " said Becky, sleepily, "and Tim's all right. Hedidn't get burnt, but the basket and all the pretty flowers did. If Icould make another--" "_I'll_ make another for you, " said Lizzie, pressing forward. "And hang it for Tim?" asked Becky. "Yes, " answered Lizzie. Something in Lizzie's expression, in her tone, roused Becky's wandering memory, and with a sudden flash of her oldmischief she said, -- "He's a fren' o' mine. Show up, Tim, and lemme interduce yer. " There was a movement on the other side of the table where Becky lay; andthen Lizzie saw, struggling up from a chair, a tiny crippled body, wasted and shrunken, --the body of a child of seven with a shapely headand the face of an intelligent boy of fifteen. "That's him, --that's Tim, --the fightin' gen'leman I tole yer 'bout, "said Becky, with a gay little smile at the remembrance of her joke andhow she "played it on 'em, " and at the look of astonishment now onLizzie's face. And still with the gay little smile, but fainter voice, -- "Yer'll tell 'em, Lizzie, --the girls in the store, --how I played it on'em; and when I git back--I'll--" "Give her some air; she's faint, " cried one of the women. The tall young rough, Jake, sprang to the window and pulled it open, letting in a fresh wind that blew straight up from the grassy banksbeyond the Cove. "Do yer feel better, Becky?" he asked, as he saw her face brighten. "I--I feel fus' rate--all well, Jake, and--I--I smell the Mayflowers. They warn't burnt, were they? And oh, ain't they jolly, ain't theyjolly! Tim, Tim!" "Yes, yes, Becky, " answered Tim, in a shaking voice. "Wait for me here Tim, --I--I'm goin' to find 'em for yer, Tim, --ther, ther Mayflowers. They're close by; don't yer smell 'em? Close by--I'mgoin'--to find 'em for yer, Tim!" And with a radiant smile ofanticipation Becky's soul went out upon its happy quest, leaving behindher the grime and poverty of Cove Street forever. The two women--and one of them was Becky's aunt with whom the girl hadalways lived--broke into sobs and tears; but as the latter looked at theradiant face, she said suddenly, -- "She's well out of it all. " "But there's them that'll be worse for her goin', " said the other; "and't ain't only Tim I mean, it's the like o' _him_, " nodding towards Jake, who was slipping quietly out of the room, --"it's the like o' him. Theylooked up to her, they did, --bit of a thing as she was. She was thatstraight and plucky and gin'rous she did 'em good; she made 'em better. Jake's often said she was the Cove Street mascot. " And with these words sounding in her ears, Lizzie crept softly from theroom. Just over the threshold, in the shadow of the broken bits offurniture that had been saved from the fire, she started to see Mattyand Josie still waiting for her. "What!" she cried, "have you been here all the time--have you seen--haveyou heard--" They nodded; and Matty whispered brokenly, -- "Oh, Lizzie, I ain't never again goin' to think bad things of anybody Idon't know. " "Nor I, nor I, " said Josie, huskily. ALLY. CHAPTER I. "What have you done with those new overshoes, Ally?" "Put 'em away. " "Well, you can just go and get 'em, then. Come, hurry up, for I want towear 'em down town. " But Ally didn't move. "Ally, do you hear?" cried her cousin Florence. "Yes, I hear, but I ain't a-going to mind you. The rubbers are mine, andyou've worn 'em about enough already; you're stretching 'em all out, foryour foot is bigger than mine. " "No such thing. I'm not hurting them in the least. " "Yes, you are; and you are taking the gloss all off 'em, too, and I want'em to look new when I wear 'em in Boston. " "Well, I never heard of such selfish, stingy meanness as this. It'sraining hard, and you'd let me go out and get my feet sopping wet ratherthan lend me your new rubbers. " "Why don't you wear your own old ones?" "Because they leak. " "They've leaked ever since I got this new pair!" retorted Ally, scornfully. "But it isn't these rubbers only; you're always borrowing mythings. There's my blue jacket; you've worn it till the edge isthreadbare, and you've worn my brown hat until it looks asshabby--and--there! you've got my silver bangle on now! You're nobetter than a thief, Florence Fleming!" "A thief! that's a nice pretty thing to say to _me_! I should like toknow who buys your things for you? Isn't it _my father_ and Uncle John?I should like to know where you'd be, Alice Fleming, if it wasn't forUncle John and father. Here, take your old bangle and keep it, andeverything else that you've got. I never want to see anything of yoursagain; and I'm glad you're going off to Boston to Uncle John's for therest of the winter, and I wish you'd stay there and never come backhere, --I do!" "I wish so too. Nobody in Uncle John's family would ever be so mean asto fling it in my face that I was a poor little beggar of an orphan. " "Uncle John's family! Uncle John's wife said the last time she was herethat she dreaded the winter on your account, --there!" "Aunt Kate--said that?" "Yes, she did; I heard her. " A strange look came into Ally's eyes, and all the pretty color fadedfrom her cheeks, as she cried out in a hoarse, passionate voice, -- "You're a cruel, bad girl, Florence Fleming, and I hope some day you'llhave something cruel and bad come to you to punish you!" and with thesewords the excited child flung herself across her little bed, and burstinto a paroxysm of stormy sobs and tears. "Here, here, what's the matter now?" called out Mrs. Fleming, Florence'smother, coming across the hall and pushing the bedroom door open. "Ask Ally, " answered Florence, coolly, --so coolly, so calmly, that itwas quite natural to suppose that she was much less to blame in thepresent disturbance than her cousin; and as poor Ally was past speaking, Florence had a double advantage, and Mrs. Fleming, glancing from onegirl to the other, thought she understood the situation perfectly, andin consequence said rather sharply, -- "I do wish, Ally, you would try to control your temper a little more!"and with these words the lady turned and left the room, her daughterFlorence following her. As they crossed the hall, Ally unfortunatelyoverheard her aunt say to Florence, "I am thankful that you two are tobe separated to-morrow for the rest of the winter. I hope by spring someother arrangement can be made to keep you apart. We shall never have anypeace while--" The rest of the sentence was lost to Ally. But she was quite sure itwas--"while Ally is with us;" and a fresh gust of stormy sobs and tearsshook the child's frame, as she thus concluded the sentence. A freshgust also of stormy resentment and self-pity shook the girl. "Oh, yes, it's always Ally, always Ally, that's to blame, " she said to herself. "Itwould be very different if I wasn't a poor little beggar of an orphan;yes, indeed, very different. If I was a _rich_ orphan, if papa and mammahad left a lot of money to be taken care of with me, I guess thingswould be different, --I guess they would. I guess Florence Fleming andher mother wouldn't lay everything that goes wrong to _me_ then, and Iguess Aunt Kate wouldn't say that she dreaded the winter on account ofme, --no, I guess she wouldn't! Oh, oh!" with a fresh sob, "I wish someother arrangement _could_ be made away from 'em all. They don't any of'em want me, not any of 'em, and I'd rather go to an orphan asylum. I'drather--I'd rather--oh, I'd rather go to _jail_ than to _them_!" anddown into the pillow again went the fuzzy yellow head of this littlehot-tempered Ally Fleming, who called herself so pityingly "a poorlittle beggar of an orphan. " The facts of the case were these: Ally's father and mother had both diedwhen she was seven years old, leaving her to the care of her two nearestrelatives, --her father's two brothers, --Mr. Tom and Mr. John Fleming. Asher father had little or nothing to leave her, he had requested that theburden of her maintenance should be equally divided between the uncles, the child to live alternately with each family, six months with one andsix with the other. She had been old enough when she was thustransplanted from her own home to realize more or less the peculiarcondition of things; and as she was quick-tempered and sensitive, shevery soon began to take note of any comment or remark regarding herselfthat was dropped in her hearing, and very often misunderstood or madetoo much of it. But there was no denying, whichever way you looked atit, that it was rather a difficult situation for both sides, and thatthe Fleming aunts and uncles and cousins had something to put up with, as well as Ally. But that Ally was the most to be pitied there was alsono denying, for she could remember with unfading vividness being thecentre of love, the one special darling in _one_ home, and now shehadn't even one home, and was nobody's darling. As she lay there on thebed shaken by her sobs, she pictured to herself, as she had picturedmany, many times in these three years, the happy home that she had lost. For three years this once petted child had been learning what it was tobe one of many, or, as she herself put it, one _too_ many. CHAPTER II. The next day at noon Ally was on her way to Boston, where she was tolive for the next six months in her uncle John's family. Both her uncleTom and his wife, Aunt Ann, had gone to the station to see her off, andboth of them had kissed her good-by, and given her various messages todeliver to the Boston relations. Everything was going on as pleasantlyas possible until Aunt Ann at the very last stooped down and said, -- "Now, try, Ally, try while you are with your aunt Kate to control yourtemper. You mustn't fly up at every little thing, and expect to haveyour own way with everybody. It is very difficult to live with peoplewho act like that, and nobody can love them. Remember that, Ally;" andwith these words, Mrs. Fleming bent still lower to touch Ally's lipswith a final farewell kiss. But Ally at this movement turned suddenly, and the kiss that was meant for her lips fell upon her cheek. "Such an uncomfortable disposition as that child has, I never metbefore, never!" ejaculated Mrs. Fleming, as she joined her husbandoutside the car. "What's she done now?" asked Uncle Tom. His wife described the girl's swift evasive movement away from her. Uncle Tom laughed, and then sighed. "Poor little soul, " he said; "she'sgoing to have a hard time of it in life, I'm afraid. " "She's going to make those who live with her have a hard time, " answeredAunt Ann, resentfully thinking of her rejected kiss. "'Mustn't fly up at every little thing!'" repeated Ally to herself, asshe was left alone in her seat. "She'd better give Florence some of hergood advice. She'd better tell her not to aggravate folks 'most todeath, and then stand off so cool, and make everybody else seem in thewrong. Hard to live with! Mebbe I _am_ hard to live with; but I don'tplay double like that; and as for nobody's loving me, these relations ofmine never loved me--any of 'em--from the first. " As Ally came to this conclusion in her thought, she happened to look outof the car window, and there, why, there was her aunt Ann and uncle Tomoutside on the platform, standing at another car window farther down, talking and laughing in the liveliest manner with some friends they hadmet. Uncle Tom didn't seem in the least haste now, and ever so manyminutes ago he had said to her, "Well, good-by, Ally!" and rushed off asif there wasn't another minute to spare, --not another minute; and herewas a gentleman in front of her, saying to a friend of his at that veryinstant, "There's plenty of time; it's ten minutes before the carsstart;" and then she heard a lady say to another lady, "There's no needof my leaving you yet; we've got oceans of time;" and all about her, Ally now noticed various groups of friends and relations lingeringlovingly together until the last moment; and noting all this, a bitterlittle look came into Miss Ally's face, and a bitter little thought cameinto her heart, --a thought that said tauntingly, "There, this shows you, Ally Fleming, what kind of relations you've got; this shows you how muchthey care for you!" And by and by, as the cars started up and sped along, this bitter littlethought also sped along, carrying in its wake all the bitter littlethoughts of yesterday and to-day. Ally was quite accustomed totravelling by herself on this trip to and from New York. It was aperfectly simple thing to sit in the car-seat where she had been placedby one uncle, until at the end of the trip she was met by the otheruncle, and taken charge of, --a perfectly simple, easy matter, and Allyhad heretofore quite enjoyed it; but now, looking about her, and seeingthe groups of other people's relations going home to Thanksgiving, shebegan to think it was a very lonesome thing to be travelling all aloneby herself; and just as this occurred to her, what should happen butthat one of these groups should turn inquisitively to her and ask, "Areyou travelling all by yourself, little girl?" and when Ally hadanswered, "Yes, " this inquisitive person commented upon her being such alittle girl to travel all by herself; and then, when Ally told herrather proudly that she was ten years old, the inquisitive person hadsaid, "Well, I don't know what _my_ little ten-year-old girl would thinkto be sent off to travel all alone. I shall tell her when I get homewhat a brave little girl I met. " Ally thought all this was said out of pity and wonder, and that the ladythought her very much neglected and forlorn. But instead of that, thelady meant only to praise and compliment her; and thus, in this way andthat way, the bitter little thoughts kept growing and growing, as thecars sped on, until long before the end of her journey came, poor Allyfelt that there never was a much more friendless girl than she was; andwhen the cars steamed into the Boston station, she said to herself, "Iwonder if Uncle John is dreading the winter on my account, as Aunt Kateis?" and with this thought she stepped out on the platform. But where_was_ Uncle John? She expected to see him at once, coming forward tolift her from the steps. Where _was_ he now? and Ally looked at thefaces before her with wondering scrutiny. She jumped down--for peoplewere pressing behind her--and moved on, scanning the face of everygentleman she saw with anxious eyes. No one of them, however, was thatof Uncle John. What _was_ the matter? Didn't he know the train she wasto take? Of course he did, for Uncle Tom had told her that he hadtelegraphed that he would meet her at the Boston station at fiveo'clock. Of course he knew, so he must have forgotten her. Yes, that wasit, --he had forgotten all about her! Ally was not a specially timidchild; but as she stood in the big station-building, and realized thatthere was not a soul she knew there to look out for her, a feeling ofdismay overtook her. If it were in the morning or at noonday, itwouldn't have seemed so dreadful; but though the electric lights flashedeverything into brilliance, it was a November day, and half-past fiveo'clock was after nightfall. What _should_ she do? There was no sign ofUncle John, and the passengers who had arrived with her were fastdisappearing. Very soon the people in the station would begin to noticeher, to ask questions, and then perhaps some police-officer would takeher to the police-station, as a lost child. She'd heard that that waswhat they always did. It was just as this thought came into her headthat she caught sight of one of those very big burly blue-coatedindividuals. He had his hand on the collar of a boy about her own age, and she heard him say to him in a big burly voice, -- "What yer hangin' 'round here for? Lost, eh? That's a likely story. Come, off with yer, if yer don't want ter be locked up!" Poor little Ally didn't stop to reason, --to think of the difference inthe outward appearance of herself and the boy, --to see that thepoliceman knew the boy perfectly well for a mischievous young scamp whowas up to no good. She didn't stop to consider anything; but with thosewords, "If yer don't want ter be locked up, " ringing in her ears, sheturned and ran from the station-building as fast as her legs could carryher. As she came out upon the sidewalk, she saw the colored lights of astreet car. Oh, joy, it was the very up-town car that would take herclose to Beacon Street! But oh, horror! She suddenly recollected thatUncle John no longer lived on Beacon Street. He had moved last monthinto a new house on Marlborough Street, and oh, what _was_ the number?She "had heard Uncle Tom read it from a letter. It had a lot of 9's init. Nine hundred and--why--99--999, three 9's; yes, yes, that was it;"and with this conviction, Ally gave a hop skip and a jump into the car, just as it was about to start off, for this very car she knew would takeher nearer to Marlborough Street than to Beacon Street. Her spirits roseas she felt herself carried along; and in due time she found the three9's, and tripped up the steps of the house in Marlborough Street bearingthat number. Her heart beat very fast with a sense of relief and injury, mixed with a certain elation at her own enterprise, as she rang thebell. Wouldn't they be surprised, and wouldn't Uncle John--But some oneopening the door scattered her questioning thoughts; and--why, who wasthis somebody? It must be a new servant with the new house, and amanservant too. Uncle John must be getting better off, --they had hadonly two maids before. It never entered Ally's head to ask the strangeservant if Mr. Fleming lived there. Why should she ask what she was sosure of? She simply asked, "Where's Uncle John and Aunt Kate and therest of them?" The man looked bewildered, and repeated, "Uncle John?" "Yes, Uncle John and Aunt Kate. I'm Ally, and Uncle John telegraphedthat he would meet me at the five-o'clock train, and he wasn't there, and I came up all alone. Where are they? In the parlor?" and Allystepped in over the threshold. "I guess there's some mistake, " said the man; "I guess your uncleJohn--" "No, there wasn't any mistake, for he telegraphed to Uncle Tom. He musthave forgotten. " "But your uncle doesn't--" "What is it, James? What is wanted?" interrupted some one here. The"some one" was a big, tall gentleman coming down the stairs, whom Ally, as she looked up in the rather confusing half light of the lower hall, at once took for her uncle, and rushing forward she ran up to meet him, crying, -- "Oh, Uncle John! Uncle John! I was so scared not to find you at thestation, and I came up here all alone on the street car!" But in the very next instant she started back and gasped: "But--but itisn't--you're not--you're not Uncle John! Where is he, oh, where is he?" "You've made a mistake, my little girl!" exclaimed the gentleman, --"amistake in the house. This isn't your uncle John's, but--" "Not Uncle John's? Why--why--this is 999!" interrupted Ally, tremulously. "Yes; but--" "Oh! oh!" cried poor Ally, as a fresh flash of memory overcame her, "that must be the--the--" She was going to say, "the old Beacon Streetnumber, " when, confused and dismayed, she gave another step backward, her foot slipped, and she fell headlong to the foot of the stairs, whereshe lay white and motionless, not a sigh or moan escaping her as she waslifted and carried into the parlor. CHAPTER III. The sun was shining brightly into the pretty new dining-room onMarlborough Street where Uncle John lived, and swinging in its beams agreat gray parrot named Peter kept calling out, "Ally's come, Ally'scome! give her a kiss! give her a kiss!" The room was empty when the parrot began; but presently Uncle John andAunt Kate came in. At sight of them the parrot screamed, "Hello! hello!"and then repeated louder than ever, "Ally's come! Ally's come! give hera kiss! give her a kiss!" "For pity's sake, put the bird out!" exclaimed Uncle John. "I can'tstand _that now_!" "Yes, put him out, do!" said Aunt Kate to the servant who was just thenbringing in the coffee. In a few moments the three daughters of the family--Laura and Maud andMary--appeared. "Have you heard anything about her this morning?" asked theeldest, --Laura, --as she took her seat at table. Uncle John shook his head. "And the police haven't got a clew yet?" "No, nor the detectives. " "What I _can't_ understand is why she didn't wait in the ladies' roomuntil you came, papa. She might have known you _would_ come _sometime_. " "We don't know yet that she got as far as Boston, " said Mrs. Fleming. "Why, Uncle Tom's telegram in answer to papa's that he saw her off onthe 11. 30 train proves that. " "It doesn't prove that she came through to Boston. " "'Came through'! Why, upon earth, should she leave the cars before shereached Boston?" "She might have made the acquaintance of some young people, and steppedoff at a restaurant station with them to buy fruit, and so got left. " "But she would have taken a later train then, and papa has been to thelater ones. " "Don't--don't wonder and speculate any more why a little girl of tenyears didn't do exactly as a grown-up person would have done, " burstforth Uncle John. "The whole blame lies with us, or with Tom and me. Weshould never have allowed such a child to be sent off alone like that. " "But, papa, it isn't an uncommon thing for a child of her age to travellike that. " "It isn't very _common_, and it ought not to be. " "Maybe she's run away, " suddenly exclaimed the youngest of thedaughters, --a girl of fourteen. "Mary!" cried the other two; and "How can you make fun like that _now_?"said Mrs. Fleming, reprovingly. "I didn't say it to make fun, " protested Mary, --"I didn't, truly;but--but Ally was very queer sometimes. She took up everything so, andgot offended, or thought you didn't care for her. One day I asked herwhy she didn't take things as _I_ did, --spat, and forget it the nextminute, and she said, 'Because I'm not like you, _I only happenedhere_'! Wasn't that droll?" "Droll!" exclaimed Uncle John. "I think it's the most pathetic thing Iever heard. What have we all been doing that she should feel like this?" "But she liked being _here_ better than at Uncle Tom's. Florence wasalways tormenting her one way and another. " "The trouble with her is that she was an only child, and, transplantedsuddenly into two large families, she couldn't fit herself to the newcircumstances, " said Mrs. Fleming. "And the trouble with _us_ has been, " spoke up Uncle John, "that wedidn't take that fact into consideration enough, and try to help her tofit into the new circumstances. Poor little soul, if we ever get herback again--" "Oh, don't, don't talk like that, --'if we ever get her back again!' asif she were a Charley Ross child that had been kidnapped, " burst forthMary, with a breaking voice. "_I_ meant to be good to Ally, and that'swhy I taught Peter to say, 'Ally's come, Ally's come! give her a kiss!give her a kiss!' I thought it would be such a pretty welcome, andAlly'd be so pleased, she'd believe we _did_ care for her when she heardthat. " "You're a little trump, Mary, " declared her father, with a suspiciousmoisture in his eyes. "I only hope if--_when_ Ally comes back--But, hark, there's the door-bell!" as a sharp peal rang through the house. "It may be one of the detectives. " "A gentleman to see you in the parlor, sir, " said the maid a momentlater, as she brought in a card. Uncle John glanced at the card, and then, uttering an exclamation ofsurprise, passed it over to his wife, and, jumping up hastily, left theroom. "Is it the chief of the detectives?" asked Laura, animatedly. "It isn't a detective at all; it's Dr. Phillips. " "You don't mean _the_ Dr. Phillips, --_Bernard_ Phillips?" "Yes. " "How strange, and at this hour in the morning! It must be somethingabout Thanksgiving exercises, " interposed Maud. "But we're not _his_ parishioners. We don't go to _his_ church!" "Oh, dear!" cried Mary; "I'm _so_ disappointed. I did hope it was thedetective bringing Ally back. " "Kate!" called Uncle John's voice here, "will you come into the parlor?"and Mrs. Fleming, obeying this call, found herself a minute afterexchanging greetings with the unexpected visitor. "I want you to tell her, Doctor, just what you've told me exactly, "said Uncle John. "It's about Ally, my dear, " to his wife. "She's found, and--and--" "She is at my house, " took up the Doctor; and then he told of the littlegirl who had come to his house the night before, of her grievousdisappointment, and the accident that had befallen her, --an accidentthat had robbed her of consciousness for a time, and from which she hadonly sufficiently recovered within the last few hours to answer thequestions that were put to her in regard to her relations, that stepsmight be taken to restore her to them. "And she is seriously hurt, --she couldn't come with you?" broke in AuntKate, breathlessly. "No, she was not seriously hurt, " he assured her; and then came thatmost delicate and difficult part of the Doctor's task, --to tell, in whatgentle phrase he could, that this wilful child refused to accompany him;that she had taken a foolish fancy into her head that her relations didnot care for her, --a fancy that had been strengthened into positivebelief when she failed to find her uncle at the station, and hadsuggested to her a wild little plan of going away from them altogether, into some orphans' home that she had heard of, where she was sure aplace could be found for her. Very gentle, indeed, was the phrasing ofall this, --so gentle and full of sweet human consideration foreverybody's shortcomings and mistakes that Aunt Kate forgot that theDoctor was a stranger; and with this forgetfulness the sharp pang ofhumiliation at a stranger's knowledge of such a family difficulty, andthe little sting of resentment at Ally's attitude towards them all, wasoverborne to such an extent that she could frankly admit that herhusband was right, and that none of them had had love and patienceenough to help the child to fit into the new circumstances of her life. It was an added pang, but there was no resentment in it, when she sawAlly's sudden shrinking from her as she entered the Doctor's parlor withhim a little later. To think that they had, though unwittingly, hurt and estranged the childlike this, was Mrs. Fleming's first thought; and the tears came to hereyes, and her voice broke as she cried impulsively, "Oh, my little girl, my little girl!" Ally started at the sight of these tears, at the sound of this tenderlybreaking voice. And there was Uncle John; and _he_ was crying too, and_his_ voice was breaking as he said something. What was it he wassaying?--that it was not forgetfulness, it was not neglect of her, thathad made him fail to meet her at the station, but an untoward accidentto the streetcar he was in that had delayed him. And what was that AuntKate was saying? That they _did_ care for her, that they _did_ want her, and that they had set the telegraphic wires all over the country to huntfor her and bring her back to them. "But--but--Florence told me, " faltered Ally, "that you dreaded thewinter on my account, --I was so--so bad-tempered--so hard to live with. " "Dreaded the winter on your account! Florence told you I said that?"cried Mrs. Fleming, in amazement. "She said she heard you say it to her mother. " A light broke over Mrs. Fleming's face. "Oh, I remember now perfectly. It was just after you were so ill with that bad throat, and I wasspeaking to your aunt Ann about it, and I said to her, 'I dread thewinter on Ally's account. ' How could--how _could_ Florence put such amischievous meaning to my words?" "Perhaps she only heard just those words, " replied Ally, who would nevertake advantage of anybody. "But why should she want to tell you what would hurt you like that?" "We'd been quarrelling, " answered Ally, with an honest brevity that wasvery edifying. "But, as you see now it was for your bad throat, and not for your badtemper, that I dreaded the winter, " said Aunt Kate, with a smile, "youwill come back with us, and let us both try again. We meant to be goodto you, dear; but we did not think enough that you had been unused to abig family, --that you were a little ewe lamb that had been transplantedinto a great crowded fold, and left to find your place with the crowd;and you misunderstood this, and took us too hardly; but we're going todo better. We're going to be more thoughtful of one another, and you'llcome home with us now, and we'll have our Thanksgiving dinner together, won't we?" Childish and ignorant of the world's ways, as her wild idea in regard toher right to a place in an orphans' home proved her, Ally had a greatdeal of sense in other directions, and she began to perceive that shehad not been the wilfully neglected and abused person she had thoughtherself, and to think, too, that perhaps Aunt Kate _might_ have hadsomething to bear from _her_. At any rate, her good sense made her seethat her aunt had come to her with kind and generous intentions, andthat the least she could do was to respond with what grace was in herpower; and so with a little smile that had something pathetic in it tothose who saw it, it was so tremulous with that pitiful doubt that hadbeen born of the last three unhappy years, she put her hand into Mrs. Fleming's, and signified her readiness to go with her. And then andthere, as she met that smile, Kate Fleming vowed to herself that neveragain through fault of hers should this child suffer for lack of lovingcare; and with this resolve warm in her heart, she clasped the littlehand in hers more closely, and said brightly, -- "You'll see how glad the girls will be to see you, Ally, when we gethome. " But Ally had no response to make to this. A great dread had seized heras she felt herself going to meet them. Uncle John's and Aunt Kate'sassurance of regard was one thing, but Uncle John and Aunt Kate werenot the girls, and poor Ally was quite sure that no one of them had evercared very much for her, though Mary had alternately petted and laughedat her, and now--why, now, they might dislike her for making such afuss, for Laura had often said she did dislike people so who made afuss, and Maud would agree with Laura, and Mary would laugh at her morethan ever. Oh, dear! oh, dear! if she could only go back! if she couldonly get that dear good Doctor to find her a place in--But, "Here weare, Ally!" said Uncle John; and "Here she is!" exclaimed three girlishvoices; and there, standing in the doorway, were Laura and Maud andMary; and at sight of their faces, at sound of their voices, Ally'sdread began to vanish. And then, just then, it was that Peter, who hadbeen banished to the hall, called out uproariously, "Ally's come! Ally'scome! give her a kiss! give her a kiss!" and Mary called out after him, "I taught him to say that; I taught him more 'n a month ago. " "'More 'n a month ago'! Oh!" breathed Ally under her breath, "she likedme well enough for this _more 'n a month ago_!" Uncle John and Aunt Kate and Laura and Maud and Mary were looking on, and they knew what Ally was thinking of, --the very words of it, --by thatsudden radiant smile upon her face; and Mary was so pleased thereat, shehad to cry out, -- "Oh, what a jolly Thanksgiving this is! Could anything be added to makeit jollier?" But something _was_ added. When they were all at the dinner-table thatnight, --mother and father and girls and the three boys who had just comeup from their boarding-school that very morning, --this telegram wasbrought in from Uncle Tom, -- "Thanks for word of Ally's safety. All send love. Florence is writing toher. " Ally's eyes opened wide with astonishment at this conclusion. Florence!Aunt Kate read the meaning of that astonished look, and sent a glance toAlly that said as plainly as _words_ could say, "You see, even Florencedidn't mean as badly as you thought. " AN APRIL FOOL. CHAPTER I. "Have you written it, Nelly?" "Yes, I have it here in my pocket. I'll show it to you when I get achance. " "Oh, show it now! There's as good a chance now as you'll have, for therest of the girls are all on the other side of the room. Come;" andLizzy Ryder held out her hand coaxingly. Nelly sent a quick glance around the school-room, and then took from herpocket a small square envelope. The envelope was directed to Miss AngelaJocelyn. Lizzy Ryder gave a little giggle as she read this name; but asshe drew forth the note-sheet and read written upon it in a slenderpointed handwriting, "Miss Marian Selwyn requests the pleasure of MissAngela Jocelyn's company on the evening of April 1st, " her giggle becamea smothered shriek, and she said to her cousin, -- "Oh, Nelly, it's perfect; she'll never suspect. It looks just likeMarian Selwyn's writing. Wouldn't it be too good if we could somehow gethold of Angela's acceptance and keep it back, and have her actually _go_to the party. What _do_ you suppose Marian would say to her when shewalked in?" "She wouldn't _say_ anything, but she'd _look_ so astonished, and she'dbe so stiff that Miss Angela would very soon find out she wasn't verywelcome. But we can't keep back the note very well, even if we could gethold of it, --it might get us into trouble, for it would be against thelaw; but there's no law against an April Fool letter of our own, and'twill be just as good fun in the end, for Marian Selwyn, of course, will set Miss Angela right in double quick time after she receives hernote. Oh, I can just imagine the top-lofty style in which she willinform Miss Angela that there must be some mistake. " "And then, of course, they'll both find out that somebody's beenApril-fooling them. " "Of course. But that isn't going to interfere with our fun. Miss Angelawill be set down by that time just where I want her, when she discoversthat her invitation is nothing but an April fool on her. I wish--But, hush, somebody's coming this way;" and in an instant Nelly had whiskedinto her pocket the note she had written, and the cousins were walkingdown the room, talking in a loud tone about their lessons. The "somebodycoming" was a very quiet but a very observing girl, who, as she saw thesudden start of Lizzy and Nelly, also caught sight of the little whitemissive as it was whisked into Nelly's pocket, and immediatelythought, -- "There's some mischief going on. I wonder what it is. " "That sly Mary Marcy, she's always spying 'round, " whispered Nelly toher companion, as they passed along. Then in a high voice, thinking tomislead Mary, she cried, "Oh, Lizzy, now I've shown you _my_ compositionyou must show me yours. " Mary Marcy was a shrewd girl as well as an observant one, and shelaughed in her sleeve as she heard this. "Composition! that was no school composition", she said to herself; andwhen a few minutes later the bell rang for the close of recess, and shesaw Nelly send a significant glance to Lizzy as the two hurried to theirseats, this shrewd, observant Mary was surer than ever that there wasmischief going on, and when she went home that afternoon she told hermother what she had seen and heard, and how she felt about it, --for Marywas very confidential with her mother, and told her most of her schoolsecrets. Mrs. Marcy listened to this telling with that placid Quaker wayof hers, and remarked in her quaint Quaker phrase, "Thee mustn't be toosuspicious, my dear; it maybe harmless mischief, after all. " And thenMary had replied, "I shouldn't be suspicious of any of the other girls, mother; but Lizzy and Nelly Ryder are always doing and saying themischievous things that have a sting in them;" and Mrs. Marcy, spite ofher Quaker charity, then admitted that she had never quite liked theways of those girls, and had often been sorry that they were in theWestboro' High School; "but, poor things, " she added the moment she hadmade this admission, "they are more to be pitied than the persons theyhurt, for _they_ can get over the hurt, but these poor girls can't getover their own wrong-doing so easily. It makes a black mark on themevery time, and black marks are hard to rub off; and thee'll see if theyare up to any wrong-doing now, it will leave a mark, and so they'll getthe worst of it in the long run. " "But it's always _such_ a long run before a mark of that kind shows, "laughed Mary. "Girls of that sort seem to succeed in making everybodybut themselves uncomfortable, and these two specially always appear tobe so gay and full of good times with their giggle and chatter. " "But the Bible says, Mary, 'for as the crackling of thorns under a pot, so is the laughter of the fool;' and thee can think of this the nexttime thee hears the chatter, and then thee can say to thyself, 'It _may_be nothing but foolish folly, after all. '" "Yes, it _may_ be nothing but that, " Mary allowed; but when the nextmorning she heard it again, her first doubts and suspicions returned infull force, and she said to herself, "I'm perfectly sure that there'ssomething more than mere foolishness in this crackling of thorns. I'mperfectly sure there's mischief with a sting in it. I feel it in theair, and I'm just going to watch out and see if I can't stop it as I didthat horrid St. Valentine business last winter. " And while good kind Mary was thus "watching out" for this mischief, there, only two or three seats away from her, sat Angela Jocelyn, aboutwhom all the mischief was gathering as a dark cloud gathers over a fairsky. And Angela's sky was particularly fair to her just then, for shehad been made very happy by the invitation she had received thatmorning, --so happy that she had said to her elder sister, MarthaJocelyn, "To think of Marian Selwyn's inviting _me_. Isn't it beautifulof her?" and Martha had answered back rather tartly, "I don't see whyyou should put such an emphasis on 'me, ' as if you were so inferior. You're as good as Marian Selwyn. " "Yes, Martha, I know--it isn't that I feel inferior in--in myself, "Angela exclaimed; "but the Selwyns have always had money andeverything--always, and we are poor and have lived so out of the waythat I say it's beautiful and kind of Marian, when she knows me solittle. Why, Martha, I never see her anywhere but on the street and atSunday-school. " "Well, she likes you, I suppose. She's taken a fancy to you, and she'sindependent enough, I should hope, to invite any girl she likes, if thegirl _is_ poor and lives out of the way, " was Martha's cool reply. Liked her! Taken a fancy to her! How Angela's heart jumped at thissuggestion! Could it be possible that this lovely fortunate MarianSelwyn, that she had always admired from afar off, had taken a fancy to_her_, --poor, plain little Angela Jocelyn, --was her thought. And it waswith this thought quickening her pulses that she wrote a cordialacceptance to the note of invitation; and it was this thought that sentsuch a bright look into her face that morning, that Mary Marcy said toher friend and seat-mate, Anna Richards, "Look at Angela Jocelyn, she isreally growing pretty;" and a little later at the recess that followeddirectly after a recitation where Angela had easily led, as usual, Mary, catching sight of the frowning faces of Lizzy and Nelly Ryder, exclaimed: "Anna, if Angela Jocelyn is going to add good looks to herbraininess, those Ryder girls will be more jealous of her than ever. " "And they pretend to look down on Angela because she is poor and hermother and sister take in sewing, " responded Anna. "All the same they don't look down on what Angela really _is_. She issuperior to them in brains, and they know it, and that makes them wantto pull her down, " answered Mary. "Yes, I heard Nelly Ryder say last week that Angela was altogether tooconceited, and ought to be 'taken down'; and it would be just like NellyRyder to try to do it sometime. " "_Sometime_! I believe she is trying to do it now. I believe that thatis the mischief she and her cousin Lizzy are planning this moment, "cried Mary. "What _do_ you mean?" "I'll tell you;" and Mary related, as she had related to her mother, what she had seen and heard. "Nelly Ryder has never forgiven Angela for getting the history prize;Nelly thought herself sure of it, --she as good as told me so, " wasAnna's only remark upon this. "And now she's going to play some trick on Angela to take her down, asshe calls it; that's what you think, isn't it? And that's what _I_think. Oh, Anna, I wish I could ferret out the mischief and stop it. Itwill be something hateful and mortifying to poor Angela, I know. If Icould only get some clew to what it is, so as to warn her. " "Yes; but as we are not sure that there _is_ any mischief, after all, you mustn't say anything to anybody yet. " "No, of course not; but I'll keep a sharp lookout, and I _may_ hear orsee something that will give me a hint. What fun it would be to outwitone of the Ryder schemes!" "Mary! with all your Quaker bringing-up, I do believe you are justpining for what our Jack would call 'a scrimmage. '" "Well, I am, if that means getting the better of mischief-makers, " Maryconfessed with a laugh. "But you won't succeed, if the mischief-makers are Nelly and LizzyRyder, Those, girls seem to get the best of everything and everybody. Think now, for one thing, of their being acquaintances of MarianSelwyn's, and invited to her birthday party!" "Oh, well, that is family acquaintance, Anna. The Ryders have alwaysknown the Selwyns, just as we have. The Selwyns and Ryders and Marcyshave lived in Westboro', and visited each other for ages. " "I wish _I_ had, and then I might have been invited to this wonderfulbirthday party, " exclaimed Anna, with a certain earnestness of tone thatbelied her gay little laugh, and made Mary say regretfully, -- "I wish I'd known you felt like this last week, I would have had you andMarian 'round to tea, and then you would have got acquainted, and she'dhave been sure to have invited you; but it's too late now, for the partycomes off Thursday, you know. " "Thursday! Why, Thursday is the first of April. . How funny that one'sbirthday should come on the first of April!" "Funny--why?" "Why? Because it's April-fool's day. " "Oh, I see; but I'm so used to Marian's birthdays, I don't always stopto think of that. " "But don't some people think of it? Don't they sometimes play--Oh, oh, Mary, Mary, mayn't this be your clew? Don't you believe that NellyRyder has been planning an April-fool trick upon Angela in connectionwith this party?" Mary, who had been sitting on one of the wide window-seats in therecitation-room, jumped to her feet at this, with a little scream of:"Oh, Anna, you've hit it. I do believe it _is_ the clew. Why _didn't_ Ithink of April-fool's day, --that it would be just the opportunity NellyRyder would take advantage of to play a trick, because she could throwit off from herself as a mere April joke, if her hand was found out init. Yes, yes, she has planned to drag Angela into some performance orother on the birthday that will make her ridiculous and offensive toMarian, --sending her on some fool's errand to Marian, perhaps the nightof the party, as somebody sent poor little Tilly Drake last year with asilly message to Clara Harrington that made Clara furious, and mortifiedTilly dreadfully. " "Oh, well, Angela wouldn't be taken in like that; she's brighter thanTilly. " "Angela is just the one to be taken in. She's one of the brightestpersons I ever saw about books and things of that kind, but she is veryinnocent and unsuspecting. Anna, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'mgoing to see Marian this noon, and I'm going to tell her what Isuspect. " "No, I wouldn't do that; it wouldn't be fair, for it's only oursuspicion, and we _may_ be on the wrong track altogether. " "But what am I to do? Sit still and let some horrid thing perhaps go onthat I might stop?" "I'll tell you what you might do. You might say to Marian that you hadgot an idea that somebody was going to play a trick on herbirthday, --upon her and some unsuspecting person; that you didn't know_what_ the trick was to be, and you might be all wrong in your suspicionthat there was to be one, but you thought that you ought to put her onher guard. You might say this to her without mentioning a name. " "Oh, Anna, Anna, what a cautious little thing you are with your 'mays'and your 'mights;' but you are right, you are right, and I'll go toMarian this noon, and say just what you've told me to say, and not aword more. " CHAPTER II. Mary thought it would be a very easy matter to say to Marian what Annahad suggested, but it wasn't so easy as she thought. Marian was a yearolder than herself, and that meant a good deal to a girl of fifteen, --ayear older and more than a year beyond her, with the experience ofWashington city life and schools during the winter months. In fact, toMary, who had not seen her for the past few months, she appeared soexperienced and grown-up, as she came into the room to meet her, thatthat young person felt all at once very young and awkward, and as aconsequence made such a boggle of what she had to say, that Marian, entirely misunderstanding, exclaimed in amazement, -- "You want me to get up an April joke on my birthday, Mary? I couldn'tthink of such a thing; I hate April jokes. " "No, no, you misunderstand, " burst forth Mary; and then, forgetting allher awkwardness, she made her little statement over again, and thistime succinctly and clearly. And now it was _her_ turn to be amazed; forbefore she had got entirely to the end of her statement, Marian startingup pulled a note from her pocket and cried, "Read this, Mary! readthis!" It was Angela's cordial note of acceptance. "And she had no invitation from _me_. I never invited her, I scarcelyknew her, " went on Marian. "She had no invitation from _you_, but she thought she had. It isn'tAngela who is playing a trick upon _you_. Somebody has played a trickupon _her_, --has written in your name. Oh, don't you see? _She_ is theinnocent person I meant. " "But who--who is the guilty one, --the one who has _dared_ to do this?"cried Marian. "I can't tell you yet whom I think it is, because I haven't any proof, and it wouldn't be fair to call names unless I had sure proof. " "Well, look here. All my notes were sealed with my monogram seal, but Iused a variety of colored wax. Everybody is interested in comparingseals now, and so can't you make an excuse to Angela that you want tocompare the seals in the different colors, and borrow her note ofinvitation, and then bring it to me? If I could see that note, I mightknow the handwriting, and then I'd know who played this shabby, crueltrick. And I ought to know, that I mayn't suspect an innocent person. " "But the note that Angela received may not be sealed with wax. " "Oh, yes, it will. Whoever sent that note had seen mine, I am certain, and of course would use wax, as I did. Now, won't you do this littleservice for me, Mary?" urged Marian, entreatingly. Mary laughed. "Yes, I'll do it, " she answered, "though I'm not veryclever at playing theatre. I've too much Quaker blood in me for that;but it's a good cause, and I'll do the best I can, and I'll do it now, for Angela's sure to be at home now;" and suiting her action to herword, Mary started off then and there upon her errand. And so surely and swiftly did she do her best on this errand that Mariangave a little scream of surprise as she saw her coming back, and, "You've not got it already?" she cried, running to meet her. "Yes, here it is. Angela gave it to me at once. " "Just the size of _my_ paper, and the wax--you see I was right. There_is_ wax, and a seal-stamp that looks like _my_ stamp, but isn't, "exclaimed Marian. "Now for the handwriting!" One glance at the addresson the envelope; then, pulling out the note, she bent breathlessly overit for a moment. In another moment she was calling out triumphantly: "Iknow it! I know it! She tried to imitate mine, but I know these M's andr's and A's. They're Nelly Ryder's! they're Nelly Ryder's! Look here;"and running to her desk, the excited girl produced another note, andplaced it beside the one that Angela had received. It was Nelly Ryder'sacceptance of her invitation; and Mary, looking at the peculiar M's andr's and A's saw as clearly as Marian herself the proof of the same handin each note. "And I should know her 'hand' anywhere, for I've had hundreds of notesfrom her, first and last, " Marian went on. "But to think of her playingsuch a trick as this! I never had any admiration for her, or her cousineither; but I _didn't_ think either one of them could do such amischievous, vulgar thing. But _you_ did, Mary, for this is the girl yoususpected. " "Yes, because I had known more of her than you had, --going to schoolwith her every day;" and then Mary told what she had known, and whatshe had seen herself, winding up with, "But I didn't like to tell youall this before I had certain proof, for I wanted to be fair, you know. " "And you _have_ been fair, more than fair; and now--" "Well, go on, what do you stop for--now what?" "Wait and see;" and Marian nodded her head, and compressed her lips intoa firm, resolute line. "Oh, Marian, are you going to punish Nelly?" cried Mary, a littlealarmed at these indications. Marian nodded again. "Yes, I'm going to punish her. " "Oh, how, when, where?" "When? On Thursday night. Where? At the birthday party. How? Wait andsee. " CHAPTER III. It was the evening of the first of April, --a beautiful, still, starryevening, with all the chill and frost of early spring blown out of it bythe friendly winds of March, and all the lovely promises of summerbuddings and flowerings wafting into it from waiting May and June. A "just perfect evening, " said more than one girl delightedly, as sheset out arrayed in all her furbelows for the birthday party. A "justperfect evening. " And no one said this more emphatically, and felt itmore emphatically, than Mary Marcy and Angela Jocelyn, --Mary in herpretty and becoming if rather plain white gown of China silk, and Angelain her old white cambric that had been 'done over' for the hundredthtime, perhaps, and was neither pretty nor becoming, with its skimp skirtand sleeves and shrunken waist. But a new gown had been out of thequestion just then with the Jocelyns, and Angela had to make the best ofthe old one; and it did not seem at all hard to make a very good 'best'of it, when she stood in her own little bedroom, with Martha tying thewell-worn blue sash around the shrunken waist, and her mother looking onand saying, "It really looks very nice, and that sash _does_ wash sowell. " But when she went up into the great brilliantly lighted bedchamber atthe Selwyns', and saw Mary Marcy in her perfectly fitting gown drawingon her delicate gloves, and talking with several young ladiesbeautifully dressed in fresh muslin and silk, the skimp skirt andsleeves, the shrunken waist and washed sash, seemed all at once verymean and shabby to Angela. They seemed still meaner and shabbier whentwo other girls appeared in yet prettier costumes of fresh daintiness;and when these two dropped their little hooded shoulder-wraps of silkand lace, and she saw that they were the two Ryder cousins, poor Angelasuddenly began to feel a strange sense of awkwardness and unfitness. This feeling increased as she noticed the unmistakable start that thecousins gave as they caught sight of her, and heard Nelly's astonishedexclamation, "What! _you_ here?" It was a bitter moment; but a bitterer was yet to come, when LizzyRyder, with that innocent little way of hers, said, -- "Oh, if you've come to help take our things off, _do_ help me with thisscarf, Angela!" If Angela could but have known then and there that this was only a pettystab from one petty jealous girl! But she did not know. She heard thewords, apparently so innocently spoken, and said to herself, "They thinkI am here as a servant, not as a guest!" and with a miserable confusedfeeling that everything was wrong, from her acceptance of the invitationto her shabby gown, she started back with all her confusion merging intoone thought to get away out of the sight of these well-dressed happygirls. But as she started back, Mary Marcy, who had heard Lizzy Ryder'sspeech, started forward and called out: "Oh, Angela, how do you do? Ididn't see you when you came in. I--I've been expecting to see you, though; and now shall we go down together?" Angela couldn't speak. She could only give a little nod of assent, andyield herself to kind Mary's guidance, with a deep breath of relief. Itwas only a partial relief, however. She had yet to go down into thebrilliant parlor with its crowd of Selwyn cousins, yet to face, in thatold shrunken gown with its washed sash, all those critical eyes. Oh, what if all those eyes should look at her with a stare of astonishment, such as Lizzy and Nelly Ryder had bestowed upon her? What if Marianherself should give a glance of surprise at the old shabby gown? Thesewere some of the troubled questions that whirled through Angela's headas she went down the stairs with Mary Marcy. And down behind them, following closely, though Angela did not know it, came the two Rydergirls, full of eager curiosity, for they were both of them now quitecertain that Marian had received no note of any sort from Angela. "Shedidn't know enough to write an acceptance. How should she? I don'tsuppose she's ever had an invitation to a party in her life, " whisperedNelly to her cousin in the first shock of surprise at seeing Angela inthe dressing-room. "No, of course not, " whispered back Lizzy; and so, confident and securein this belief, and in the anticipation of "fun, " as they called thedispleased astonishment they expected to see Marian express at the sightof her uninvited guest, and the guest's mortification thereat, theconspirators stepped softly along down the stairs and across the greathall into the beautiful brilliant parlor. [Illustration: As the fresh arrivals appeared] Marian was standing at the farther end of the parlor facing the doorway, with two of the Selwyn cousins beside her, as the fresh arrivalsappeared. She was laughing joyously as they entered; but at her veryfirst glimpse of the approaching group, the laugh ceased, and a look ofsudden resolve flashed into her face, --a look that the Selwyn cousins, who had been told the whole story of the fraudulent invitation, understood at once to mean, "Here is my opportunity and I'll make themost of it!" But to the others--to the four who were approaching--thissudden change in their hostess's face was thus variously interpreted:"She has seen Angela, " thought the Ryder girls, triumphantly. "She hasseen the Ryder girls, and she is going to punish them, " thought Mary, nervously. "She is looking at my dreadful old gown, " thought Angela, miserably. And moved thus differently by such different anticipations, the littlegroup came down the room, Mary's nervousness increasing at everystep, --for her shyness and the Quaker love of peace rose up within herat the sight of Marian's face, that seemed to her to betoken a plan ofpunishment for the approaching offenders more in accordance with thefiery Selwyn spirit than any spirit of peace. Just what Mary feared she could not have told; but she knew something ofthis Selwyn spirit, and had often heard it said that the Selwyn tonguecould cut like a lash when once started. That the Ryders deserved thesharpest cut of this lash she fully believed; but, "Oh, I _do_ hopeMarian won't say anything sharp _now_, " she thought to herself. And itwas then, just then, at that very moment, that she saw Marian's facechange again, as the softest, sweetest, kindest of smiles beamed fromlips and eyes, and the softest, sweetest, kindest of voices said, -- "How do you do, Mary? I'm very glad to see you, --you know my cousins, Bertie and Laura;" and in the next breath, "How do you do, Miss Jocelyn?It's very nice to see you here. --Bertie, Laura, this is my friend AngelaJocelyn, who is going to make one of our charade party next month if Ican persuade her. " One of that May-day charade party! Mary opened her eyes very wide atthis, and Angela wondered if she were awake. But the charming voice wasnow speaking to some one else, --was saying very politely without atouch of sharpness, but with a world of meaning to those who had theclew, and those only, -- "How do you do, Lizzy? How do you do, Nelly? And, Nelly, I want to thankyou for a real service in connection with my birthday invitations. Butfor you I should have missed a very welcome guest. I shall never forgetthis, you may be sure. " "I--I--" But for once Nelly Ryder's ready speech failed her. Her cousintried to take up her words, tried to say something about April fun, tried to smile, to laugh; but the laugh died upon her lips, and she wasonly too glad to move on with Nelly into the room beyond, and there, outof the range of observation for a moment, the two expressed theirastonishment and dismay at Marian's knowledge, and wondered how she cameby it. "But to think of her taking an April joke so seriously as to make muchof Angela Jocelyn just to come up with _me_!" burst out Nelly. "And to think, " burst out Lizzy, with a sly laugh, "that it is _you_ whohave introduced Angela to Marian's good graces, and that it is _you_, after all, who have been made the April fool, and not Angela!" THE THANKSGIVING GUEST. CHAPTER I. "It is such a lovely idea, such a truly Christian idea, Mrs. Lambert. How did you ever happen to think of it?" "Oh, _I_ did not think of it; it wasn't _my_ idea. Didn't you ever hearhow it came about?" "No; do tell me!" "Well, my husband, you know, was always looking out for ways of doinggood, --lending a helping hand, --and he used to talk with the children agreat deal of such things. One day he came across a beautiful littlestory that he read to them. It was the story of a child who made theacquaintance of a poor, half-starved student and brought him home withher to share her Thanksgiving dinner. It made a deep impression on thechildren. They talked about it continually, and acted it out in theirplay. But they were in the habit of doing that with any fresh story thatpleased them, so it was nothing new to us, and we hadn't a thought oftheir carrying it further. But the next week was Thanksgiving week; andwhen Thanksgiving Day came, what do you think those little thingsdid, --for they were quite little things then, --what do you think theydid but bring in just before dinner the half-blind old apple-pedler whohad a stand on the corner of the street? "They were so happy about it, and they thought we should be so happytoo, that we couldn't say a word of discouragement in the way of advicethen; but later, when we had given the old fellow his dinner, and he hadgone, we had a talk with the dear little souls, when we tried to showthem that it would be better to let us know when they wanted to inviteany one to dinner or to tea, --that that was the way other girls and boysalways did. They were rather crestfallen at our suggestions; for, withthe keen, sensitive instinct of children, they felt that theirbeautiful plan, as they thought it, had somewhere failed, and, thoughthey promised readily enough to consult us 'next time, ' we could seethat they were puzzled and depressed over all this _regulation_, when wehad seemed to have nothing but admiring appreciation for the similar actof the child in the story. My husband, seeing this, was very muchtroubled to know just what to say or do; for he thought, as I did, thatit might be a serious injury to them to say or do anything to chill orcheck their first independent attempt to lend a helping hand to others. Then all at once out of his perplexity came this idea of allowing thechildren from that time forward to have the privilege of inviting aguest of their own choosing every Thanksgiving Day, and that this guestshould be some one who needed, in some way or other, home-cherishing andkindness. They should have the privilege of choosing, but they must tellus the one they had chosen, that we might send the invitation for them. This plan delighted them; and from this start, five years ago, the thinghas gone on until it has grown into the present 'guest day, ' where _eachone_ of the children may invite his or her particular guest. It has gotto be a very pleasant thing now, though at first we had some queertimes. But as the children grew older, they learned better how toregulate matters, and to make necessary discriminations, and a year agowe found we could trust them to invite their guests without any oldersupervision, and they are very proud of this liberty, and very happy inthe whole thing; and such an education as it has been. You've no ideahow they have learned to think of others, to look about them to findthose who are in need not merely of food or clothing but of lovingattention and kindness. " "Well, it is beautiful, Mrs. Lambert, and what a Thanksgiving ought tobe, --what it was in the old pilgrim days at Plymouth, when those who hadmore than others invited the less fortunate to share with them. It'sbeautiful, and I wish everybody who could afford it would go and dolikewise. " "Speaking of affording it, I thought, when my husband died last spring, I should have to give up our guest day with most other things, for youknow that railroad business that my husband entered into with hishalf-brother John nearly ruined him. I think the worry and fret of itkilled him, anyway, and I told John so, and he has never forgiven me. But I have never forgiven him, and never shall; for if it hadn't beenfor John's representations, his continual urging, Charles would neverhave gone into the business. Oh, I shall always hold John responsiblefor his death, and I told him so. " "You told him so? How did he take that? What did he say?" "Oh, you know John. He flew into a rage, and said he loved his brotheras well as _I_ did. As well as _I_ did! Think of that; and that he hadurged him into that business, thinking that it was for hisbenefit, --that no one could have foreseen what happened, and that ifCharles lost, he also had lost, and much more heavily. But, as I wassaying, I thought at first I should have to give up our guest day; butwhen matters came to be settled, I found there were other things I wouldrather economize on. " "Where _is_ John now, Mrs. Lambert?" "He is in--" But just at that moment a tall pretty girl of fourteenentered the room. It was Elsie, the eldest of the Lambert children. "Why, Elsie, how you have grown!" cried Mrs. Mason, who hadn't seenElsie for some months, "and you've quite lost the look of your mother. " "Yes, Elsie is getting to look like the Lamberts, " remarked the mother. "Everybody says I look just like Uncle John, " spoke up Elsie. "Oh, you were asking me where John was now, " said Mrs. Lambert, turningto Mrs. Mason. "He is in New York, dabbling in railroads, as usual, andgetting poorer and poorer by this obstinate folly, I heard last week. _We_ don't see him, of course; for, as I told you, we don't forgive eachother. Oh!" as her visitor cast a questioning glance toward Elsie, whohad suddenly given a little start here, "Elsie knows all about it. Elsieis my big girl now. But what is it, my dear?--you came in to ask mesomething, --what is it?" "It's about Tommy. He has told me who he is going to invite for nextweek, "--next week was Thanksgiving week, --"and I knew you would not likeit, and I felt that I ought to tell you; it is that horrid Marchantboy. " "Like it, --I should think not! Why, what in the world has put Tommy upto that?" "He says that Joe Marchant hasn't any home of his own thisThanksgiving, because his father has gone out West on business, and leftJoe all alone with those people that his father and he boarded with justafter his mother died; and Tommy pities Joe so, he says he is going toinvite him here for next Thursday, and I knew you wouldn't want him. " "Of course not; the boy is ill-mannered and disagreeable, and he isalways quarrelling with Tommy. " "I told Tommy that, " laughed Elsie, "and he said he guessed he'd done_his_ share of the quarrelling, and that, anyway, Joe Marchant was theunder dog now, and he was going to forgive and forget. " "Dear little Tommy!" exclaimed Mrs. Lambert, admiringly. "And he said, too, mother, that he knew you wouldn't object; that youalways told him that Thanksgiving Day was the very day to make up withfolks and be good to 'em, but I knew you _would_ object to Joe Marchant, and so--" "I--I don't know about it, Elsie. If Tommy feels like that, I--I don'tbelieve it would be wise for me to check him. No, I don't believe I can. Tommy is nearer right than I am. He is doing a fine, generous thing, and it _is_ the right thing, and I think we must put up with JoeMarchant, Elsie, after all. " "Oh, _I_ don't mind, if _you_ don't, mamma; but I thought you wouldn'tlike it, and it would spoil the day. " "No, nothing done in that spirit _could_ spoil the day; and, Elsie, Ihope the rest of you will make your choice of guests with as good reasonas Tommy has. " Elsie looked at her mother with an odd, eager expression, as if she wereabout to speak. Then she suddenly lifted up her head with a little airof resolution, and starting forward hurriedly left the room. Mrs. Lambert laughed as the door closed. "I think I know what Elsie is going to do, " she said smilingly to Mrs. Mason. "There is a young teacher in her school, Miss Matthews, who isseldom invited anywhere, she is so unpopular. I've often asked Elsie tobring her home, and she has always put it off; but I believe that thisact of Tommy's and what I've said about it has made such an impressionupon her that she has gone now to invite Miss Matthews to be her guestnext week. She was going to tell me about it at first, then she thoughtbetter of it. They've all had this liberty for the last year--not totell--it's so much more fun for them; and I can always trust Elsie tolook out for things, she has such good sense with her good heart. " "Yes, and you _all_ seem to have such good sense and such good hearts, Mrs. Lambert, " said Mrs. Mason, as she rose to go; but as she walkeddown the street she said to herself, "Such good sense and such goodhearts, overflowing with charity and forgiveness for everybody but JohnLambert!" CHAPTER II. It was Thanksgiving Day, and just three minutes to the dinner-hour atthe Lamberts', and all the guests had arrived except the one that Elsiehad bidden. "Don't fret, Elsie, " whispered Mrs. Lambert to her, as she noted the twored spots burning in her cheeks and her anxious glances toward theclock, --"don't fret; she's probably going to be fashionably exact on thestroke of the hour. " Elsie gave a little start at this, and, laughing nervously, began totalk to Joe Marchant, while tick, tock, the clock beat out the time. "We'll wait five minutes for her, " thought Mrs. Lambert. "If therehasn't been an accident to detain her, she's very rude, and certainlynot fit to be a teacher of _manners_, and I don't wonder she's unpopularwith the girls. " The three minutes, the five minutes sped by, and the awaited guest didnot appear. To wait longer would be unfair to the others, and Mrs. Lambert gave orders for the dinner to be served. It was seemingly avery cheerful little company that gathered about the dinner-table; butthere was something pathetic in it, when one came to consider that eachone of these guests was for the time at least sitting at the stranger'sfeast instead of with his own kith and kin on this family day. Mrs. Lambert herself felt this pathos, and it brought back, too, the lossesand limitations in her home circle; for what with death and absence, herfive children had no one now but herself to look to, where once were thedear grandparents, the fond father, and a score or more of otherrelations. But she must not dwell on these memories with all theseguests to serve. She must put her own needs aside to see that littleMiss Jenny Carver had a better choice of celery, that Molly Price andthat big lonesome-looking Ingalls boy had another help to cranberrysauce, and Joe Marchant a fresh supply of turkey. It was while she was attending to this latter duty, while she waslaughing a little at Joe's clumsy apology for his appetite, and tellinghim jestingly that she hoped to see him eat enough for two, because oneguest was missing, --while she was doing this, there came a great crunchof carriage wheels on the driveway, and a great ring at the door-bell, and, "There she is! there she is!" thinks Mrs. Lambert, with the addedthought: "It's rather putting on airs, seems to me, to take a carriagewhen she is at such a little distance from us, --rather putting on airs, but--What _are_ you jumping up for?" she calls out to Elsie, who hassuddenly sprung from her seat. "What are you jumping up for? Ellen willattend Miss Matthews upstairs, and send her into us when she has removedher wraps. Sit down, Elsie; don't be so fidgety. I will--" But thedining-room door was here suddenly flung wide, and Mrs. Lambert sawcoming toward her, not, oh, not Miss Matthews, but a tall gentleman witha thin, worn face crowned with snow-white hair; and, catching sight ofthis snowy crown, Mrs. Lambert did not recognize the face until she felther hand clasped, and heard a low eager voice say, -- "I am so glad to come to you, --to see you and the children again, Caroline. I was away when Elsie's letter arrived; but as soon as I gotinto New York yesterday, I started off, and I am so glad to come, soglad to come;" and here Mrs. Lambert heard the eager voice falter, andsaw the glisten of tears in the eyes that were regarding her and in thenext instant felt them against her cheek as a tender kiss was pressedupon it. It was all in a moment, the strange surprise of look and wordand tone and touch, the joyful cries of "It's Uncle John, it's UncleJohn!" from some one of the children. Then all in a moment thestrangeness seemed to have passed, and John Lambert was taking his placeamongst them with the fond belief that he was his sister-in-law's chosenguest. And she, with those warm, manly words of thanks, those joyfulcries of childish welcome in her ears, could she undeceive him, --couldshe say to him: "It was not I who sent for you; I am the same as ever, as full of wild regrets and bitter resentments"? Could she say this tohim? How could she, how could she, when over the wild regrets and bitterresentments there kept rising and rising a flood of earlier memories ofan earlier time when this guest had been a welcome guest indeed, and shehad heard again and again those very words, "I'm so glad to come"? Thosevery words, but with what a difference of accent, and what a differencein the speaker himself, --only a year and his face so worn, his hair sowhite, she had not known him! He must have suffered, --yes, and she--shehad suffered; but she had her children, and he had no one! The dinner was over. They had all risen from the table, and were goinginto the parlor, and Uncle John had his namesake Johnny on one side ofhim and little Archie on the other. They had taken possession of himfrom the first, when Elsie, hanging back, clung to her mother andwhispered agitatedly, -- "Oh, mamma, mamma, it was what you said last week about Tommy'sinvitation that made me think of--of inviting Uncle John; but perhaps Iought to have told you--have asked you. " "No, no, it is better as it is. Don't fret, dear, it--it is all right. But there is Ann bringing the coffee into the parlor. Go and light yourlittle teakettle, Elsie, and make your uncle a cup of tea as you used todo; he can't drink coffee, you know. "