Blue Robin, the Girl Pioneer

As the song ended, the closed right hand of every Girl Pioneer was held out in front, elbow bent upward. Then came three movements up and down in imitation of the act of churning. This was done three times, as in chorus came:

    “Churning,  turning,  see  it  splash,
    This  way,  that  way,  with  a  dash.”

As the next two lines rang out:

    “Skimming  skimming  foamy  white,
    Making  the  butter  golden  bright,”

the motions were changed to those of skimming milk, repeated three times as in the previous movement, the girls emphasizing the end of each movement by stamping the feet, using first one and then the other. They ended this last motion by each girl placing her hands on her hips and tripping in line with the others lightly down the room in time with the music and then back to place.

A second of time, and each dancer was making the motion of holding a baby in her encircled arms, and while swaying to and fro these words were softly crooned:

    “Golden  slumber  kiss  your  eyes,
    Smiles  awake  you  when  you  rise.
    Sleep  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry,
    And  I  will  sing  a  lullabye.”

Another moment, and the arms had fallen, each girl faced her opposite partner, and then linking hands together they were rocking a cradle as they joyously warbled:

    “Baby  is  a  sailor  boy,  swing,  cradle,  swing;
    Sailing  is  the  sailor’s  joy,  swing,  cradle,  swing.”

Now the girls were waltzing gaily down the room and back again to place, where this time they formed in rows of three in each line. A crash of chords from the piano, and each girl stepped forward with outstretched left hand, and made the motion of taking something with the right hand from the closed left, and casting it on the ground, as they repeated clearly and loudly:

    “Good  flax  and  good  hemp  to  have  of  her  own,
    In  May,  a  good  housewife  will  see  that  it  is  sown.
    And  afterwards  trim  it  to  serve  in  a  need,
    The  fimble  to  spin,  the  card  from  her  reel.”

Yes, they were sowing hemp as their great-grand-mothers had done hundreds of years ago—a sign of a thrifty housewife. Now came three claps of the hand and again the girls swung into two facing lines. Each performer now lightly put forward the right foot, poised on the ball of the left one, while making the motion as of moving the treadle of a spinning-wheel, as with lifted hands she twisted the flax, stopping every moment to moisten one finger in an imaginary cup fastened to the distaff.

“Polly Green, her reel,” announced Helen as leader of the dance, and then came the old-fashioned couplet softly hummed:

    “Count  your  threads  right,
    If  you  reel  in  the  night
    When  I  am  far  away.”

Before Nathalie could decide whether the couplet meant only to count your threads at night while Polly was far away, the dancers had swung into place and were going through the minuet. With slow and stately measure they moved, ending each turn with the dipping, sweeping curtsy that has made that dance so graceful a reminder of the festivities of early days.

Now they are singing:

    “Twice  a  year  deplumed  may  they  be
    In  spryngen  tyme  and  harvest  tyme,”

as with swift motion each girl pretended to grab up something with her left hand while the right flew up and down with noiseless regularity—plucking a goose for dinner.

The next instant every alternate girl had put her hand over her mouth in the form of a horn and was calling loudly, “Ho, Molly Gray! Hi, Crumple Horn!” This call had barely ceased its musical reverberation when each fair dancer caught up the hem of her apron and, bending forward, with well-simulated deftness was gathering or picking up something from the ground which was quickly thrust into her apron. Another flash of white arms, and each girl had caught up the hem of her neighbor’s gown and with a pretended switch was driving her forward while merrily singing:

    “Driving  in  twilight  the  waiting  cows  home,
    With  arms  full-laden  with  hemlock  boughs,
    To  be  traced  on  a  broom  ere  the  coming  day
    From  its  eastern  chamber  should  dance  away.”

As the songs and motions ended, the girls filed into line and marched around the room as if carrying muskets, that is, women’s muskets, brooms.

Once more in row, each girl pretended she was holding a card with one hand, while drawing another card softly, but swiftly across the first. This was done with a deft, catchy motion as the girls sing-songed:

    “Niddy-noddy,  niddy-noddy
    Two  heads  on  one  body.”

“Now we are imitating the motions of carding wool,” Helen whispered softly to Nathalie. “Niddy-noddy means the old-fashioned hand-reel used in the days when there were no machines.”

The Pioneers had finished carding wool and were dancing the Virginia Reel, spinning each other around with the vigor and vim of young hearts as a prelude to the next dance. In this they simulated sewing, taking their stitches with a precision and handiness that rivalled the little maids of Puritan days. With a posture as of holding a wooden frame, while in and out the needle flew, each damsel repeated slowly, with quaint precision:

    “Lola  Standish  is  my  name.
    Lord,  guide  my  heart  that  I  may  do  thy  will,
    And  fill  my  Hands  with  such  convenient  skill
    As  will  conduce  to  Virtue  void  of  shame,
    And  I  will  give  the  Glory  to  thy  name.”

Only a space of time and the samplers were dropped, and each girl grew strangely still, with bent head and listening ears. With eyes flaming in a fixed stare she poised an imaginary fowling-piece on her shoulder. They stood for a moment in this pose as each one present grasped the idea that they were doing the deed that many a Pioneer woman had bravely done in those early days, in the absence of husband keeping guard over the home from the relentless ravages of the red man!

CHAPTER VIII—THE MOTTO, “I CAN”

“But isn’t she coming back?” inquired alarmed Nathalie.

“Not for several days,” was the answer, as Mrs. Page leaned wearily back in her chair.

“But can’t we get some one to help us?” demanded her daughter insistently.

“Dorothy went to the colored settlement, but could not get any one. Colored people don’t like to work in warm weather, and I don’t blame them,” her mother added in an undertone, “for standing over a fire in this heat is terrible.”

“Oh, what shall we do?” thought Nathalie ruefully, as she saw a pile of unwashed dishes confronting her. But a cheery “Hello?” caused her to look up to see her friend, with dust-brush in hand, cleaning the window shutters of the neighboring house. With gripping force she suddenly realized how useful Helen was, and the numerous things she managed to do to help her mother, notwithstanding the many hours she was compelled to spend at the stenography school.

Nathalie twisted about in the hammock; somehow it did not seem as comfortable as it did before her mother had come. Her sky visions had departed, and in their place had come the thought that she ought to help her mother. Oh, but dish-washing was degrading, such greasy work. She glanced down at her slim, white hands as if they would aid her in this argument with self.

“Oh, why do people have to do the very things they hate?” she questioned rebelliously as she arose from her comfortable position and with a long-drawn sigh started to enter the house.

“You have dropped your book!” exclaimed her mother as she stooped and picked up the Pioneer manual that had fallen from Nathalie’s lap and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” returned the girl and then, with a pang of regret as she noted her mother’s weary eyes, she bent and kissed her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry you had to work so hard!” she cried impulsively. “Isn’t there something I can do to help?” She almost wished her mother would say no.

“Not now,” replied her mother with a brighter expression than she had worn, “but perhaps you can help me later—when I get dinner.”

“All right,” returned her daughter with forced cheerfulness. As she entered the hall her eyes were caught by the word “Pioneer” in big, black letters on the manual. Reminded by the name that flaunted itself so determinedly before her, she remembered that she was a Pioneer, that she had taken vows upon herself, and that in order to keep these vows she should do the very things, perhaps, that she hated to do. This new thought jarred her uncomfortably as she hurried up to her room and began to make herself cool and comfortable after a rather strenuous morning spent in trying her hand at the many new interests that had come to her as a Pioneer.

But somehow she was haunted, as it were, by the thought that she was not making a good beginning as a Pioneer; oh, yes, being a Pioneer did not mean all play, or even doing the things that were interesting, or that one liked to do, those were the Director’s words that morning. The more one gives up or overcomes in order to do and accomplish the demands made upon her as a Pioneer, the greater the victory. She picked up the manual from the bureau and began to turn its leaves aimlessly, and then she halted, for two very small words held her eyes, “I can!” why, that was the Pioneer motto—the one Lillie Bell had mentioned when she told of the picked chicken. She would read the laws!

“A Girl Pioneer is trustworthy.” Oh, Nathalie was sure she was that. “Helpful,” her conscience pricked sharply. Was she helpful if she didn’t try and do all she could to help her mother? “O dear,” she ruminated, “I am shying at the first ‘overcome.’” She remembered that Mrs. Morrow had said all the disagreeable things that one didn’t want to do, but did in the end, were “overcomes.”

“Kind—” she heaved a sigh, well, she was afraid she hadn’t been very kind the other day when she had answered Lucille so sharply, but she was trying, and the hasty retort would slip out; she would have to put a button on her lips as her mother often told her.

“Reverent,” her religion taught her that. “Happy,” not always, for how could one be happy when life had been full of disappointments? Her eyes saddened as she thought of Dick, who was so patiently waiting for something to turn up, so that he could have the operation on his knee. Poor fellow! she had felt like crying the other day when she heard him telling how he had written to a law firm in the city in the hope that he could get some copying to do so that he could earn some money.

“Happiness does not always mean having what we want; it is being contented with what we have,” that was another of Mrs. Morrow’s interpretations of the Pioneer laws. “Cheerful,” here Nathalie broke into a laugh, quite sure she was always cheerful when she had the things she wanted. “There!” she cried aloud, “I am not going to read any more of those laws, for if I am to—” she stooped, for the manual had fallen to the floor. As she picked it up she again encountered the words, “I can.”

“I can!” she repeated once or twice mechanically. Then her face lighted, as if the meaning of the words had suddenly flashed themselves clear of the thoughts that had been revolving in her mind.

“But what can I do?” she continued doubtingly.

“You can wash the dishes for your mother in the morning so that she can read her morning paper,” some one seemed to whisper. She started. “And you can get up and get breakfast the way Helen does when her mother is not feeling well,” this time the some one spoke very loudly.

“Oh, but I can’t cook, nobody would eat my breakfast,” she thought, still holding back.

“But if you are a Pioneer you should learn to do these things.” She frowned as if to brush aside an unpleasant thought.

“Yes, I suppose I can do these things,” she reluctantly admitted after a moment’s thought. “O dear—I have been lamenting that I had no purpose in life, that I was just drifting. I cried the other day because Mother said my talents were gilt-edged. ‘Yes, I Can,’” suddenly broke from her. “I’m going to begin right now, too; I’ll show Mother that I am not a gilt-edge drifter. I’ll learn to cook—oh, I’ll just make myself do those horrible, horrible things—I’ll show you, Miss I Can, so there!” She hastily wiped away the tears that would come, and then, as was her wont after a mental conflict, she began to sing. A few moments later she was down in the kitchen hustling about, seeing what there was for dinner.

A steak, oh, yes, she knew how to broil that—and potatoes—oh, they were easy! The next minute she had seated herself before the kitchen table, and as she peeled the potatoes she sang with unwonted animation:

    “We  stick  to  work  until  it’s  done
    We’re  Pioneers,  Girl  Pioneers.
    We  never  from  our  duty  run,
    We’re  Pioneers,  Girl  Pioneers.
    We  learn  to  cook,  to  sew,  to  mend
    To  sweep,  to  dust,  to  clean,  to  tend,
    And  always  willing  hands  to  lend.”

As she paused to think how she could manage the next vegetable, Mrs. Page entered, showing amazement as she saw what her daughter was doing, for full well she knew that Nathalie disliked anything in the way of housework.

“Why, Nathalie!” she exclaimed, “you need not do that. I will get dinner; there is not so much to do, for Felia made some pies yesterday, and with a steak, thank goodness! there will not be much to cook.”

“Now, see here, Mumsie,” cried the new housewife, flourishing her knife menacingly at her mother, “I am chief of this ranch. You have lamented that I was just a gilt-edged doll, now I’m going to show you I’m not. I’m a Pioneer, and I’m going to learn everything useful. Now be off!” As her mother protested there ensued a little wrestling-match in which the girl came off victor, and Mrs. Page, subdued into meekness, retired to the veranda, somewhat relieved to think she could rest awhile.

As Nathalie snuggled down to sleep that night—she was so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open—she felt supremely happy, for she had cooked dinner all by herself. To be sure Dick had growled and claimed the steak was burnt, and Lucille had volunteered the information that Felia never mashed her potatoes that way, but it made no difference to the happy Blue Robin—as Dick had called her—for she was pleased to think that for once in her life she had helped. Of course, Mother had laughed at her blunders, but it was in the old happy way that she used to do when Papa had been with them.

Next morning Nathalie awoke with a start, she smiled drowsily at some passing remembrance of the day before, and then turned over for a beauty nap. Suddenly she sat up with eyes keen and alert; if she was to be maid of all work that day she must get at her job. In fifteen minutes she was creeping stealthily down the kitchen stairs with her shoes in her hands, so as not to awaken her mother.

Oh! the fire was out; that was a difficulty she had not taken into calculation. For a moment she was tempted to crawl up those stairs and leave the fire to the next one who discovered it. Oh, but that would not do at all. She didn’t know how to make a fire, but the words “I can,” made her close her mouth determinedly, and in a few moments clouds of rising smoke attested that she was learning. But alas, the smoke soon drifted into space, and the blaze disappeared in a mass of black paper!

Nathalie’s tears came at this; oh, why would not that wood catch fire? Tried to the soul, she went to the window and gazed through a mist of tears at the dew sparkling on bush and grass. A low, sweet whistling caused her to look up to see Helen, as fresh as a new-blown rose, throwing open the shutters of her room.

Nathalie pursed up her lips and then broke into a “Tru-al-lee!”

Helen glanced down quickly, her eyes lighted, and then came a quick Bob White call that sounded much like “More wet! More wet!” In another instant she was down on the porch calling merrily to her friend, “Oh, Nathalie, how are you this morning?”

Nathalie dimpled cheerily. “Oh, fine!” making a dab at her eyes, “but at my wits’ end trying to make a fire. Will you tell me why it will insist upon going out? It is maddening! I have lighted it six times.”

“What, you making a fire?” said Helen, and then, “Just wait a moment and I will come over and see what is wrong.”

Under Helen’s nimble fingers the brown paper was taken out, the fire-pot filled with loosely wrapped newspaper, small sticks laid crisscross, a few larger ones on top, and then a match applied. Like magic the tiny blue flame sputtered, caught hold of an edge of paper, and then in a few moments a blazing fire was seething and swirling. Nathalie, in exuberant joy, seized her friend and the two girls waltzed merrily around the kitchen.

Of course Nathalie knew how to make toast, but when Helen showed her how to hold it over the coals until it was a golden-brown, butter it while hot, and then cut off the scraggly edges and a rim of crust, she realized that toast-making was indeed a domestic science. Scrambled eggs came next, simple, but deliciously done, as her friend showed her. Then came putting the coffee in the percolator with the water heated beneath by the tiny alcohol lamp, thus drawing from the beverage the most nutritious qualities, Helen declared, without injuring one’s digestion.

But the grape-fruit—that was another new thing learned—was prepared the way Helen said a trained nurse had taught her, one time when her mother was ill. It was cut in half, the pulp dug out with a spoon into a cup or saucer, and after the pith had been removed, chopped finely, returned to shell, and then sugared and put on the ice. But perhaps the best part of helping Mother that morning was when, after striking the Japanese gong eight bells, Nathalie arrayed herself in Felia’s freshly laundered cap and apron and stationed herself back of her mother’s chair to serve breakfast.

How pleased and surprised her mother was! Dick “Blue Robined” her again, while Lucille patronizingly exclaimed, “Oh, Nathalie, you make a swell maid—and how smart you are getting!”

Just before dinner, Helen appeared again, and taught her how to make soup from a few boiled bones and a chunk of meat, a few left-over tomatoes, and a bit of onion and seasoning. She taught her to broil a steak,—this time without a burnt speck—how to make white sauce for some left-over fish, how to scrape new potatoes economically, and the right way to cook peas. Then came a delicious dessert of stale pieces of cake and canned peaches, laid in layers with beaten cream, and topped off with little white pigs, as Nathalie called the tiny bits of egg froth floating on its surface. Truly, it was a dinner fit for a king!

After dinner her sensitive soul rebelled at the pile of greasy dishes, but the task grew lighter when Helen showed her how to make the water hot and soapy, using a lot of dried bits of soap that Nathalie was going to throw away, by sewing them in cheese-cloth bags. She washed the glasses and silver first, then the china, and then—oh, horrors—the pots! But when the new Pioneer saw how her friend put them on to boil, thus doing away with so much grease, it was a revelation. And when the dish-towels were washed and hung out in the sun to sweeten, and the sink was scrubbed with a brush and a cleansing soap, Nathalie was again forced to admit that she had mastered another household science.

Oh, no, it wasn’t all plain sailing—the world isn’t run that way—and the new Pioneer’s back, eyes, and feet made themselves forcibly known before she went to bed that night. Many a time she had had to grit her teeth, summon Miss I Can to her side, and with forced determination go on with the job; but after all, she declared, as she turned out the light, “I have helped Mother!” and then sleep claimed the tired girl.

When Saturday morning came, however, and no Felia made her appearance according to promise, Nathalie’s face grew somber, and she could not help going to the door every few minutes to see if she were not in sight, for she had planned to go on a bird-hike that morning with the Pioneers to learn bird-calls. As the clock struck nine she dropped her broom—she was sweeping the kitchen—and rushed to her room. Here she wept copiously for a while in her clothes closet with her head buried in the skirts of her dresses, so no one could hear, and then she heard her mother calling her.

She dried her eyes guiltily, scrubbed her face to brush away all trace of tears, and then answered blithely, “Here I am, Mumsie, I’m coming right down to finish the kitchen.” When she came tearing down the stairs she found the kitchen swept and garnished, and lo! there stood Mother with big, surprised eyes pointing to Lucille, who, as she caught sight of her cousin, bobbed her head and dropped a curtsy, crying, “Sure, ma’am, it’s a new job I’m afther takin’ on meself, but do yez see the loikes of it for the claneness?”

Nathalie gave one bewildered stare, and then a merry peal of laughter broke from her, seconded with a minor note from her mother, and with a bass accompaniment added by Dick, as he entered and sensed the situation. Yes, Miss I Can must have caught Lucille in her meshes, too, for that young lady, generally so dainty in her labor preferences, had condescended to sweep the kitchen.

“Well,” she explained apologetically, “I was jealous of the praise bestowed upon Nathalie, and thought I’d show you folks that people can do things even if they are not Blue Robins.”

“Oh, Lucille, you aren’t a Blue Robin, you’re a duck of a dear,” bubbled Nathalie as she hugged her cousin rapturously. “It was just lovely of you. But Mother, did you know what she was doing?”

“No, I did not,” rejoined Mrs. Page; “I thought it was you working all by yourself and came in to help, as I knew you wanted to go on the hike. But before you go, dear,” she added anxiously, “I want you to go down to Felia’s and see how she is. If she is not coming back by Monday you will have to hunt around for a washerwoman; the clothes can’t go another week.”

An hour later, Nathalie, delighted to think she could take a day off with a clear conscience, hurried in the direction of Ophelia’s little gray shanty; but to her surprise, as she came near the door she heard a loud wailing and the confused hum of several voices.

As she entered the stuffy parlor hung with gay colored prints and dingy-looking chromos, she found Ophelia seated in a rocking chair with her face buried in a gingham apron, wailing and crying hysterically. Pushing her way through the crowd of sympathizing friends, Nathalie grabbed the arm of a colored woman who stood by Felia’s side crying, “Oh, please, won’t you tell me what’s the matter?”

“Sure, Miss,” respectfully answered the woman, wiping a tear from her eye. “It’s little Rosy, she’s lost—we can’t find her—ah, honey, don’t take on so!” she ended, turning towards the grieving mother and giving her a caressing pat on the shoulder. “Surely some one will find her.”

Nathalie now stepped to Felia’s side and pulled her gently by the sleeve, determined to get some definite information about black Rosebud, as Dick called the little pickaninny who had often come to the house with her mother, and who, being a bright child, had become a prime favorite. “Ophelia, please tell me about your trouble!” insisted the girl. “Is Rosy surely lost?”

“She lost sure nuff, Missy, down at de bottom of de pond,” quavered Felia’s mother dismally, an aged negress standing by the side of her daughter, as she rolled up her eyes until the whites looked like saucers on a shelf. “I’se gwine to tell you de trufe—dat chile is drowned. Oh, I see her face a-shinin’ in de water—”

Her horrible prognostication as to Rosy’s woeful fate was terminated by her daughter’s renewed wails of anguish, as she again began to rock herself to and fro with redoubled force.

“Oh,” thought Nathalie, frowning angrily in the direction of the old mammy, “I do wish she would stop.” Then she cried, “Oh, Felia, don’t cry so—I am sure she will be found—perhaps she is at one of the neighbors’ houses, you know she is fond of visiting.”

There was such sympathetic concern in the girl’s voice that Felia desisted from her lamentations long enough to cry, “Oh, Miss Natty, she done go and get lost—she ain’t nowhere hereabouts!” Then in answer to further questioning she said that the child had been seen just before dark picking posies over in a meadow with several children, but when bedtime came she could not be found.

“Has any one looked for her?” demanded Nathalie, turning towards the group of colored women as poor Felia went back to her apron wailing pitifully, “I’se gwine promise yo’, Lord, if yo’ bring my baby back, I’ll never get mad with her again. I’ll promise sure—” but the rest of Felia’s prayer was lost as the women crowded around Nathalie and eagerly explained that Dan Washington, Paul Jones, and Abe Smith had searched the town for her. They had been up all night, but when morning came had to return to their jobs, and there was no one looking for her at that time.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Felia!” sympathized Nathalie again to the weeping mother. Then, after asking if the town authorities had been notified, she decided to hasten home, knowing that she could not get any one to promise to work for her at that time.

“Oh, it is too bad!” she lamented as she hurried down Main Street. “It does seem as if some one ought to be searching for her now, why the poor child may be injured or something!” Her too vivid imagination pictured her, not down at the bottom of the pond, as mammy had done, but crying piteously of fear and hunger in some lonely place. “I suppose the police in this town will take some hours to get on to the job, as Dick says.” She suddenly paused and her eyes shone with a bright light. She wrinkled her brow thoughtfully a moment as if going over something in her mind, and then with the glad cry, “Oh, I know we can do it—it will be just the thing!” She broke into a run as if her sudden inspiration would escape her if she did not hurry.

With good speed she soon reached the house, hurriedly told her mother what had befallen Rosy and the condition she had found things in at the negro settlement, and then, telling her she would be back in a few moments, she flew post-haste across the road to Mrs. Morrow’s house. Here the Pioneers with eager, expectant faces were all talking animatedly, their brown uniforms, red ties, and broad-brimmed hats suggestive of the good time in store for them.

“Oh, here she comes!” sang out Helen, as she spied Nathalie hastening up the path towards the veranda. “Why, where have you been? We began to think you were not coming.”

“I had to go on an errand for Mother!” Then with glowing eyes she told them of the visit to the colored settlement and about the lost Rosy, the grief of her mother, and how there was no one looking for the child. “Oh, girls,” she ended in a quiver of excitement, “let’s give up the bird-hike for to-day, and see if we cannot find little Rosy!”

CHAPTER IX—SEARCHING FOR ROSY

“Oh, they have probably found the child by this time!” ventured Barbara North, to Nathalie’s surprise, as she had always found her of a kindly nature.

“Well, I for one don’t think it is our place to look for the child, anyway,” asserted Jessie, decisively. “Let the men of the town do it. There are three policemen hanging around all day with nothing to do.”

Nathalie’s cheeks had lost their pink bloom; her face stiffened as she retorted coolly, “Well, just as you please, I see I have made a mistake.” She nerved herself. “I thought kindliness was one of the laws of the organization, and it seemed to me that our pleasure was to take a secondary place when we had an opportunity to do a kind act. If you had seen the poor mother sobbing—”

“Oh, fiddle!” ejaculated Lillie, “those colored people are all emotion; their sobs don’t count for much. I agree with Jessie that the townspeople should send out a search party, and I for one refuse to give up the hike. Who’s on my side?” she ended abruptly, turning and facing the group.

“I!” and “I!” shouted several voices at once in answer.

Nathalie backed towards the edge of the veranda. “I seem to be in the minority,” she said with assumed indifference, although her heart was beating in double-quick time, for something had whispered, “They are very rude, I would resign immediately.” But this suggestion was bravely silenced by the thought, “No, I will not be as small as that, I will show I do not care.”

“There must be some one who thinks as I do,” she ended resolutely, wishing that she could run from this affront to her sensitiveness.

“I am with you, Nathalie!” suddenly cried Helen, walking towards her friend and putting her arm around her.

Grace looked at the bevy of girls who had bunched together, then at the faces of her two friends. In a faint voice she asserted lamely, “And I, Nathalie, I didn’t stop to think—”

“And, Nathalie, you can count me on your side!” broke in a voice at this moment. The girls, alert at the prospect of a division in the group, turned quickly to see Mrs. Morrow place herself by the side of Nathalie, taking her hand as she did so and giving it a cordial squeeze.

Nathalie’s color came racing back and her heart leaped with joy. Ah, then she had not been too officious, after all! She turned to see the girls standing in embarrassed silence with shamed eyes and uncertain mien. But Lillie, who was generally the spokesman of the group when Helen was on the opposite side, cried somewhat pertly, “Why, Mrs. Morrow, do you think it is our place to go and hunt for that colored child? I should think it was the duty of the townspeople to look after those things.”

“That is not the question,” replied the Director coldly. “As Nathalie said, kindliness is one of the basic laws of the organization. We should be poor Pioneers indeed if we saw a man drowning and then stood and argued as to whether it was our place to save him or not. Nathalie, I commend you not only for your kind suggestion, but for having the real pioneer courage in maintaining what you believed to be right. You have shown yourself a true Blue Robin and I am proud of you. Now, girls, we will put it to a vote. Those of you who want to go on the hike, up with their hands.” Not a hand was raised.

Mrs. Morrow’s face brightened as she cried laughingly, “Now who wants to join a search-party with Nathalie as captain, and see if they can find little Rosebud?”

Every hand flew up, and there was a general cry of, “I do! I do!”

“Well, girls,” said Mrs. Morrow kindly, as her eyes traveled from face to face, “I see you have repented of the error of your way. Let Nathalie’s example inspire you!”

“Oh, I guess we just didn’t stop to think!” broke forth Barbara, with shamed eyes.

“Well, when one has made up her mind to do a thing she would be a saint to give it up without a fuss,” remarked Lillie. “Of course, Nathalie was all right, but she had had time to think it all out and we hadn’t!”

“A good explanation, Lillie,” answered Mrs. Morrow, “but I hope you have all learned a lesson. Now, Nathalie, make your suggestions and we’ll get to work.”

The new Pioneer had already divided the girls into two sections, with Helen as one leader, and Lillie Bell as the other. It did hurt a little to give Lillie the first place after she had spoken as she had, but Nathalie realized her worth, and then, too, she did not want to show any resentment. “You see,” she explained, “I am only a dummy captain, for I am not as familiar with the town as the rest of you are, and there will be no time lost in making false moves.”

“That is a very sensible decision, Nathalie,” nodded Mrs. Morrow, “but the question is where to look first!”

“Suppose we go down to the settlement, make a survey, and get our bearings?” voiced Helen.

“Good, Helen, that is just the thing!” acquiesced the Director, as the girls at her suggestion hurriedly deposited their lunch-boxes in the hall, while Nathalie ran over to tell her mother her plans.

In a few moments the would-be searchers started, each girl equipped with her staff, while the two leaders triumphantly displayed their whistles, which they claimed would be of great help if any of the party got lost and their voices did not carry.

It did not take long to reach Felia’s shanty, and as Nathalie ran in to tell her that the Pioneers were going to hunt for Rosy, the rest of the party gazed with quick, alert eyes first in one direction and then in the other.

“I should not be surprised if the child had wandered away looking for flowers,” remarked Mrs. Morrow, suddenly remembering what Nathalie had said the child was doing when she was last seen.

“But where would she be apt to go?” inquired Nathalie, who had returned in time to hear Mrs. Morrow’s remark.

“Why, to the woods!” retorted Helen quickly, and her eyes lighted in sudden thought as they dwelt on a green belt of woodland that loomed against the sky on the opposite side of the road.

“Don’t you think she might have strayed down the hill?” questioned Nathalie, pointing to a pond shimmering in the sun at the bottom of a knoll near-by. “Poor Mammy is quite sure she is drowned and lies at the bottom of the pond.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what we can do,” spoke up Lillie, “I’ll take my squad and search down by the pond, and Helen and the rest of you can go over to the woods; somehow I’m with Mammy, for all children love to paddle in the water.”

Lillie’s suggestion was a timely one, and as she, Grace, Jessie, and a few Orioles disappeared over the slope of the hill, Helen and Nathalie, as the advance guard, hurried across the road and into the cool recesses of the woods. As they hastened onward every girl’s eyes were alert, watchfully peering behind every bush and tree as they stumbled over gnarled roots and broken stumps in their efforts to reach some shaded nook, or lichen-covered rock dimly seen in the shadows of the trees.

Helen proved an efficient leader and did not hesitate to keep her followers busy, as she sent first one and then the other to look here or there, determined not to miss a nook or spot where the child might be hidden. Every now and then some of the party would give a bird call, or Helen’s whistle would reverberate sharply through the swaying pines.

But Mrs. Morrow, whose strength began to waver, finally suggested to Nathalie and Edith, who had been acting as her body-guard, that they rest for a few minutes. Spying a decayed tree-trunk that had fallen across the damp, spongy earth a few feet away, they seated themselves upon it.

“Oh, I’m really tired!” exclaimed Mrs. Morrow, for she had proved as indefatigable as the girls in searching, thinking, she declared, of her own two kiddies safe in the garden at home.

Nathalie, impressed by the solemn stillness about her, slowly fanned herself with her hat, while Edith made frantic dabs at her red face, from which beady drops were oozing. “Oh, I should just love to stay here all day,” she cried, sniffing the air, redolent with the odors of pine, spicy balsam, silver birch, and many other trees that loomed darkly in the mysterious retreats of the forest.

“Hark!” cried Mrs. Morrow, suddenly putting up her hand for silence as she peered up at the green boughs above her. “Taweel-ab, taweel-ab, twil-ab, twil-ab!” came in a succession of weird, sweet trills.

“Wheew, whoit, wheew, whoit!” imitated the Sport with quick readiness.

“It is a hermit thrush!” explained Mrs. Morrow softly, and her hand clutched Nathalie’s as she pointed to a brown bird that was scudding swiftly over the fern a few feet away.

“Oh, isn’t it a dear?” whispered delighted Nathalie, for to her this coming, as she called it, into the very heart of nature was a new experience. She half regretted at times that they had been compelled to forego the bird-hike, as she was so anxious to get in touch with the feathered songsters of the wood and field. Then, too, suppose the searching-party should fail of its purpose, she would feel that she had been the means of leading them on a wild-goose chase!

As her eyes roamed here and there in the hope that she might see the brown thrush again, she started, stared a moment, and then springing to her feet dashed across to the clump of ferns where the bird had been flying.

“I have found a clew!” she cried triumphantly a moment later, as she returned and held up her hand. Between her thumb and forefinger was a bit of red, which she was waving gleefully as she came towards them. As the Sport and Mrs. Morrow hurried to her side they saw a loop of red ribbon still with the knot in it by which it had evidently been recently tied to some object.

“It is Rosy’s hair-ribbon!” cried Nathalie. “I found it clinging to one of the ferns.”

“Oh, are you sure?” burst from Mrs. Morrow, her eyes eager with hope as she bent over the little scarlet knot.

“Indeed I am sure,” answered the delighted girl, “for it is the very ribbon I found in my work basket and tied on Rosy’s funny little topknot the day she was at our house. See, here is the very cut in the edge—that is the reason it was of no use to me—but Rosy was as happy as a lark over it. Oh, isn’t this too lovely, for now I know the child is somewhere near!”

With renewed hope they set forth again on the hunt, Nathalie running ahead and calling “Tru-al-lee!” as loud as she could—it was the only bird call she knew—to get in touch with the advance guard and tell them the good news.

In answer to her Blue Robin call, in a few moments a Bob White whistle was heard, rather faint, but there was no mistake as to that quick, clear note. The Sport, a few yards behind, immediately responded by giving a similar call, and then as they stood waiting to ascertain from what direction the whistle had come, there sounded a sudden, sharp snap of the underbrush near, and Kitty Corwin’s face emerged into view. “Hurrah, girls!” she shouted jubilantly, “we have found her!”

“Oh, where? Where?” came in an instant from three throats as Kitty leaned against a tree and panted.

“Down in a ravine, huddled close against a rock, asleep. Helen did not want to waken her until Nathalie came, for fear she would be frightened at the strange faces. Come on, quick!” she exclaimed excitedly, turning and darting back the way she had come with light, fleet steps.

But the belated ones needed no urging, especially Nathalie, who dashed ahead without regard to time or place, with a haste that left no doubt as to her joy that her searching party had been a success. Overhanging branches and dried twigs that blocked her way were ruthlessly brushed aside, or run against, scratching and bruising her unmercifully as she discovered later, but it made no difference to the happy girl.

It seemed but a moment when she emerged into a clearing, and close at the heels of Kitty climbed down into a small ravine. It had evidently been at one time the road-bed of a brook, but was now filled with scraggy stones, dried underbrush, and fallen logs.

As Nathalie saw the little motionless figure cuddled in a heap against the rock, her heart leaped with misgiving. “Oh, is she dead?” she asked Helen, who stood guard by the side of the rock, every now and then brushing away a gnat or a fly that descended with a loud buzz on the smeared black face, which lay partly exposed to view as it rested on a mite of an arm.

“Oh, no,” assured Helen, “she is all right, only asleep. I suppose she wandered about for some time in the darkness and was tired out, poor little tot!”

The little one looked so pathetically small as she lay there, just a heap of bones, black skin, and woolly hair, with the tears still glistening on the black lashes, that Nathalie’s heart was stirred with pity.

Mrs. Morrow now came forward and quickly felt her pulse, crying as she did so, “Oh, you poor little black baby! Yes, she is all right!” she nodded assuringly, “but Helen, what is the matter with her leg?” Her sharp glance noted that it lay rather limply on the ground.

“I am not sure,” said Helen with bent brows as she touched it softly, “but I am afraid it is broken. That is why I waited for you and Nathalie, I did not like to move her for fear of hurting her.”

“But we shall have to,” returned Mrs. Morrow as she finished examining the injured limb, “for it is broken, and we must get her home as soon as possible, for it will have to be set.”

As Helen and Mrs. Morrow attempted to take hold of the child to lift her on the stretcher the girls had made, she opened her eyes wide into the strange faces bending over her. Then she closed them quickly, and as the little black face wrinkled in fear she let forth such a howl of absolute despair that the girls were all on the verge of joining with her in their keen sympathy.

“Oh, Rosy,” cried Nathalie springing hastily forward and taking the child’s hand softly in hers, “see, it is Mrs. Page’s little girl. Don’t you remember when you called me that—Mrs. Page’s little girl?” She repeated softly as she saw the child had stopped her crying and was staring up at her. But the black eyes closed again and the little form shivered as a prolonged howl answered the questioner.

But Nathalie, who loved children, lifted up the little head with its pigtails and laid it against her breast as she tried again. “There dearie, don’t you want to go in the choo-choo cars to see Mamma?”

These words had the desired effect, and the howl was arrested as two big black eyes stared with awakening interest while Nathalie caught hold of the stretcher and choo-chooed it back and forth. “Come, Rosy!” she cried in a third attempt, “and we will go in the choo-choo cars to see Mamma, and—oh, yes, the little rag-dollie I made for you, don’t you remember what a lovely time we had?”

The black eyes opened wide, stood still for a wee second, and then twinkled into a smile as their owner cried, “Oh, yes, I knows youse; youse de Story Lady!”

“Yes, I’m the Story Lady,” quickly answered Nathalie, her face breaking into a smile; then as Rosy smiled back, “but how did you get here, Rosebud, so far away from home?”

The little face screwed into a knot as she whimpered, “Oh, I got lost, Story Lady. I picked daisies in de lot, and den Jacob he showed me de blue flowers he got in de wood. So I runned to de wood, and oh, I got a lot!” Her eyes gleamed with joy as she held up a few withered violets still clutched in her tiny hand. “And den it grew all dark,” she moaned, “and I couldn’t fin’ de road, and I fell and hurt my leg. Oh, I’se so hungry!” she ended piteously.

But when she saw so many eyes watching her, she covered her tiny face with her hand, shyly peeping out from between her fingers.

The girls all laughed merrily at her coquettishness, but their laughter became almost a howl as the little black eyes began to play peek-a-boo at them, and then danced in unison with their laughter, as if enjoying the sensation she had created.

But time was precious, and so with the promise of candy and a story from Nathalie the little one was lifted from the ground and carefully placed in the stretcher, and the Pioneer search party, weary, and warm, but jubilantly happy at their success, started for home.

“Some one of you girls ought to run ahead and get the doctor!” exclaimed Mrs. Morrow as the rescuers plodded carefully but slowly up the ravine with their burden, “for the child needs attention at once. I don’t wonder she cries!” For, alas! the little one had begun to whimper softly, although Nathalie was still playing choo-choo car as hard as she could, so as to divert her mind from the pain and hunger pangs that had now begun to assert themselves more forcibly.

“I will go!” cried Edith quickly, and then at a nod of assent from their Director she disappeared in the shadowy gloom of the trees like a small whirlwind. Barbara and Kitty were then despatched to hurry and tell Rosebud’s mother that the lost was found.

As they reached the edge of the woods, Mrs. Morrow thought she heard the throb of an automobile engine, and as it was followed in a moment by the toot of a horn, she begged Nathalie to hurry to the road, just a few feet beyond in the opening. “It sounds like the doctor’s car—perhaps he will take little Rosy home—for, O dear, she is suffering so!”

Nathalie softly unfastened the little hands that were clinging to hers, and with a few bounds reached the road where, sure enough, she saw a few yards ahead an automobile that had just passed.

Yes, it was the doctor! Nathalie thought she recognized his car, and with mad haste tore after it, shouting to the full extent of her lungs, “Doctor! Doctor!”

The occupant of the car, who evidently was not driving at a very high rate of speed, heard her shouts and in a moment brought his car to a standstill. As he turned about and stared at the oncoming figure of Nathalie, who, red-faced and bedraggled was speeding towards him, he looked slightly surprised.

“Oh, Doctor,” began the girl. She paused, for the gentleman who was looking at her with such a puzzled expression, coupled with slight indignation at being stopped in this way, was a strange young man!

Nathalie halted abruptly as she discovered her error, feeling as if her face would burst from the heat of her unwonted exercise and the fact that she had been tagging in this tomboy style, after a strange man.

“Oh—I’m so sorry,” she panted apologetically, “but Mrs. Morrow thought she heard an automobile, she was sure it was the doctor—”

“Mrs. Morrow!” exclaimed the young man, “why, is she anywhere about?” He jumped from his car as he spoke and came towards her.

“Oh, yes,” cried the girl, with a gleam of hope that if this young man knew their Director there was a chance for Rosy. “We have been looking for a little colored girl who was lost—oh, I mean the Pioneers—we have been searching in the woods,” she explained confusedly, the blood surging furiously into her cheeks under the keen gray eyes that were looking so searchingly down at her. “Oh, can’t you help us?” she burst off appealingly. “Mrs. Morrow wants to get her home as soon as she can, for she has a broken leg.”

“A broken leg?” echoed the young man, “why, of course I will help you,” he continued heartily. “Where is Mrs. Morrow? And—oh, I see—” the gray eyes gleamed pleasantly, “you are Blue Robin, the little girl who lives across the way from us. I am Mrs. Morrow’s brother, Jack Homer!”

CHAPTER X—NATHALIE AS THE STORY LADY

“Why, if it isn’t little Rosebud!” said the doctor jovially as he turned from his sister and looked down at the helpless mite of humanity, lying so patient and still in the stretcher.

The child smiled shyly, and Nathalie, perceiving that he knew her, gave a sigh of relief, for she felt that now everything would soon be all right.

It did not take the doctor long to lift Rosy tenderly into the car and to make her comfortable with her little black head on Mrs. Morrow’s lap. As he was about to jump in himself an “I want my Story Lady! I want my Story Lady!” came in a loud wail from the little patient, for Rosy’s face had knotted up again as she pushed away Mrs. Morrow’s detaining hand and tried to lift her head in search of Nathalie.

Nathalie hastened to the side of the car crying, “Oh, Rosy, it’s all right. I’m going home to your mamma. I will be there almost as soon as you—”

“Why, Nathalie, get in with us,” exclaimed Mrs. Morrow, “there is room on the front seat with the doctor. Oh, I beg your pardon, Nathalie, perhaps you have not met my brother. Jack, this is Miss Page, our new Pioneer, and oh, Jack; if it had not been for her I don’t know when poor little Rosy would have been found!”

“I am most pleased to meet you, Miss Page,” smiled the doctor with undue emphasis on the Miss. Then, as he noted Nathalie’s stiff little bow, he continued apologetically, with a humorous twinkle in his eye, “I have heard so much about Blue Robin, that somehow I thought she was a little girl.”

Nathalie smiled pleasantly, instantly recognizing that this frank-eyed young man was doing his best to atone for his mistake of a few minutes ago. But she must not keep him waiting, and a moment later she sprang into the car. Although it was but a short ride to Felia’s house, there was time enough for the doctor to chat pleasantly with the young girl, so by the time they had reached their destination Nathalie understood why Dr. Homer was such a favorite with the Pioneers.

Fortunately, Edith had caught Dr. Morrow just as he was about to set out to call on a patient, so he soon arrived. In a short time he and Dr. Homer had set the broken limb and made the child comfortable, who, with a smile of content, received a bowl of bread and milk from Mammy, whose black face was wreathed in smiles again as she saw that the little one was not lying down at the bottom of the pond.

A half-hour later a group of girls straggled wearily along the main street of the village, animatedly discussing first one and then another detail of the morning’s hunt. As they were all tired, it was unanimously decided to postpone the bird hike to another day.

When this decision was reached, Nathalie’s bright face clouded as she exclaimed contritely, “Oh, girls, I’m awfully sorry I broke up the hike, but I was so anxious to find Rosy.”

“Well, I for one am glad we gave it up,” asserted Kitty Corwin, “for girls, it paid for the disappointment to see that poor mother’s joy when she saw her child.”

“And the old black mammy—huh—she is a regular plantation coon,” chimed in Edith; “did you hear her shout ‘Praise de Lord! Hallelujah!’? Oh, but how her eyes did shine!”

“She was a black sunbeam, all right,” observed Helen, “and it’s all owing to Nathalie!” putting her arm about her friend and giving her an enthusiastic squeeze; “she ought to have a white star.”

“A white star,” ejaculated Nathalie, “what does that mean?”

“Why, it means that you should receive a badge of merit, but as a Pioneer can’t receive a badge until she is a first-class member, Mrs. Morrow gives white stars instead to the girls who deserve badges but are not yet old enough to receive them,” explained Helen. “We keep our stars and then sew them on a big United States flag we are making for our new Pioneer room.”

“Oh, I should be pleased to have one!” cried Nathalie, “but it gives me more pleasure to know that you do not think I spoiled your fun, and have been so nice about it. I should just hate to have you think me officious!”

“But we didn’t think that, Nathalie,” assured Lillie quickly. “In fact, I guess we just didn’t think at all, we were so intent on having our own selfish ways. We are all friends of yours, and as Pioneers and personally,” she spoke warmly, “we are glad you won the victory over our naughty, wicked selves.”

Several days later, Nathalie, who was still the maid of all work, stood washing the breakfast dishes. Somehow, helping Mother seemed to have lost its charm. She felt as if she and Miss I Can were not as good friends as they were at the beginning of her kitchen campaign. O dear, she did wish Rosy would get better so Felia could come back. She sighed heavily, and then hastily wiped away a stray tear that was meandering down her cheek—she had heard a step on the back stoop.

“Hello, Blue Robin!” was Helen’s cheery greeting as she entered,—she usually came in by the back door in the morning—then she stopped, for Nathalie’s usually smiling face wore such a look of woe that she exclaimed anxiously, “Oh, Nathalie, what is the matter?”

But her only answer was a stifled sob as the girl flung herself into a chair by the kitchen table, and dropping her head on her elbow gave way to the pent up flood that had been gathering for the last few days. Helen stood a moment, uncertain what to say or do, dreading that some great calamity had overtaken the family. Then she stepped to her friend’s side and lifting her head encircled her with her arm caressingly. “Now,” she cried, softly patting the brown head, “tell friend Helen all about it.”

Nathalie’s tears flowed unrestrainedly for a moment and then, feeling somewhat better for the overflow, and a little ashamed of useless tears as she always called them, she withdrew from the friendly shelter and sat up. “Oh, it’s just nothing at all, Helen,” she cried in a choked voice, “only that I’m a great baby—and then—I’m tired”—her voice quavered. “I’m tired of washing dishes and sweeping—” a sniffle—“all the time.”

“Of course you are tired, who wouldn’t be, Nat, with all the wonderful things you’ve done this last week?” sympathized Helen; “considering, too, that it’s all new to you. Why, Mother says you are going to make a splendid Pioneer.”

“Oh, did she?” asked Nathalie, her eyes brightening. “It makes one feel good to be praised, I have felt so discouraged,” with an intake of her breath, “for I’ve tried so hard to do everything I could, and then Mother, why she hasn’t said one word of praise since the first day. Everybody just takes it all—all the work I do—just as if it was nothing, and things drag so. Of course I don’t expect to be praised all the time,” she hastened to add, “but oh, I don’t seem to feel as happy about working as I did at first.”

“Oh, well, you’re tired,” replied Helen condolingly. “I know just how you feel, for I used to feel the same way when I first began to help Mother around the house. You see the enthusiasm and the glory have all gone out of it.”

“The enthusiasm and the glory?” repeated Nathalie in puzzled inquiry.

“Yes, the novelty of doing something new is the enthusiasm that put you on the job; and the praise you got for doing it—which made you feel as if you were awfully good—that’s the glory. But when things get stale and people stop saying how smart you are and so on, why then it will be just plain duty all through. You know, the frosting always comes first before we get to the cake.”

“Oh, I suppose that has something to do with it,” responded Nathalie alertly, “when one comes to think of it. So from now on it will be just plain duty, won’t it?” with a quiver of her chin, for somehow the prospect was not an enjoyable one at that moment.

“Yes, that’s about the size of it,” was the practical answer. “But if you keep right on doing what you ought to, you’ll get something better than the sugary stuff. Just keep Miss I Can for your friend, and then after a time you will find that you like to do the very things that at first seemed so hard. Experience, Mother says, brings knowledge, and knowledge puts you in the end where you want to be.”

“I wish it would,” exclaimed Nathalie, her eyes flashing with sudden hope, “for oh, Helen, I do so want to know things, that is the useful arts, for I am so eager to learn how to make money the way you are doing! You know I have told you all about Dick, Helen,” she lowered her voice, “I think it is just that, seeing the poor fellow striving to earn a little money so he can be made well again, that makes me so down-hearted, for I feel that I am not doing a thing to help him.”

“But you are helping him, and your mother, too, Nathalie,” said Helen. “By the very work you are doing you are helping your mother to save money, that ought to be something to comfort you.”

“Oh, but it’s mean kind of work,” emphasized Nathalie, “and then, too, it’s only saving a mite; and it will take so much money for Dick’s operation.”

“Now, see here, Nathalie,” exclaimed her friend, “let’s figure this thing out.” Taking a pencil and pad that always hung by the table with Nathalie’s list of edibles to be served at each meal, she drew a chair up to the table and began to figure just how much Nathalie was saving her mother by doing the work herself.

Nathalie bent over her shoulder and watched eagerly as she saw the line of figures jotted down by Helen. Then she, too, put on her thinking-cap and in a few minutes the two girls had figured out quite a sum that Nathalie was actually saving in dollars and cents each week she did the work.

As Nathalie realized this fact, demonstrated so clearly by her friend, her eyes sparkled, and clapping her hands she cried, “Oh, Helen, I’m going to get Mother to let me do the work all the time—of course, as you say, the washing will have to be done out—but oh, I shall feel—”

“Now, Nathalie, don’t go off at a tangent; stop and consider before you make this suggestion to your mother. You must think just what it will cost you, that is, count what it will mean to suffer aches in your back and feet, to have fire-scorched cheeks,—they say cooking ruins the complexion,—red, sloppy hands, and all the rest of the penalties imposed on one for doing housework. If you put your hand to the plow, you know, once started you can’t look back.”

“Oh, yes, I know, Helen, it will be terrible to have to do these things, but if it will help me to earn money, even the teeniest bit, now that I know that it is to be done without the glory perhaps it won’t be so hard. Oh, I know Miss I Can will help me!” Nathalie smiled through the mist that would blur her eyes, “for I must help Dick.”

“Yes,” returned her friend, “if you feel that way, determined to help Dick, go ahead; for that will serve as the glory, that is, the incentive will help you through lots of hard things.”

Nathalie looked up at her friend’s grave face with wonder-lit eyes. “Oh, Helen,” she said solemnly, “do you know you are going to be a great woman? You are awfully wise for a girl of your age!”

Helen interrupted her with a merry laugh. “Oh, no, I’m not going to be a great woman at all. I should love to be—that is my ambition,—but one’s ambitions are not apt to materialize the way one expects them to, you know. But I’ll tell you, Nathalie,” her face sobered, “I have a very wise mother—she tells me these things. And then as I go about I find from experience that what she has said comes true.”

“Yes, Helen, you will be great,” nodded Nathalie sagely. “Perhaps you will not go about blowing a trumpet to let people know you are one of the world’s great ones, but you will be all the same, even if you never do a thing but live in this sleepy town and become a stenographer.”

“Well, it looks that way,” laughed Helen, “from the pile of typing that awaits me. Yes, I am, as you say, in a fair way to become a stenographer, but Ye Stars! if I do not become an expert one, I’ll—well I’ll go hang myself, as the boys say, for I must succeed!”

“Oh, are you really going, friend comforter?” laughed Nathalie, as Helen rose to go. “Yes, you are that, for you have given me lots of comfort this morning; you put new life in me when the cause was almost lost. On the strength of your calculations I’m going to lay my plans before Mother, and then I’m going to get some books and trinkets and go to see Rosy.”

“Oh, yes, how is she?” inquired Helen interestedly. “I was thinking about her the other day.”

“She is getting along nicely, but it is awfully hard for the little thing to lie there most of the time alone. I was down to see her yesterday and told her some stories, and I promised to come again to-day.”

“I wish I could help you! But see here, Nathalie, speak to Grace and Lillie about the story-telling; perhaps they will help you at that. Grace is a lady with plenty of leisure to waste, and Lillie Bell dotes on yarns.”

“I did ask Lillie, but she said she was no good telling stories to children, and Grace—why, she said she was busy getting her clothes ready for the summer.”

“There’s Kitty. Ah, I expect to see her this afternoon. I’ll ask her to lend you a hand, but I must go, so good-by and good luck to you, Story Lady!”

“Oh, Mother, you are just a dear!” cried Nathalie a little later, as she was about to set forth to see Rosy. Her mother had come down from the attic with a couple of old picture-books, and handed them to her to give to the little invalid.

“Gloriana! won’t they make her eyes shine!” exclaimed Nathalie as she tucked them under her arm, picked up the basket of goodies she had prepared, and hurried down the walk. As she knocked at the door of the gray shanty she heard Rosy whimpering softly. “Poor kiddie,” she thought, with a wave of pity. Receiving no answer she pushed open the door, which was partly ajar, and entered. On the bed lay the little form with its head buried in a pillow, emitting a series of feeble whines.

“Good morning!” said the smiling visitor as she touched the half-buried shoulder.

At the sound of her voice the child’s woolly head rolled over, and a smile of welcome radiated her tear-stained face.

“How is it that you are all alone?” asked Nathalie, taking out an orange from the basket; “where are Mother and Mammy?”

“Mamma went to de town, and Mammy—she’s doin’ de wash,” and then her eyes expanded with joy as she spied the orange.

The orange was soon demolished, and then, as Nathalie started to show her the two picture-books, she realized that Miss I Can confronted her again, for a sticky mouth and hands revealed the fact that she had an unpleasant task to perform. For a moment she hesitated, but quickly overcoming her disinclination, she plunged in, got a basin of water, and finding no wash-cloth, dipped her own dainty handkerchief in it, and amid sundry squeals and protests gave the little face and hands a good scrubbing.