Brenda's Bargain: A Story for Girls

"I think I hear some one coming upstairs"

"Ah, this is better than Angelina's whip," and then they all shouted again, recalling the episode of Angelina and the switch.

"Hush! hark!" cried Concetta, with her hand at her ear; "I think I hear some one coming upstairs."

"Shut the trunk! Let's go into the closet;" and as she spoke the other two followed her into the closet. It was a large closet with a transom that let in a certain amount of light, and at first their situation seemed rather amusing to the three. Haleema, who had gone in last, had closed the door with a snap, and after a few minutes had passed she started to open it again. But, alas! she could not lift the latch. Evidently it had closed with a spring, and they would have to wait until some one should come to their relief.

At first, as before, they giggled a little; then, as they realized their situation, they sobered down.

"Suppose no one should come; we might have to stay all night."

"They may think that we've run away, and so they won't look for us."

"Oh, some one will remember that we didn't go downstairs; they'll come up here the first thing."

"No, no, don't you remember how the others all ran down ahead of us? They won't remember."

"Gretchen's the only one who might think of this room. I told her the other day that I meant to come in some time."

"That won't do no good," rejoined Haleema; "she'll be glad to have you shut up."

"We're better off here than we would be in that trunk," continued Haleema thoughtfully. "I read a poem the other day about a girl that got shut up in a chest, and she did not get out until she was dead. She was an Italian, too," she said, looking suggestively toward Concetta, "and her name was Jinerva."

Whereupon Concetta began to weep softly, either in sympathy for her countrywoman or from fear that as an Italian she was more likely to suffer than the others.

"Oh, that's nothing," said Inez; "why, we had a history lesson once about the Black Hole. Everybody that went into it died, and there were dozens of people."

"Why did they go in?" asked Concetta with a languid interest.

"Oh, it was in war; I don't remember much about it, only they all died."

"Well, this isn't a black hole," said Haleema cheerfully; "there's quite a little light comes in at that window." And she began to hum,

There, that's the last of that Jinerva poem; I couldn't help remembering it; I read it over several times."

"Oh, Haleema, and we're fastened in with a spring lock."

"Oh, we'll get out all right," said Haleema cheerfully; "'where there's a will, there's a way.'"

While she spoke she was moving about the closet.

"I wouldn't meddle any more; if you hadn't meddled with that trunk we wouldn't be in here now."

"I'm not meddling," she replied angrily, "I'm trying to find something." Her search continued for some time, and at last the others heard an exclamation of satisfaction.

"What is it?" asked Concetta. "What have you found?"

"A stick," responded Haleema. "Do you know, I believe that I can break that window."

As she spoke she stood on tiptoe, and reached toward the transom. But, alas! she was too short, and the stick was too short, and with all her efforts she could not reach the glass.

"We could not get out through that window," said Concetta scornfully. "We couldn't get out through that window, so what is the good of trying?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to get out through the window, but if I break the glass we can have more air. We won't smother to death."

At the suggestion of smothering, although Haleema had pronounced it an unlikely happening, Inez began to cry.

"Don't be a baby," said the little Syrian scornfully. "I guess there's more than one way of catching a bird, even if you can't put salt on his tail," from which it may be seen that Haleema was well on the way to becoming a good Yankee, since her proverbs were not strictly Oriental.

How long the time seemed! The light from the other room hardly showed through the transom. Though they could move about in the closet, their positions were naturally cramped. The air grew closer and warmer, and though they were in no danger of suffocation, they were becoming drowsy from the closeness and warmth.

Haleema strained her ears to hear any one who should pass near, yet even when she noted a distant step she realized that it would be hard to make herself heard. Still the three girls kicked on the door, and sang at the top of their voices, but in vain.

At last Haleema grew desperate.

"There's just one thing I can do," she said, "and I'll do it."

Thereupon she again seized the stick, and telling the others to go close up to the corners, she threw it toward the transom. The first time it fell back and hit her on the nose, the second time it merely grazed the wall beside the glass, the third time it touched the glass without breaking it.

"There," said Haleema, "I'm sure that I can do it," and with one mighty effort she took aim again, and the stick crashed through the glass. Most of the pieces went outside, but a few bits fell into the closet, and one of these scratched Haleema's forehead. In her triumph at accomplishing her end she did not mind the injury.

"There! you can come out of the corner. We'll get plenty of air from the room, and if any one should be passing, why, it will be easier to hear us. Sing, Concetta, at the top of your voice."

"I'm too tired," said Concetta crossly, "and dreadful hungry. I wish you'd have let that trunk alone, Haleema; that's what made all the trouble."

So the time dragged on, and at length Concetta, though she never would admit it, fell asleep. Haleema kept herself awake by telling wonderful stories—some of them fairy tales, and some of them stories of adventures that she professed to have passed through.

At last even her lively tongue was quiet, and she had given up kicking against the door, as a useless expenditure of energy.

In the meantime the absence of the three girls had become the subject of conjecture on the part of the others downstairs. No one apparently had noticed when they left the gymnasium, though Nellie thought that she had seen them on their way to the street floor.

"Perhaps they've just gone off for fun. Haleema's always up to some mischief."

"They may have run off for good, like Mary Murphy."

"Oh, no, there's no danger; that ain't likely. They know which side their bread's buttered on."

The three vacant places troubled Angelina as she sat at the end of the table opposite Miss Dreen.

"If I hadn't been away, they wouldn't have dared go off."

Anstiss, to whom at last they applied for advice, was uncertain what they ought to do. She was sorry that this was the evening that Pamela and Julia and Miss South had taken to dine with Lois in Newton. It would be late when they returned, and she did not like the responsibility that had fallen upon her.

While the discussion was going on, many thoughts were passing through Gretchen's mind. Not until tea-time had she learned of the disappearance of her schoolmates, and as she was not very quick-witted, she had not at first connected them with the end room. When she did recall Concetta's desire to explore it, she hesitated about speaking. In the first place, if Concetta heard that she had told of her previous efforts to pry into the mysteries of the trunks, she would surely take vengeance, especially if at the present time she happened not to be there. If she had been shut up in the room all this time, or in a trunk—and then the story of Ginevra came into Gretchen's mind, and she was half afraid to suggest that the end room be explored.

So positive, however, was Angelina that the girls had run away, or at least had taken advantage of Miss South's absence to spend the evening out, that no one suggested exploring the house thoroughly. Anstiss herself had gone to the room of each girl to assure herself that they were not in one of them, and had sat herself down to her hour's reading when she noticed that Gretchen was softly weeping.

"Why, what is the matter, child?" she asked, and Gretchen, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief that left a little dark streak, looked up for a moment, and then hung down her head without answering.

"Tell her," said Nellie, who sat beside her, with a nudge that made Gretchen wriggle her shoulders. To save herself, perhaps, from a second such demonstration, when Anstiss repeated her question Gretchen replied:

"I'm afraid that they're locked up in the attic."

"Who? Haleema and the other two?"

Anstiss had already started toward the door.

"Yes'm; I went upstairs just before you came in and I thought I heard a little noise from the end room."

"Then why didn't you look in? Was the door locked?"

"I don't know; I didn't try it. I was afraid that they might be dead."

"But you said that you heard a noise. Oh, Gretchen, you are a silly girl."

As she spoke Anstiss was wondering why she herself had not thought of the end room, since every corner of the house ought to have been thoroughly explored.

Then she ran upstairs to the top of the house, and then down the two or three steps to the end room, with five girls and Fidessa following her closely. She felt sure that she heard a noise from the direction of the room; nor was she wrong. Haleema, who had managed to keep herself awake amid all the discomforts of her position, was shouting at the top of her rather weak lungs. Yet she had made herself heard.

A glance around the small room and the sight of the broken glass on the floor outside showed Anstiss that the girls were in the closet. But here was a new difficulty. The door had shut with a spring that had locked it, and no one knew where the key could be found.

The fact, however, that they were discovered had restored the spirits of the girls inside the closet.

"Yes, we are starved," they admitted when questioned.

"Let's get a ladder, and send down a basket by a rope over the door," suggested Angelina; and before any one could object she had gone down to the kitchen. When she returned with a small basket containing three oranges and some slices of bread and butter, Anstiss praised her warmly for bringing just the right things. In her absence a ladder had been brought from a corner of the gymnasium, and it was very little work to lower the basket over the transom to the hungry girls within.

They had hardly finished their repast when the diners-out returned, and when they heard of the disturbance upstairs Miss South hastened at once to the scene.

"Why, no," she said, "I haven't a key; it is strange that that should have been a spring latch, for there's nothing very valuable in the closet. We did not intend to keep it fastened. There are many things of my grandmother's in these trunks, and though we knew that no one would meddle with them, we meant to keep them locked, as well as the door of this room. I was up here myself just before I went out, and I fear that I must have left the door open."

Not a word thus far of reproof for the meddlesome girls within the closet, although Miss South saw plainly that one trunk, if no more, had been ransacked.

A minute later Julia and Pamela appeared with the small tool-chest that was kept in the hall closet on the first floor, and then, to every one's astonishment, Miss South herself set to work upon the latch in the deftest possible way, and in a minute the lock was off and the door open.

"My! she did it as well as a man could," whispered Gretchen to Nellie. But Miss South heard the whisper, and, smiling, said, "As well as I hope every girl in the Mansion will be able to do before her term here is up."

When the door was opened the prisoners rushed out; their faces were rather grave. It is true that they were quite wide-awake, but now, almost for the first time, they realized the impropriety of their conduct, and dreaded facing their comrades. Everything considered, they were hardly prepared for the shouts of laughter that greeted their appearance.

"Oh, Haleema, you do look so funny!" and Haleema, putting her hand to her forehead, realized that she was still wearing the wig, while the observers saw what she could not, that the paint was daubed on very unevenly, and gave her a strange aspect.

THE FRINGED GENTIAN LEAGUE

The "Fringed Gentian League" was the girls' favorite club; or it would be truer to say that it was the favorite, partly because it was the only regular club at the Mansion, and also because all its doings were extremely interesting. Anstiss Rowe was the Honorary President and Julia the Honorary Secretary, and the club had met two or three times before it had elected its own officers. In starting, every one of the girls was invited to join, and every one accepted. Then Miss South informed them that a medium-sized room on the second floor in the wing was to be their club-room.

"I present the club," she said, when they first met in the room, "with these chairs and the large library-table, but I hope that you will gradually add to its furnishings from your own earnings."

"Earnings!" At first none of them understood, nor indeed did they learn for some time later just what she meant by "earnings."

The walls were covered with a cartridge-paper of a curious purplish blue, and that was what suggested to Gretchen the name for the League. Some of the girls rejected this as a poor suggestion.

"That would be a funny reason to give," said Concetta, "to name a club for a wall-paper; we ought to have a different reason."

Other girls gave other opinions, but while they were discussing it Gretchen had been saying to herself the stanzas of Bryant's poem. At last she looked as if she had come to a satisfactory reason, but she hesitated about giving it to the others, lest they should laugh at her. Accordingly she hastened to the honorary officers, who were busy with the large book that was to contain the names of the members.

"Why, yes, dear, that is a very good reason," responded Julia, while Gretchen blushed at the praise. But although she had had the courage to tell her elders, it was harder for the little German maiden to express her thoughts to those of her own age. She was a curious mixture of poetic fancies and practical ideas, and the fancies she always hesitated to reveal to others. But at last she permitted Julia to tell the girls why she thought "Fringed Gentian" a good name for the club. "Because it's a looking upward club; that is, a 'look to heaven' club. Recite it, Gretchen," urged Miss Julia, and the little girl began timidly,—

"Ugh!" cried Concetta, shaking her dark head. "How solemn; we don't mean to die in this club, Miss Julia."

"No, my dear; but the fringed gentian does not die instantly, as it looks upward. Blue is the color of hope, and the fringed gentian by this poem becomes a flower of hope, and so I think that you can give this reason, if you ever have to give a reason, why this League is called the 'Fringed Gentian' League."

It was therefore a following out of Gretchen's suggestion, that when they came to draw up the Constitution for the League, its purpose was defined in the language of much more important organizations.

"The purpose of this League shall be to encourage good thoughts and good books, and to keep our hearts looking upward." Although some of the more matter-of-fact objected that hearts did not really look up at all, the vote was in favor of the phrase, and the honorary officers said that no club could have a loftier aim.

The officers were to be a President, a Vice-President, a Secretary, and a Treasurer. But they were not to be elected until the second meeting.

The honorary officers, indeed, had their hands full in advising the members as to what should and what should not be put in the Constitution. But at last it was all arranged in paragraphs: one to tell who should be the members, another to tell how many officers there should be and what their duties, and others defining the aims of the club, and one to state under what conditions a member might be put out of the club. Each girl was perfectly sure that such a thing would never happen. "It is always best to be prepared for the worst," said Maggie sagely, and the others acceded. Finally there was a paragraph providing for amendments, "for you may think of things you may wish to add to this Constitution, and it would be a pity to find yourselves tied to laws that you cannot add to or change."

In fact, it was well that this provision was made, for at the next weekly meeting the girls wished to add to the numbers of the League by having associate members. Maggie, who made the suggestion, was praised for it by Julia, who saw that in this way other girls might become interested in the work of the Mansion.

There was much discussion, of course, about the duties and privileges of the new members. But at last it was settled that there were to be no more than twelve associates. Each was to be elected unanimously by Mansion members of the League, and they were to have the privilege of attending all the regular meetings. They could take out books from the library, but unlike the regular members they were not to use the club-room at other times.

"I would advise you," Julia had said, "not to elect more than half your associate members at first, for should the list fill up too soon, you might then find yourselves unable to invite other very desirable members."

"Couldn't we have them too?"

"Ah! Concetta, the room is small, and even when the League has twenty girls, you will find it fairly crowded."

Guided partly by this advice, and also moved by the fact that the founders of the League had difficulty in agreeing on new members, only five associates had been added by Thanksgiving. One of these was a friend of Concetta's from Prince Street, a timid little Italian, and with her a Portuguese girl from the same house. It was again the advice of the honorary officers that the girls should be chosen from the same neighborhood, so that they could come and go together; for though the meetings were on Thursday afternoons, there were certain advantages in having the associates neighbors. Two others were Jewish girls from Blossom Street, and the fifth was a little German from Roxbury, a special friend of Gretchen's.

Edith was slow in seeing the advantages of the League, as the girls at the Mansion already formed practically a large club. But she soon understood that it was well for them to learn that organization is a good thing. She saw, too, that it would help interest them in things outside their regular work.

Angelina was honorary associate member, and Julia explained to her that she was to be present at all special functions, but that on account of her greater age—it pleased Angelina to have this set forth as an evidence of her superiority—she might better not attend the regular meetings, lest her presence should embarrass the younger girls. But "honorary associate member" had such a high and mighty sound that Angelina regarded the whole arrangement as complimentary to herself, and thus the feelings of all were saved.

In its early meetings the club naturally had its attention set on Bryant. Julia was pleased to find that nearly all the girls were willing to commit verses or even long poems to memory, and that there was a good-natured rivalry as to which of them should learn the longest. She was surprised, too, to find that these girls who knew so little of the real country could appreciate many of the beautiful pictures of woods and flowers and birds presented by the poet. "The Waterfowl" and "Green River" and "The Evening Wind" were especial favorites, and indeed they were fond of some of the more serious poems.

The girls of the League had other interests besides their reading, and they were encouraged to enter on certain bits of work that should not be entirely for themselves. One group was busy making scrap-books, to be given at Christmas to the Children's Hospital, and another was busy dressing dolls. The best scrap-book and the best-dressed doll were to receive a prize, and all were to be exhibited a day or two before Christmas. On Anstiss had fallen the task of deciding which girls should belong to the doll group, and which to the book group, and many were her difficulties in keeping the girls to their first intention. When Concetta, who had begun to dress a golden-haired doll, saw what a pretty scrap-book Nellie was making on sheets of blue cambric with edges buttonholed in red, she immediately threw down her doll with a gesture of impatience.

"I hate sewing, and it would be much pleasanter to paste pictures in a scrap-book."

"But if you make a scrap-book you must work at it, just as Nellie did, and you will have to buttonhole the edges." Whereat Concetta, making a wry face, protested that in spite of the buttonholing she would rather make the scrap-book.

"Very well, then; when you have the leaves ready, I will give you some directions for pasting pictures. What color will you choose for the leaves?"

"Oh, pink, with yellow edges;" and Concetta, turning her back to the discarded doll, sat down at the table beside Nellie.

A week or two later Anstiss was surprised to have Concetta report that she had finished her book. "But you were not to put the pictures in until you had shown me the buttonholed edges." Whereupon Concetta, a little shamefacedly, be it said, displayed her book with the pictures and embossed decorations put in fairly well, but with the edges of the leaves merely cut in scallops.

"A book like this," said Anstiss, "would be of no good to the little sick children. Almost as soon as they touched it, it would ravel out;" and with a touch or two her fingers fringed the edge of one of the pages.

Concetta hung her head. "I can buttonhole it now, only I'd rather dress my doll."

"It isn't your doll, Concetta; Gretchen has taken it. If you work the edges of the book now, I'm afraid that you will spoil the freshness of the pictures. I shall let the League decide what you are to do."

Upon this the girls were called by Angelina into business session, and the vote was that Concetta must begin a new book. It was not a unanimous vote, and Concetta, keenly noting the hands that were raised against her, as she determined it, registered a vow to get even.

Gretchen, who had the usual German skill with her fingers, was able to dress two dolls, a blonde of Concetta's in addition to the brunette that she had originally chosen, and Eliza made two scrap-books. But this was rapid work in proportion to the time that they had before them, and Anstiss did not encourage haste.

Concetta was not the only girl who wished to change her work, for one or two outside members absented themselves from several meetings because they were dissatisfied with what they accomplished.

Julia, visiting them in their homes, made them understand that there was only a friendly rivalry in the whole competition, and that no one would be permitted to criticise the work of another very severely.

The staff of the Mansion, therefore, set itself at work very earnestly to find reasons why each book and each doll should receive some special award. So there were first prizes and second prizes: first for the neatest, then for the prettiest books; and in the same way prizes were given for the dolls. Besides these prizes there were honorable mention awards and certain supplementary awards that Edith had begged to be allowed to present, that no girl need feel that her industry had been unappreciated.

"For after all, every one has really shown perseverance, and some, I am sure, displayed the greatest taste. Why, some of these dolls are so pretty that I should like to play with them myself."

"I am not so surprised at the dolls," said Miss South, "for most of these girls have had sewing lessons in the public schools, and their fingers have developed considerable skill along this one line. But I am interested in the skill shown in making the scrap-books. To be sure, some of them are daubed more than is necessary. Maggie's book, for instance, shows a little glistening halo of dried mucilage around many of the pictures. But what pleases me the most is their skill in grouping and arranging."

The girls themselves chose two of their number, Inez and Concetta, to be on the jury, and Pamela, Julia, and Nora made up the other three.

The first prize was given for the Bryant scrap-book that Phœbe had made. No one certainly could find any fault with it, so neatly were the pictures arranged, and so free from daubs were the broad margins.

Every one wondered where she had found so many pictures that exactly illustrated the poems chosen, and Phœbe assured them that this had been not at all difficult, since Miss South had let her look over dozens and dozens of old magazines, from which she had been able to choose those that best suited the words.

No one dissented from the award of a volume of Bryant's poems to Phœbe, but there was more discussion when the second prize, a framed photograph of Greuze's "Head of the Dauphin," went to Haleema for a flower book. In this she had put a great variety of flower pictures, some of them mere decalcomanie, embossed groups, others colored lithographs from periodicals of all styles, while not a few were nature pictures from the magazines in which flowers were conspicuous.

Concetta and Gretchen were partly right in thinking that the very prettiest of all was the book of children that Nellie had made.

"The little sick children in the hospital will like it best, anyway," said Concetta. She did not happen to like Phœbe very well, and for the time being Nellie was especially in her favor.

"Nellie's book certainly would be more entertaining to the little sick ones in the hospital, and if she had only trimmed the edge of her pictures more carefully, and had kept the margins free from mucilage, she would have had something better than third prize."

But Nellie herself was very well contented with the award, and her beaming face testified that she did not need a champion to stand up for her rights. Concetta, therefore, found herself a minority on the committee in deciding this question, for all the others were in favor of Phœbe's having the prize.

When it came to the dolls there was less difficulty, for Miss South had decreed that the award should go to the doll whose clothes showed the neatest sewing. There were no two opinions, and as Concetta herself was not on this committee of award, no one objected to her having the pretty case of scissors that the judges handed her, after they had carefully examined all the clothes of all the dolls—a piece of work that took considerable time and thought.

But entertaining though the judging and awarding had been, the pleasantest part of this whole work came when they took the books and the dolls to the hospital.

Naturally the girls did not all go together, but in two or three detachments, and their sympathies were moved to the utmost by the sight of the helpless little ones. They were delighted when they learned that this child or that would be in the hospital but a short time; and some of them—Nellie, for example—were moved to tears on learning that one or two whom they pitied might never be well.

"There is no harm in having their sympathies touched," said Julia, when some one remonstrated with her for taking these girls to the hospital, "for we older people at the Mansion intend that the outcome shall be some practical work."

NORA'S WORK—AND POLLY

When Nora visited the Mansion, every one was delighted. Nellie's face naturally beamed at sight of her, for didn't Miss Nora belong to her more than to any one else? But all the others were fond of the bright, cheery young girl who not only remembered the name of each one, but had some directly personal question to ask. She could ask about their aunts and uncles and cousins, as well as about their nearer relatives by name, and this meant a good deal to these younger girls, who, although happy at the Mansion, remembered sometimes that they were among strangers, and were glad of any word that connected them with their own homes.

Nora was an outside worker, and very proud that her last year's lessons in a normal cooking class had fitted her to give regular lessons to a group of the Mansion girls.

"'A penny saved is a penny earned,'" she had said gayly, when she made the offer of her services; "and if you will hear me conduct one class, and then take a good, long look at my certificate, you will decide, I am sure,—or rather I hope,—to let me belong to the staff."

Of course Miss South was only too happy, and she knew Nora's mental qualities so well as to believe that she would make a good teacher; nor was she disappointed after she had heard her conduct a class.

"I really begin to feel as if I were of some use in the world," Nora said, after her first lesson; while Miss South remonstrated, "Why, Nora, you always have been one of the most useful girls of my acquaintance. You are always busy at home, and so helpful to your brothers, and—"

"Oh, in the ordinary relations of life it would be very strange if I should not do what I can. But every one should reach out a little beyond her immediate circle; don't you think so?"

"Yes, indeed, I do think so, Nora; but for this reaching out, the work of the world could not be carried on, and I am more than happy when I see so young a girl ready to do her part."

Now Nora's disposition, as Miss South had said, had always been one of helpfulness to others. With less money to spend than most of her intimate friends, she had managed to enjoy life thoroughly, and she had been a most devoted sister and daughter.

Her brothers would confide their difficulties to her more readily sometimes than to their mother, although Mrs. Gostar was herself a most sympathetic person, and Nora was friend and adviser to half a dozen youths of Toby's classmates in College.

Yet in spite of her many home duties she found time for much outside work. She had a Sunday-school class of boys whose doings were a constant surprise and almost as constant an occupation for her. Sometimes their vagaries carried her even into the Police Court, where she was ready, if necessary, to say a good word for some boy brought up for a petty offence. When her brothers teased her about her burglar and highwayman protégés, she took their teasing in good part, and replied that as yet none of them had done anything bad enough to require her to give heavy bonds. "Which is fortunate, considering that I am not a large owner of real estate."

"But how much of your pocket-money goes in fines or in cab-hire when you are called out in sudden emergencies?" whereat Nora blushed to a degree sufficient to show that Toby had hit somewhere near the truth; for Nora's Sunday-school class, though not in a mission, was yet made up of boys who were remarkably free from a sense of responsibility, and it was this sense of responsibility that Nora tried to impress upon them; and to assure them of her interest, she did all that she could for them in their every-day life, and not infrequently was to be met with some of them escorting her even on one of the fashionable thoroughfares. Nora did not flinch at the smiles that some of her friends bestowed on her when they met her with her cavaliers.

Yet her interest in these boys did not prevent her having as great an interest in the girls at the Mansion, and in many a little emergency she was the right-hand helper of Julia and Miss South. It was Nora, too, who kept up the most active communication with Mrs. Rosa and the Rosa children at Shiloh. Manuel, indeed, was her especial pride, although she persisted that she was not entitled to all the praise that the family lavished on her for having rescued him years before from being run over. Angelina's sister was not as self-sufficient as she, and was only too glad to look up to Miss Gostar for advice and praise. Moreover, Nora gave perhaps a little less time than the others to the work at the Mansion, because she was especially interested in a Boys' Club. Some of her Sunday-school boys were in it, though a few of the club thought themselves too old for Sunday school. What Nora managed to accomplish in the course of a week was always a wonder to her friends, who with fewer home duties still seldom had time for outside work. Though her two elder brothers had gone from home, one to the West and one to New York, Toby and Stanley made constant demands upon her. "They not only expect me," she said, laughing, "to see that their buttons and gloves are in order, but wish me to be at home whenever they have invited any special friends to the house, and at pretty frequent intervals they expect me to ask some girl or another in whom they have a special interest. But they are very good to me, too," she would conclude, "and without one or the other of them to escort me where I wish to go, I do not see what I should do. I'd even have to stay away from the Mansion sometimes."

The class in invalid cookery proved a great success, and Miss South, as she tasted one after another of the savory little dishes offered her by the proud cooks, said that she almost wished that she might be ill enough to have these jellies and broths recommended to her for a steady diet.

Gretchen, to whom she said this, seemed greatly amused by the idea, and smiled and smiled, and finally broke into a loud laugh.

"Would you really like to be sick in your bed," she asked, "just so's you could eat my jelly?" And then Miss South repeated her praise of Gretchen's work.

"By and by," continued Miss South, "you may wish to have an exhibition of your work, and before spring I am sure you will probably have learned to make several new things."

"Oh, yes, indeed," and Gretchen's face beamed with delight, for it really was her wish to excel in cooking, and the progress that she had made was one of the things that so pleased her grandfather, that he was likely to consent to her staying a second year. As to Gretchen herself, she was now quite determined to be a cook when she should be older, and Julia had made plans to send her to a regular cooking school at the end of a year. Her grandfather had said that he would gladly pay the cost of tuition, if Julia and the others would help in some other ways. The old man had several persons dependent on him, and it was his constant anxiety lest Gretchen should be left unable to earn a living when he should be taken away.

Though it was clear what Gretchen's future occupation should be, it was less easy for Miss South and her staff to decide about the others. Concetta's one talent for fine needlework seemed to imply that she was intended to be a seamstress, and the aim of those interested should be to train her, that her work might place her in a good position. As to the others, it was too early to decide what they should do or be.

Prompted by a spirit of mischief, one evening when Mrs. Blair asked her, Julia replied:

"How can I tell just what we are training them for? One or two are very fond of music, Inez is devoted to art, Angelina is sure that she would love to travel, and Gretchen is the only one who seems a born cook."

"But you don't mean that you would let all these girls follow their own tastes? Please pardon me for saying it, Julia. But I fear that you will not have the sympathy of—yes, of your friends, unless you turn all these girls into first-rate domestics. When you think how much need there is of good servants—really it is the most pressing problem."

"I wish that I could help solve it," Julia replied gravely; "and if I can, you may be sure that I will. The girls at the Mansion have certainly a greater love for all kinds of household duties than they had six months ago, and every one of them could be very useful in her own home or any other. But they are too young yet to decide on the future profession, just as I am sure that you would consider it too early for the average schoolgirl to decide her whole future life when she is only fifteen."

"Oh, but this is different; you have the chance of influencing these girls, and really it is your duty, when you consider the servant question—" and so ad infinitum; and, indeed, others of Julia's friends would continue the discussion. Usually Julia turned all criticism aside with a smiling and indefinite reply, although at times she would say, "Ah, I hope that I shall always be found ready to do what is best for each girl."

Casual criticisms like this from those who did not really understand her aim did not greatly disturb Julia. They were more than balanced by the cordial appreciation of her aunt and Mrs. Gostar, and others who knew what she was really striving for. Then at intervals—though rather long intervals—she had a cheering word or two from Ruth, who, in spite of being on a protracted wedding tour in extremely interesting countries, evidently kept her thoughts constantly in touch with her Boston friends. "Of course I mean to be part of your experiment when I return home, and I mean to work like a Trojan to make up for my absence this year. Also, as I have written you before, I am collecting all kinds of weird receipts that I mean to have your poor little victims—for I am sure they call themselves victims—fed on next season."

One afternoon, after a rather hard morning in which everything had happened just as it should not, Julia heard a tap at her study door.

When she answered it Angelina ushered in—but no, Angelina had nothing to do with it—a flying figure flung itself upon Julia, and before its arms had been removed from her neck she recognized the soft accents of Polly Porson.

"It seems like I hadn't seen you for a century, although now that I do see you, you look as natural as life, and not a bit as if you were weighed down by the care of a hundred girls, such as I hear you have taken under your wing."

"Not a quarter nor an eighth of a hundred; but where in the world have you dropped from, Polly Porson? Have you come North, as you used to threaten, to buy a trousseau, or is your novel ready to offer to a publisher?"

At which confusing double question the usually nonchalant Polly blushed so exceedingly that Julia knew which part of the question had been answered.

"Who is he?" she asked so pointedly, that Polly, nothing loath, sat down to tell the story. She had sprained her ankle, it seemed, early in the autumn. "Why, I am sure I wrote you about it," she added, when Julia expressed her surprise, "and I'm sure that I told you about the doctor; didn't I say a great deal about him?"

"Well, perhaps you did, but I was so unsuspicious that I did not attach much importance to what you said, or I thought what you wrote was in mere appreciation for his skill. Besides, I begin to remember that you told me that he was a cousin, and one whom you especially disliked, though you believed that he had saved you from being permanently lame."

"Well, he is a cousin, as cousins go in the South, several degrees removed; and he was perfectly disagreeable at first because I had gone to College; but I've brought him round, so that he has made his own younger sister begin her preparation for Radcliffe."

"So in gratitude to him you are going to give up all your plans for independence and fame. Alas, poor Polly!"

"Oh, no, indeed; he says that I may write novels or do anything I like. You never saw such a changed man. I just wish that you had known him a year ago, so that you could mark the improvement."

Thus Polly rattled on, and yet, as in their College days, there was an undercurrent of wisdom in all that she said.

"To tell the truth," she explained, "one thing I came for was to see just how your experiment is working, for I have an idea that I shall be able to do something of the same kind in Atlanta—in a very small way," she added hastily, "not at all in this magnificent style; but it's very much needed, and I have some original ideas to combine with yours."

So Polly spent several days at the Mansion, learning, and teaching too; for her words of encouragement taught Julia that she had been unduly discouraged by various things outside, as well as by a certain amount of friction among her protégées. Polly's visit drew her away from her cares.

One evening Julia arranged a reunion of all the members of the class that she could collect at short notice, and though there were many gaps in the ranks, it was altogether a delightful evening, and each one present told all that she could, not only about herself, but about the absent.

All too soon Polly flew away, and though she protested that her shopping in New York was not to be regarded as preparation for a trousseau, Julia was sure that when the two should meet again there would be no longer a Polly Porson. "Not that your new name will not be just as becoming as the old one," she added, as they said their last words, "but for some selfish reason I do wish that I could have Polly Porson stay Polly Porson a few years longer."

"Nonsense!" cried Polly, as she bade her good-bye.

ARTHUR'S ABSENCE

When Arthur wrote that he should be away Christmas, Brenda seemed undisturbed, although Ralph and Agnes were annoyed by his absence.

"But he has been in Washington less than a month, and probably he wishes to stay over New Year's. We'll keep his Christmas presents until he returns."

Ralph and Agnes exchanged a glance.

"Hasn't he written you?"

"Why, yes—but what?"

Then Ralph explained that Arthur had had an offer to be private secretary to a certain senator, and that this would keep him in Washington all winter. "I received my letter only last night," Ralph hastened to add, lest Brenda should feel slighted. Brenda's own letter arrived that very day, but as it was second to Ralph's she read it in no very gracious spirit.

Then, too, Arthur seemed to take it too much a matter of course that she would praise his remaining in Washington. Brenda, forgetting that she herself had really reproached him for his idleness in Boston, began to complain to her mother of his lack of dignity in taking the position of private secretary.

"My dear," Mrs. Barlow had responded, "I am glad to hear that Arthur is busy. As there is no likelihood of his practising law, it is much better for him to have his mind occupied. It would be bad for you both were he to spend the winter in Boston with nothing to do but walk or drive or go to dinners and dances."

"But he isn't very strong, Mamma."

"Perhaps not; on that account the climate of Washington will be better for him. We have the assurance, however, that his health will be completely built up in a year, and your father has plans for him. It is no secret, so I may tell you that a new branch of the business is to be established next winter, and it is of such a nature that Arthur's knowledge of law will be valuable, and he will be put in charge of the office work."

"Does Arthur know?"

"Yes."

"Then I cannot see why he need be busy this winter. I believe that he is just staying in Washington to annoy me."

"Nonsense, Brenda!"

But Brenda would not listen to her mother, and it is to be feared that her letters reflected her impatience, for Arthur's letters came at long intervals. Although she did not hear from him directly, she knew from Ralph and Agnes that he was well, and from another source she often heard about him.

Although Brenda and Belle saw much less of each other than formerly, or perhaps because of this, they kept up a vigorous correspondence. After Christmas Belle and her mother had gone to Washington, and in her very first letter she mentioned having met Arthur Weston at a certain reception; "And I can assure you, that, in spite of being cut off from Boston, he looks very cheerful."

After this Belle never failed to mention Arthur in her letters to Brenda. She told what a great favorite he was with this one or that one. "He is an immense favorite, and I almost ought to warn you that he is really too happy in the society of other people."

Poor Brenda! All she could do was to write glowing letters to Belle, telling her that she herself had never known so pleasant a winter in Boston. She left Belle to infer that she was enjoying herself even more than would have been possible had Arthur been nearer. If the truth were told, Brenda amused herself rather sadly. Society wearied her, but she had not strength of mind to give it up altogether. To the delight, however, of Maggie McSorley, she went more often to the Mansion, and even condescended to give the girls some lessons in embroidery. Since her earlier school-days Brenda's skill in needlework had developed wonderfully, and she could work very beautiful patterns on doilies and centrepieces.

But to design and fill out these patterns was one thing, and to impart any of her own skill was another. The latter required infinite patience on Brenda's part, and Brenda had never been noted for her patience. Yet the discipline was better for her even than for the younger girls as she guided their needles and watched them take the right stitches, and helped the careless Maggie pull out the threads where she had drawn them too tight, puckering the linen web, and, alas! too often soiling it hopelessly.

It was good discipline for Brenda, because strangely enough she found herself more inclined to blame than to praise, and she could not help noticing how much defter and neater than all the others were the fingers of Concetta. Indeed, the latter did not really need the instruction. She had already, like many little Italian girls, served an apprenticeship in embroidery under her aunt. She did not intend to deceive any one in joining Brenda's class, but she could not bear the idea that she, among all the girls, should be deprived of the chance to be near the charming young lady, as she called Brenda, simply because she knew more than the others; so she too puckered her thread, and made occasional mistakes in fear lest perfection on her part should lead to her being excluded from the class.

Amy called herself a detached member of the Mansion staff. She could not give much time to assisting Miss South and Julia without neglecting her college work. But there were certain things that she could do in her leisure, and occasional spare hours she gave with great good-will to a class in literature. Amy was still devoted to her early love, "The Faery Queen," and once in a while, like Mr. Wegg, of fragrant memory, she dropped into poetry herself. She was winning her laurels in college, however, for more serious work than poetry—more serious, that is, in the eyes of the world; and already she was famous among her classmates for her literary ability.

Indirectly she had been the means of Haleema's going to the Mansion. It had happened in this way: during her first year in college she had gone once a week to play accompaniments at a College Settlement. In the chorus, for which she played, Haleema had been one of the most vociferous singers, and although Amy had not been able to see her much outside of the class, she had become much interested in the little girl, and had received one or two letters from her during the summer. What Haleema herself wrote, and what the head worker at the Settlement told her about Haleema's home life, convinced her that the little Syrian was exactly the kind of candidate desired for the Mansion school, and she was really pleased with her judgment when, after the first week or two, she heard Miss South and Julia praising the quickness and docility of her protégée. Haleema, however, was not a young person capable of great personal devotion, a fact that her pleading, poetic eyes seemed to contradict. As she sometimes confided to the other girls, she liked one person as well as another, and if she had gone a little further in her confidences, she might have said that the person in the ascendant was usually the one who at the time was doing some special favor for her. She appreciated presents, and had a hoard of pretty things stowed away in the bottom drawer of her bureau.

On Mondays Brenda often found herself going to the Mansion, chiefly because this was her only chance of seeing Amy. Monday, the Wellesley holiday, Amy gave in part to a Mansion class in literature, and when her little informal talk was at an end Brenda would seize her for a half-hour of "gossip," as she called it. Sometimes she arrived at the house before the class was over, and then, if she slipped into the class-room, Amy had not the heart to send her out. Amy protested that her work was by no means up to the standard that Brenda should look for in a teacher, while Brenda insisted that Amy's account of certain great poets and their work was so stimulating, that she should take up a course of reading herself; and, indeed, she did induce Amy to make out a list of books that she ought to read.

"I should rather they were interesting, but even if they are not really exciting, I'll promise to read at least three or four of them."

"To please me?" queried Amy.

"Well, partly to please you, but more to—to—well, to give me something to think about. Everything seems so dull and stupid this winter, that I'm going to try a homœopathic remedy and try to read dull books—just to see if I can't strengthen my mind."

Then Amy, noticing that Brenda seemed far from happy, wisely asked no questions, and as they walked across the Common to the station they talked of everything except the subject that lay nearest Brenda's heart.

"How is Fritz Tomkins?" Brenda asked, almost abruptly, referring to an old playmate of Amy's, now a Harvard Sophomore.

"Oh, Fritz is doing splendidly. I hardly ever see him, and I'm so pleased."

"What a funny way of putting it—pleased because you seldom see him."

"Why, yes, because I know that means that he is so busy with his work that he has no time for other things. He has come to Wellesley only once this winter, and he tells me that he never worked so hard in his life."

If Amy's speech was a little disjointed, Brenda understood her, and in contrast her mind wandered to Arthur Weston. He, too, was busy, and perhaps doing his duty by remaining at his post in Washington. But unlike Amy, she did not feel pleased that he could so contentedly keep his back turned to his Boston friends. Consequently she sent only the briefest answers to his letters, and his replies became at last, if possible, briefer than hers.

Belle, however, kept her informed of Arthur's doings, and Brenda was never quite sure whether the information that she gave her was intended to please or to trouble her. She wrote, for example, of a riding party to Chevy Chase, where Arthur and Annabel Harmon had led all the others in gayety.

"Annabel Harmon!" The name was familiar; and soon Brenda recalled one of Julia's classmates at Radcliffe, a popular girl, and yet one whom some of the best girls did not like. She had had some trouble with that strange Clarissa Herter. Although Brenda had never cared so very much for Clarissa Herter, she was pleased now to recall that she had heard that Clarissa had in the end been more popular, or rather better liked, than Annabel. She remembered that Annabel's father was a politician, and when a second letter came with Annabel's name still connected closely with Arthur's, Brenda thought more deeply on the subject. She wondered if, perhaps, Arthur was planning to stay permanently in Washington, and if he hoped to get some position through the influence of Mr. Harmon.

Had Arthur been at home, Brenda would, undoubtedly, have given less time to the Mansion work; for in the first place, in starting the work Miss South had not counted on her aid. Other girls, more enthusiastic in the beginning, had given less service in the end, and Brenda was almost the only one who, without having promised much, was willing to do a great deal.

On the whole, Miss South was well pleased with the interest shown by her former pupils. There was Anstiss Rowe, for example, one of the most valued of the residents, who, after a year in society, had pronounced it all a bore. She had been one of the younger girls during Julia's days at Miss Crawdon's.

"You never knew," she said once to Julia, "my intense admiration for you. It would have spoiled it all had you known. But each of us little girls had to have some object of devotion, and you were my pattern of perfection."

"The idea!" responded Julia. "I suppose that I ought to blush, but what you say is too absurd."

"Oh, I suppose that you never wondered who used to send you those valentines; probably you had so many that you never thought about mine. But there was one with some lovely mother-of-pearl ornaments. In fact, I sent you two valentines that year, and two the next; but, of course, you wouldn't remember mine especially."

"It's all very touching, and, indeed, I do remember them, my dear Anstiss, for I have an idea that I received no other that year. At least, I have them safely put away at this very minute."

"Well, I suppose that you thought some extraordinary youth sent them."

"He would, indeed, have been extraordinary. But to tell you the truth, I suspected that some girl had a hand in them."

"We missed you when you went to College," said Anstiss meditatively.

Though Anstiss had pronounced society hollow and a bore, she had not entirely forsworn it, and at times she went home for a week or two, returning, however, always on the evening of her history reading. This was her special contribution to the school work.

Anstiss had her own protégée at the Mansion—a girl who had been in her Sunday-school class. Phœbe had been loath to leave school when her parents insisted, and Anstiss said it was merely avariciousness on their part, as her father was earning good pay. "When I came to investigate," she said, "I found that he was only her stepfather, and her mother said that she did not need her money. So in the end I was able to get her consent to her coming here. Phœbe was never very bright at school—"

Then Julia interrupted her.

"But she's doing splendidly here. Miss Dreen says that she's a born cook, and never makes a mistake."

"Yes, I know. And when she has finished her course I'm going to see what can be done to encourage her to study still further. She says she'd like to be a cook, but it seems to me that if she continues to be interested in her study, she might be a director of cooking somewhere."

"She'd earn as much by being a cook in some household."

"Yes, but after all she has hardly the physique, and certain qualities of hers lead me to think that she would be a good manager. We are going to have an exhibition soon, and although we do not expect the greatest results this first year, still I am sure that you will admit that the girls have learned something, and Phœbe shall exhibit one of her model luncheons. She has already served us some very good meals at a fabulously low cost. That is one of the things she is learning, to make the best use of inexpensive material."

It was Edith who had been listening attentively to all that Anstiss had said, and her reply, "I believe that I would rather see than eat those very, very inexpensive things," was given seriously. Edith was always glad to help the work at the Mansion when some matter of additional expense was brought to her, and she made conscientious visits to Gretchen, and in turn reported her progress to the old gardener. But there was a certain coldness in her manner that the young girls felt. They thought that she was not really interested in them, and her visits were never greeted with the delight that was so evident when Nora made her appearance. Edith was decided in her likes and dislikes. She could always be depended on to stand by a friend, and as certainly was she apt to be severe toward a wrongdoer. Though devoted to Julia and Miss South, she was less fond of Pamela and Anstiss.

"An artist's model! how Ralph would love to paint her!" Brenda had exclaimed to Miss South after first seeing Concetta. "How I wish that I had discovered her instead of Maggie."

"She may have more personal charm," Miss South had responded, "but Maggie is devoted to you, and some persons call her rather pretty, although," a little apologetically, "we all understand here at the Mansion that 'handsome is what handsome does' should be our chief rule of conduct. I never permit the girls to make one word of comment about the personal appearance of another."

"Oh, naturally," responded Brenda, accepting the implied reproof; "but the comparisons that I make will not come to the ears of the girls."

"No, not the comparisons, perhaps; but we try ourselves not to let them think that any girl is preferred by any one who comes here. All girls of fifteen are sensitive."

Yet Maggie, in spite of the fact that Concetta tried to make her jealous, was unwilling to believe that Brenda had a preference for Concetta.

"Miss Brenda asked Miss South to send me up to her house to get that parcel of embroidery patterns; she could have sent it down by her man just as well," concluded Concetta, with an important air; "or she could have asked you to come."

Then, when Maggie made no reply, except perhaps that she polished her glasses a little more vigorously, Concetta added:

"But I'm sure she just loves to have me come to her house. You see she always invites me to go up to her room, and she asks me all kinds of questions."

Then, as Maggie still continued provokingly silent, Concetta continued:

"You see, my country is a very interesting country, and I tell her all kinds of things that I have heard, especially about the beautiful cathedrals. She thinks I remember them all, but it is what I have heard the elders say, and she listens quite open-eyed, that, so young, I can remember so much. Don't you hate that you were born only in Boston."

"No, I don't," said Maggie gruffly; "I despise foreigners."

Then did Concetta become wisely silent, for she heard the step in the hall of one in authority, and she did not wish at the moment to bring Maggie to the point of tears. Maggie wept with unusual ease, and just now Concetta was not anxious to draw on herself a reproof, lest it should be followed by a withdrawal of the permission to go to Miss Barlow's.

It was true that Maggie had never swerved in her devotion, showing it often in unexpected ways. Whenever Brenda entered the room she followed her with her eyes, and when her goddess addressed her she always blushed deeply. Mrs. McSorley was constantly putting poor Maggie through a course of questioning, that the former might be made sure that little girl had done nothing likely to drive her out of this paradise.

SEEDS OF JEALOUSY

Fortunately for many of the girls at the Mansion, they did not live under a very rigorous system of rewards and punishments. Every one was expected to report once a week what property she had injured, and this usually meant what dishes she had broken. She was also expected to tell what other things she had done that were not for the good of the school. One or two girls really liked to have a long list of misdemeanors. They seemed to think that it gave them an air of distinction, and Concetta was especially delighted to read from a written list: