Brenda's Ward / A Sequel to 'Amy in Acadia'

"'The real Memorial is here,' said Elinor, reverently, passing from one tablet to another."

"A short life hath Nature given to man, but the remembrance of a life nobly rendered up is eternal!" she murmured, translating one of the inscriptions on the wall.

"Oh!" sighed Martine. "How wonderful that you can translate Latin at sight! I have taken a tremendous fancy to Latin, but now I'm only in the beginning of Virgil, and I have to look up every other word, and you are not much older than I."

In her admiration for Elinor's ability, she wondered if Elinor had realized the prejudice she had felt when they started on their drive. How strange that in a few hours her feeling toward anyone should change so completely.

Lucian and Robert, slightly bored by the girls' interest in the inscriptions, walked to the door, where they almost ran into Brenda, Fritz, and the rest of the party, who had been strolling through the Yard.

"Your vehicles are here!" cried Fritz. "They are just around the corner—"

"Good enough," responded Lucian. "It's rather boresome taking visitors around Memorial—Oh, they won't hear!" he concluded, as Brenda raised a warning finger. "Come, Martine," he cried in a louder voice, "we are all waiting."

Reluctantly Elinor and Martine turned toward the others. Each had just made the discovery that her companion was a very entertaining girl.

"Who's going in the auto?" asked Lucian.

"Oh, Elinor and I, certainly."

Martine was some distance ahead of Elinor.

"But I thought that was why you scorned the auto coming out to Cambridge—because you didn't wish to ride with Elinor."

"Oh, everything is changed now. She is one of the most charming girls."

"Then she has forgiven you for knocking her down and hitting her with your umbrella?"

"Why, we haven't even spoken of it, though she knows that I know that she—"

"Come, girls, tumble in!" cried Lucian, and Lucian had so many remarkable Harvard tales to tell as they speeded along that neither had time to refer to the rainy-day episode and their first strange meeting.

PRISCILLA'S PRIDE

"Why, I never lose my temper! What do you mean?"

"That is what I mean. You seldom lose your temper; I should hardly say 'never.' Neither does Priscilla."

"Well, then, why won't she let me pay for the photographs?" Martine looked keenly at Amy, who had been spending an hour with her that afternoon, as if she expected to read the answer in her friend's eyes.

"I cannot tell you Priscilla's reasons, but her spirit of independence."

"Spirit of independence! Boys of '76! How tired I am of American history! Priscilla is just like one of her own Pilgrim Fathers—only more so. Probably any one of them would have let a friend pay for one of those neat silhouettes, especially if the friend had insisted on having it made, or taken, or cut, or whatever it was that they did to make silhouettes; but Priscilla is a great deal harder than Plymouth Rock, and that is saying no little."

"All the same, you and Priscilla will have to settle this affair for yourselves," and rising from her seat, after a few words of farewell, Amy left Martine to reflect on the matter they had been discussing.

Now the dispute between Priscilla and Martine, if worth dignifying by so serious a name, was not of a kind likely to make lasting trouble between friends. For some time Martine had been teasing Priscilla to have her photograph taken, and Priscilla had never given a decided answer. At last one day, as they passed a fashionable gallery, Martine had insisted that the two should go in merely to look at samples of the photographer's work. On the impulse Martine decided that it would be great fun for them to be taken together. Vainly Priscilla protested that her costume was not suitable, that she didn't feel in the mood for sitting; Martine carried her point and two or three negatives were made of Priscilla and Martine sitting or standing, side by side. Then two or three were made of the two girls, each by herself. When the proofs were sent home, the photographs of Priscilla were exceedingly good. But Priscilla hesitating about ordering the finished pictures, she did not give the whole reason to Martine. Her hesitation came from the fact that the artist was expensive and that she had already exceeded her allowance for Christmas presents.

"I do not think that I can really afford them," she said at last to Martine one day, when the latter asked her if she had made her choice among the negatives. "I should simply love," she added, "to have some for my mother and a few of my relations Christmas, but I shall have to wait a little before deciding."

Yet while she spoke she retained in her hand one proof that seemed to meet her approval.

"Then this is the one you prefer?" said Martine, taking it gently in her own hand.

"Yes, I haven't had a photograph since I was a small girl, but I am sure that mother would be delighted with this one."

A week later a box came by mail to Priscilla. Opening it she found not only a half dozen of the photographs in which she and Martine were taken together, but also a dozen of the single heads, finished in the most expensive style. For a moment she was rather upset by the packet. "Of course there's some mistake," she said. "The man must have thought that I meant to give an order like Martine's, but I can never in the world afford these, and mother would be displeased with me for ordering them. There is only one thing—I'm sure to have some money given me at Christmas, and I can use some, or all of it, to pay this bill."

No bill was contained in the package, and after a few days, when Priscilla went to the photographer's to ask for it, she was told that it was already paid. Then she sought Martine, who did not deny that she had paid the bill.

"Why, it was the proper thing for me to do," she said. "It was I who had the photographs taken, and I who ordered them finished. I can't see that you have much to do with the matter now, except to send the photographs as Christmas cards. I can tell you they'll go like hot cakes, for they are just as good as they can be."

But Priscilla was firm, and though Martine tried to be firmer, she could not get her friend to promise to accept the pictures as a gift.

"They are really not a gift, either," urged Martine, "for I myself wanted to be in a group with you, and you stood there only to oblige me; so certainly you've earned something for your trouble, and as to the single heads, I wanted a separate picture of you, and while the photographer was about it, it didn't cost much more for a dozen than for one."

Again Priscilla presented her side, adding only that she must ask Martine to wait until after Christmas for the sum she had spent.

"If I didn't like the photographs," she concluded, "the whole thing would be different; but I do like them, and I can send them away as Christmas gifts, and so I must pay the bill."

"But it came to me."

"For my photographs?"

"No, for mine; I had them taken. They wouldn't have been printed if I hadn't ordered them."

"Oh, but mine are mine."

"Why, of course they are yours—at least all that were sent to your house."

"I can't bear to be obliged to anyone else for them."

"That's one of your greatest faults, Priscilla; you hate to be obliged to anybody for anything."

So for the present the discussion was dropped, though each friend was determined that in the end she would carry her own point.

This steadfast holding to her purpose was what Martine called Priscilla's "ill-temper," in describing the affair to Amy. Though she inwardly approved of her friend's independence, she felt that after she had approved of it Priscilla ought then to be ready to yield to her.

"It is strange," she said, "that I can never get Priscilla to accept anything from me. 'Pride goeth before destruction,' and that will be the way with Priscilla. Something will surely happen to her if she keeps on like this."

In the early summer, a few months before, Priscilla and Martine had first become really acquainted, when as travelling companions they made a journey with Amy and her mother. For some time the two seemed far from congenial; each looked at life from a very different standpoint. Priscilla, brought up rather strictly and economically, prided herself, perhaps unduly, on her unworldliness, and found it hard to understand the extravagant, fun-loving Martine. But each girl at last accepted the other's good qualities, and before they had left Canadian soil the two had begun to be good friends. When Martine's plans were finally settled, Priscilla was delighted that she and the young Chicagoan were to be at the same school.

Now Priscilla, although for a long time she had spent several weeks of each year in Boston with her aunt, Mrs. Tilworth, had made few friends among the girls of her own age whose parents her mother or her aunt knew. Her natural shyness stood in her way when they came to call on her, and when she returned their calls she progressed no further.

Often she was invited to their parties, and when she could not escape it, she accepted their invitations. Though she took part in their games in a quiet way, no one paid much attention to the pale little girl who always seemed ill at ease.

One awful day Mrs. Tilworth decided that she must give a party for Priscilla; in vain Priscilla protested that she hated parties. The invitations were written and sent out, and on the appointed afternoon Priscilla, in a ruffled muslin gown, had to stand beside her aunt to receive her guests. When she had safely passed through this ordeal she slipped away to a corner, where she sat for a while looking on. When she found that no one tried to draw her out, she managed to slip still farther away. "They don't need me," she murmured. Later, when they looked for her, that she might take her place at the head of the table—for it was a children's party, with a sit-down supper at six o'clock—there was a great uproar when she could not be found. At last two or three of the children went to Priscilla's room, and entering without knocking, they saw her seated in an easy-chair by the droplight on the little centre table. She was so engrossed in the book she was reading that at first she did not hear them, and when one of them snatched the volume out of her hand to read the title, they discovered that it was a little history of Mary Queen of Scots.

"Those children tired me," she explained later to her aunt. "They played so hard, and I just thought I'd go upstairs and read for a while."

Somehow the story got out. Mrs. Tilworth repeated it to one of the older girls, and for a long time Priscilla was called behind her back "Mary Queen of Scots," only someone said, "She will never lose her head, her neck is so stiff."

Martine, when Brenda told her of this story, could not help laughing, in spite of her desire to be loyal to her friend.

"Priscilla is still stiff-necked," she said, "but already since she's had my acquaintance she's been forced to unbend a little, and before another summer comes round her education will be much further advanced."

Priscilla was conscious of her own shyness, and often envied those girls who seemed to have so much fun together.

"I shouldn't expect Priscilla to be very cheerful while she lives with Mrs. Tilworth; the house is really gloomy; it has plenty of windows, but the curtains are always pulled down, and the furniture is so heavy and primly arranged that it naturally affects Priscilla's disposition."

What Martine said was true to a great extent. Mrs. Tilworth's house was halfway up the hill, not so very far from the Mansion School, but its whole aspect, inside and out, was far less attractive than Mrs. DuLaunuy's. It was furnished in the heavy style of about fifty years ago, lacking the elegance of real antiquity. Priscilla's room was large and overfurnished, with its great black walnut bedstead and marble-top table and heavy rocking-chairs. But it wasn't exactly a young girl's room, and the gilt-framed steel engravings on the wall gave her no inspiration for study or work. Secretly she envied Martine her cheerful room in Brenda's apartment, with its couch covered in pink and white cretonne, its white enamelled dressing-table and oval mirror, brass bedstead, and rattan chairs cushioned to match the divan. She did not express her envy of these pretty belongings, lest she should appear ungrateful to Mrs. Tilworth; for she knew that her aunt wished her to be comfortable and happy, according to her own standard of comfort and happiness. Indeed most people who knew Mrs. Tilworth thought Priscilla exceedingly fortunate in having so good a home offered her at a time when her mother was especially burdened with care.

Although Mrs. Tilworth had never expressed herself on the subject, Martine believed that she did not approve of persons who lived in apartments. The little original prejudice that she had against Martine as an outsider was probably somewhat stronger from this fact.

"I should think," she had said to Priscilla, "that Mrs. Stratford must have been greatly disappointed that Mrs. Montgomery could not take Martine this winter; it would have been so much better for her to live in a house."

"But an apartment is just as pleasant," Priscilla had responded, "and it's a fine thing that Brenda Weston was able to take her. Brenda lives in a flat because it's more economical."

"Don't say 'flat'; you've learned that from Martine; in Boston we always say 'apartment.' But an apartment on the Avenue is not economical, my dear child. A whole house on Chestnut Street would cost no more, and though I would not make anyone else's business my own, I can't understand how anyone who might live in a house can prefer a few rooms high up in the air."

"It's very homelike there," sighed Priscilla, casting a glance around the large, gloomy dining-room, where they sat at dinner. "I always enjoy myself at Brenda's—"

Mrs. Tilworth, noticing the sigh, looked sharply at her niece. "I hope you are perfectly happy with me," she said.

"Oh, yes, indeed I am; you are certainly very kind."

Yet even as she spoke, Priscilla realized that in some ways she wasn't benefiting as she should from her aunt's kindness, and she began to wonder if the fault might not lie a little with herself.

A few days after the discussion about the photographs, Priscilla came to school with a letter in her hand.

"It's from Eunice," she said, as she and Martine sat together near a window, a quarter of an hour before the time for the school to begin.

"Oh, read me what she says," urged Martine. "Her letters are always entertaining, because they are so old-fashioned."

Eunice Airton was a young girl near Priscilla's age, whose acquaintance Mrs. Redmond and her party had made during their stay in Annapolis. She was especially Priscilla's friend, while her brother Balfour was Martine's ideal of an independent college boy; and it was rather because she hoped to hear some news of Balfour that Martine urged Priscilla to read the letter.

"I am sorry to say," wrote Eunice, "that I hardly think it will be possible for me to go to college. It will be very difficult for me to overcome the prejudices of my mother, who still does not think it is quite proper for a girl to have the same education as a man. But the fact that you are planning to go to college will have much weight with her, for, as you perhaps know, she thinks you quite a model and says that she never can realize that you are an American."

Martine smiled at this expression of Mrs. Airton's opinion, which indeed she had heard more than once before. "Eunice," she said to Priscilla, "is too polite to repeat all that her mother said in speaking of you. She probably contrasted you with me, whom, I am sure, she considers the typical Yankee girl."

"Oh, no, of course not," protested Priscilla, continuing to read Eunice's letter.

"Before I tell you of any of my own personal affairs, I must mention something that will interest you more deeply. There is an Acadian family living in Annapolis, and whom do you suppose they have had visiting them lately? Why, the little Yvonne, the blind girl, of whom I have heard you speak, who is the special protégée, if I remember, of Miss Stratford. It is indeed due to her kindness, I understand, that Yvonne has been able to make this journey from Meteghan, and I am told that she is to stay here three months under the care of a physician who thinks that he can help her eyes. She is also to take lessons on the piano, as those who are interested in her think that it is better for her to let her voice rest for the present, but to play the piano well enough to accompany her songs will some time be a great advantage to her."

"There," exclaimed Martine, excitedly, "that's a fine idea! I wonder who suggested it to the Babets. It isn't likely that the doctor can do so very much for her eyes, but it will be splendid for her to get a start in music. When I see papa at Christmas I intend to persuade him to have Yvonne brought to Boston for a year."

"Oh, that would be a great expense," said Priscilla, "and someone would have to take care of her."

"That could be managed easily enough, if I can only get papa thoroughly interested."

"I think he has already done his part, for it's through the money he gave you for Yvonne that she is able to be in Annapolis now."

"I wonder how Eunice used her money; did she ever tell you, Priscilla?"

"No," replied Priscilla; "but she may have helped her mother about the mortgage, and perhaps she may have put a little aside for a college nest-egg. She is so practical."

"It's wonderful—isn't it, Priscilla?—that you should have met a girl you approve of so thoroughly in a corner of the world that isn't Plymouth or even Boston."

Priscilla, as she folded up her letter, looked questioningly at Martine. There was something that she did not quite understand in Martine's attitude toward Eunice.

Whatever question she had in mind remained for the time unspoken. It was time for school to begin, and they hurried to their places.

CHANGES

The first week in December a strange thing happened. Brenda had received a letter with a Washington postmark, yet this in itself was not remarkable. Such letters came to her daily, for Arthur had gone to Washington on business a day or two after the trip to Harvard. But her manner, as she rapidly scanned this particular letter, was so unusual that Martine, watching her, knew that it brought news out of the ordinary.

The slight frown on Brenda's face deepened as she read the four or five pages, and when she had finished she flung the letter down on the floor.

"Oh—it seems too bad," she sighed, in response to Martine's look of surprise. "Just as we are settled, to have to give everything up!"

"Give up—what?" asked the puzzled Martine.

"Why this—everything—our apartment—Boston—oh, dear—of course I knew it might come—but I hoped next year."

As Brenda finished there were tears in her eyes, and still Martine did not wholly understand.

"Of course I am sorry," said Martine, "since it's something that troubles you. But would you please tell me what it is all about?"

"Well—it's Arthur's business," she explained. "A promotion that he has expected has come. It took him some time to find out what he really could do after he left college. The office in San Francisco is more important just now than the one in Boston. He is needed there for six months—and we must go at once—yes," she concluded, looking at the letter a second time. "We must be there by the first of January. Well, fortunately, we need not give up this apartment, for we have a two years' lease, and it wouldn't be worth while to sublet it, as we may return in six months. So you see, my dear, that things might be worse. I shall have to pack only my clothes and small belongings, and after all, it will be rather fun to see a new corner of the world."

"What you say sounds practical—except—you seem to have forgotten me."

"Oh, you poor child, how selfish I am! Why you could just stay on here with the cook and Maggie, or Angelina, if you prefer her."

"Brenda Weston! You know that would never do! I mean other people would say it would never do."

"There, there, child, don't worry," said Brenda, assuming her most elderly manner. "I will write to your mother, and between us something delightful will be arranged. What a shame you are in school," she concluded, forgetting for the moment her position as Martine's temporary guardian. "Except for that you might go to San Francisco, or even travel with your mother."

"I am growing fond of school," replied Martine, as she returned to her book. "Even to go to California I wouldn't give it up, but if it's really settled that you are going, I must write home at once."

In a few days Brenda and Martine both received answers to their letters to Mrs. Stratford. To Martine what her mother wrote was even more surprising than Brenda's change of plans.

"Your father has to go to South America on very important business. It is too long a journey for me, although I am much stronger than a year ago. We think the wisest plan would be for me to go to Boston to be near you and Lucian, and I am writing Mrs. Weston to see if we may not engage her apartment for the next six months."

"Hurrah!" cried Martine, turning to Brenda, who had just finished reading the letter Mrs. Stratford had written her. "Of course you'll say 'yes.' Oh, how perfectly happy I shall be to have mother with me."

"Of course I will say 'yes.' But please spare my feelings; if you are too happy you will forget to miss me."

"Oh, never, never; but then mother must be feeling much stronger, and I have seen her so little the past few years. She has been under the doctor's care or travelling, and our Chicago house has been closed so long, and hotels are so unhomelike. But now, with this apartment to ourselves, and Lucian coming in from college—oh! it will be delightful."

Again Brenda protested that Martine was unfeeling in counting her out so completely.

"But I can't count you in, when you calmly and deliberately plan to turn your back on Boston and me. You know that I shall miss you, but to have mother here—of course that makes all the difference in the world."

For the Christmas holidays Lucian and Martine joined Mr. and Mrs. Stratford in New York. A day or two after Christmas, Mr. Stratford sailed for England, whence he was to embark for South America. Martine could but notice that the sadness that her father showed during these last days seemed due to something besides the fact that he was to be absent from his family for a few months. He had often before gone on long journeys, but usually he made an effort to have his departure particularly cheerful.

"Your father is worried," her mother said; "his business is not going just as it should. He hopes that this visit to South America will straighten out some things. If it does not—well, we needn't talk of the future now. I am glad that we are all together this Christmas. You and Lucian must do all you can to divert your father, he has so much to trouble him."

Martine took this advice to heart, and though Mr. Stratford spent some hours each day downtown, after luncheon she always insisted that he must entertain her. By this she meant that she must entertain him, and in consequence she thought out all kinds of odd ways of amusing him. One day they sailed on the Ferry to Staten Island to visit Sailors' Snug Harbor. Another afternoon they went up to Van Cortland Park to see the old Van Cortland house. One day they wandered for an hour in the Bowery, but Martine admitted that this wasn't as entertaining an expedition as she had imagined it would be from the accounts she had read of it. The shops on the whole seemed commonplace, and the crowded cross-streets of the East Side looked far more interesting, as she caught glimpses of them in passing.

She had to let these glimpses satisfy her, as she had promised her mother not to explore any out-of-the-way corners of the tenement district; and so obedient was she in this that she would not even go inside a certain Bowery pawnshop in whose windows she saw a fascinating little guitar. Instead she urged her father to price it, and when he came outside with it under his arm she accepted it with delight.

"It's neither a violin nor a guitar," Mr. Stratford explained, "but the little instrument that the Sandwich Islanders love."

Martine was delighted by this account of her new treasure, and she carried it home with great pride. But unconventional expeditions were not the only pleasures that Martine shared with her father. One day Mrs. Stratford drove with them through the Park up beyond Riverside and Grant's tomb. Two or three afternoons they spent with relatives, of whom Mr. Stratford had a number in New York. Lucian was little with his father during the holidays. Classmates at Ardsley and Trenton and Germantown claimed short visits from him. But on Christmas Day he joined his parents at the small uptown hotel where they were staying.

"Martine," he said as they sat at breakfast, "Elinor Naylor was at the Harbins' dance night before last in Germantown. She took a lot of trouble to introduce me to some of her best friends just because I was your brother. I tell you what—you made a great impression on her."

"I certainly did—the first time we met," responded Martine, smiling, and Lucian did not quite understand, because his sister had never really explained the circumstances under which she and Elinor had first met. With slight urging from Martine, however, Lucian plunged into a description of the Harbins' dance, and though boy-like he could not describe what Elinor wore, he declared that whatever it was it just suited her, and that she certainly was a regular peach, "and the funniest thing about it is that you don't think about her being pretty when you first see her. It's only when you begin to remember her that you realize how good-looking she is."

"Poor Priscilla," sighed Martine in mock sorrow, "I fear her nose is out of joint."

"Oh, no—at least, what do you mean?" asked Lucian, and at this moment the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Stratford put an end to their fun.

The Christmas breakfast, in spite of Martine's efforts, passed off rather quietly. Her parents both seemed sad and disinclined to talk. Even the unobservant Lucian at last noticed this and tried to turn the conversation into cheerful and impersonal channels, with poor success. Their Christmas dinner was at the house of an elderly cousin of the Stratfords in Washington Square. The guests were nearly all relatives of Martine's father, and the young visitor received abundant criticism, favorable or unfavorable, according to the dispositions of the various critics.

But even those who thought Martine a little forward or too self-possessed for a girl of her age could but admire her frank, cheery manner and the consideration that she constantly showed for older people. The less conservative found her charming and complimented her on her clever way of telling a story. Some said she looked like her father, some like her mother, and the oldest cousin of them all, taking her aside said, "You are just like your father's mother when she was your age. She had your coloring and your bright brown eyes. I knew her well when I was a girl. She was said to be the image of her French grandmother, and I can wish you nothing better than to grow up like her," and as the old lady kissed her Martine felt her own eyes moistening.

"I am glad that I have some French blood in my veins," she said a little later; "the Huguenots were so wonderful. I wish that papa and I had time to go up to New Rochelle, for although I believe there's little left there of the Huguenots now except the name, I should like to see the place because my forefathers lived there."

Lucian found the Washington-Square dinner rather a bore, although he managed to conceal his feelings until with his family he was back at the hotel.

"They might have asked at least one girl near my age," Lucian said. "No wonder you were such a belle, Martine, among all those antiquities," a compliment that Martine refused to accept until Lucian admitted that she possessed qualities that would make her popular even in a younger crowd.

One of Martine's Christmas gifts did not surprise her,—a complete set of brushes, mirror and little boxes to replace those she had lost in the Windsor fire. This did, however, surprise Lucian, who knew that his father had promised Martine a full set of silver.

"Why, how is this?" he asked, as Martine spread out her new possessions before him on a table. "Is plain black wood more in fashion than silver? It must be, or you wouldn't have it."

"But this is pretty; don't you think so?" asked Martine, always anxious for her brother's approval.

"It's rather neat, with your initial in silver, but it couldn't have cost as much as the other, and I thought you always preferred the most expensive things." For the moment Martine did not explain that her preference was still for the silver, but that she had chosen the other because of a chance word or two from her mother on her tendency toward extravagance.

"I know you have generally whatever you wish, Martine, and your father and I generally give you what you ask. You are seldom unreasonable, although we may have been overindulgent. For now—"

Here Mrs. Stratford broke off suddenly.

"But now, mamma, are things very different? I know we usually stay at a larger hotel, and still—"

"Oh, no, dear. Things are not very different. Perhaps they will not be. Yet your father has so much care now that you will surely do your best to relieve him from needless burdens."

Therefore, when Mr. Stratford took Martine downtown to choose her present, she could not be shaken from her determination to have something simpler than silver.

"It will be so much better in case I am caught in another fire, papa. Things that are burnt up are gone forever, and as I seem to be a rather unlucky person, this plainer set is much better—and besides I like it, papa."

In the end it seemed to Martine that Mr. Stratford was rather pleased by her choice, for when the matter was decided he patted her hand gently as he slipped it within his arm, saying,—

"After all, daughter, you are getting to be a very sensible girl. I have noticed a great change within the past year."

"Oh, thank you, papa. Do you really think I've improved? Then it's partly on account of the company I have kept. I am sure of that."

"I am pleased that you are on the right track, and when I am far from you, as I shall be now for some time, it will be a great satisfaction to think that you are doing your best."

A few days later Martine and Lucian, with their mother, stood on the dock watching the receding ocean-liner that was carrying Mr. Stratford to England. There was a great lump in Martine's throat as she wiped away her tears with the handkerchief that a moment before she had been waving frantically at her father.

"Goose, goose!" whispered Lucian. "You are too big a girl to cry."

"Oh, I hate saying good-bye," murmured Martine.

"Why, we've hardly been together—all four of us—for years."

"That's just it! It's been so pleasant lately—and now to have father in South America!—it's just dreadful."

"Nonsense, child! South America isn't so very far away. The trouble is, you've had too long a vacation. It's well we're going back to Boston to-morrow, and that in a day or two you'll be at your books again."

"'At my books'—as if I were a six-year-old! I can't see why Harvard College gives even a day's vacation to its students, since their chief use of time seems to be to tease their sisters," and with this little burst of temper Martine's tears were blown away.

ANOTHER PARTING

To Martine the return to Boston after Christmas was far from cheerful. Not only was she still under the shadow of the parting with her father, but she began to feel that the approaching departure of Brenda would be rather hard to bear.

While her mother was spending a day or two with friends outside the city, Martine had to stand by and watch Brenda bidding good-bye to her family and friends. Her trunks were packed. The walls and mantelpieces were denuded of many little pictures and ornaments; for at the last she had decided that it was wiser to take some of her more personal belongings with her to make her new abode more homelike.

"I haven't taken a thing that you or your mother would need," Brenda explained; "only the little presents that have special associations for us. Your mother wrote me that she had a box or two of her own ornaments and pictures coming, so that she, too, could be reminded of home."

"Well, I wish our boxes were here now. It makes me so homesick to see those empty places on the wall. I don't see how you can be so cheerful."

"But everyone has been so kind. I didn't know how much everyone cared for me. So much has been done for me the past two weeks that I have hardly had time to pack. Arthur went back to Washington in despair yesterday. He is to join mother and me in New York. He said if we should try to start from Boston we'd never get off. Some one would plan some special function just to detain us."

"I wish that we could detain you."

"You couldn't do it now," rejoined the optimistic Brenda. "After all, when a thing is finally settled, I believe that I really love change. I shall miss Lettice and my other little niece—she's a dear if she is only a baby—but you know I have a niece and namesake in California, and my mother and father say they will come out in March—so there will be a very short separation."

"And what about me?" asked Martine, in much the same tone she had used when Brenda first spoke of going away.

"Oh, you? Why you are better off than you have been for years, with your mother to take care of you—and Lucian so near—"

"And no guardian," wailed Martine, in mock sorrow. "Don't flatter yourself that you can get rid of me so easily."

"I shall write you and think of you. You will still be my ward, no matter where I am. There, there," as Martine leaned over her to touch her lips gently to her forehead. "Don't act as if we were parting forever. Maggie's red eyes are a constant reproach to me. So please wait until I am out of sight before you bid me good-bye."

In spite of her optimism Brenda was far from happy in leaving Boston, her friends, and her pretty apartment, even for a limited time. Sometimes she thought that the various functions in her honor made her going all the harder.

Nora Gostar, who had taken Julia's place at the head of the Mansion School, gave a tea to which were invited all the former pupils. Not all, naturally, were able to attend, for some of the girls were in situations from which they could not be spared.

"I wish we had a picture such as they give with patent medicines 'before' and 'after' taking," said Brenda. "I can assure you it would be worth framing and taking to California. Do you remember what an untidy little creature Luisa was when she first entered the Mansion School, and how thin and forlorn Gretchen looked, and Maggie, who always lost her head when she had an order given her, and Haleema—why isn't she here to-day?"

"Oh, Haleema—haven't you heard? She has gone to Lowell to live. Her husband is a prosperous rug-merchant and he is very proud of her ability as a housekeeper. He has promised to contribute something toward sending her younger sister here for a couple of years."

"I knew she had married," replied Brenda, "but I had not heard of her removal to Lowell. It's delightful to know how well most of these girls have turned out. Even Mrs. Blair admits that the Mansion School is a useful institution."

"Yes," said Nora, laughing. "She gave us a handsome donation this year. We accepted it gratefully as conscience money for her not letting Edith work with us."

"Nora!" cried Brenda, impulsively. "You are a wonder! Of all our four, you are the one best fitted to shine in society. But here you go on with this work as meekly as if there were nothing else for you to do."

"There was no one else to take Julia's place this year," replied Nora, quietly, "and it would have been a great pity either to let the school run down or to allow Julia to give up her year in Europe. What fun she will have when she goes with the Eltons to Greece, and I am sure that when she comes back next year we shall all be the better for her trip. She will have so much to tell us."

"Nora, you are a brick!" cried Brenda. "You never have been abroad yourself, yet you never utter a word of envy for anyone else's good time."

"Besides," continued Nora, "you are wrong about my shining in society. I doubt if I should really care for it, even if I had the money to keep up that kind of thing. You wouldn't wish me to be like Belle, reported in all those silly newspapers as visiting Mrs. This at Lenox, and being the admired of all who saw her with Mrs. That at Newport, and sitting in the front row, as at the Horse Show, in a gown that was perfectly chic. Oh, no, I hate that kind of thing, and I sympathize with Edith for refusing to be a mere society girl, such as her mother would like her to be. But we shouldn't be here by ourselves, for you are the special guest, and all the girls, old and new, wish to shake hands with you and hear you talk."

In a moment Brenda was again the centre of an admiring group, for all of whom she had a bright smile and a word that really meant something, while they all took note of her dress and little trinkets, and felt doubly pleased that a person of such elegance should show an interest in them.

So exact were the observations of her young admirers that before she had actually left Boston a hat, a blouse, and a skirt were in process of construction by the deft fingers of three of the girls who had taken special note of the details of her attire at this Mansion tea.

Martine laughed heartily at Brenda's account of the girls at the Mansion.

"I have promised Miss Gostar to go there once a week to give a lesson in water color. It might seem a case of the blind trying to teach the blind if I were to pretend to teach them much. But the aim is, I believe, simply to give them an idea of colors. I wrote to Mrs. Redmond for advice while I was away, and it pleased me immensely to have her say I should probably do more good than harm by this little experiment."

"Of course you will do good. I have an idea that you could make things very clear. In the weeks I lived at the Mansion I learned more than I taught, for I am not a born teacher. But it was wonderful to see what Julia and Miss South accomplished for their first class of girls. I enjoyed my afternoon with the old girls far more than the farewell reception mamma arranged for me, and infinitely more than that stiff dinner at Mrs. Blair's last week."

"If people kill the fatted goose—or was it the fatted calf?—after you reach San Francisco at the same rate they've been doing here, you'll have indigestion."

"No danger, my dear. We shall just be nobody there. Mamma has explained that I must not expect too much. Here everyone knows who I am—I mean everyone I come in contact with. But it will be altogether different in the West. We shall just be part of the great crowd of Easterners who have left home to better their condition."

"Nonsense!"

"But that is why we are going West,—because Arthur will get a larger salary and have more rapid promotion. We are willing to give up the things we like best, for a while, and live economically. Oh, dear." And with her usual inconsistency Brenda did not try to straighten out the quaver in her voice as she concluded with a futile smile.

"How I wish we could stay here!"

"Oh, how I wish you could!" moaned Maggie, appearing suddenly on the scene, and the tear-stained face of the latter so amused Brenda that her own melancholy ended in a burst of laughter.

When Brenda at last was really away, Martine and her mother began to adapt themselves to the new conditions. The cook, of whom Brenda had stood more or less in awe, gave warning promptly when she heard that there was to be a change of mistresses. Maggie, after much tearful and prayerful consideration, as Brenda put it, also decided not to stay with Mrs. Stratford. Only her devotion to Brenda had led her to take this place, as she really desired work that would occupy her simply during the day. Her aunt, she said, was weak and lonely, and she wished to be at home with her evenings.

Angelina, learning Maggie's intention, promptly presented herself as a candidate for the vacant place. Mrs. Stratford hesitated, for Martine had given her an exceedingly humorous account of the Portuguese girl's peculiarities,—an account that did not tend to recommend her as a reliable domestic.

"Of course, mother, she isn't a cut-and-dried housemaid," plead Martine; "but she is so amusing, and if we take her I am sure she will stay, for she says she is perfectly devoted to me. I dare say she won't half do the work, for she always has several irons in the fire. But I shall not mind doing my own room, if we have Angelina, and in fact I'll have to do it probably, as she is absent-minded and often forgets to do what she should. But she loves waiting on table, and it's a great thing to have a cheerful person in the house. Do say you'll take her, mamma."

"There seems little chance of escape for me. From what Angelina herself says, I should judge that you and she had already settled matters. I do not wish to play the part of a tyrannical parent and so, to please you, just to please you, Martine, I will engage Angelina."

"Thank you, mamma! You are an angel. I always knew you were."

"I hope that Angelina is an angel in something besides her name, and I wish that her name were less dressy. Would she care if I should call her plain Mary?"

"Oh, mamma, not 'plain,' at any rate. I thought you understood that Angelina is rather dressy in her feelings. She takes the greatest delight in her name. Please don't think of calling her anything else."

So Angelina remained plain Angelina, and on account of her previous experience with Brenda, proved very useful to Mrs. Stratford. For a week or two a succession of cooks passed in and out of the little kitchen, until Martine's mother despaired of ever having the apartment in running order.

In this emergency Angelina was only too proud to show what she could do. She would not admit that she had ever learned anything from anybody. "I'm a natural born cook," she would say; "and if I didn't consider it a menial position, I would become a professional. It's on account of my Spanish blood, I suppose, that I'm able to season things so well. You know in Spain they like things hot and spicy."

"Spanish blood?" questioned Mrs. Stratford, as Angelina turned away. "Aren't the Rosas Portuguese?"

"Yes, mamma, or they were until our war with Spain. Brenda explained it all to me. During the war Angelina thought it would make her more interesting if she called herself Spanish, and now she probably has persuaded herself that she really is Spanish. This amuses her and doesn't hurt anyone else."

"But I don't like the idea of her being untruthful. This quality may extend to other things."

"I hope not, mamma. But then we can watch her."

Lucian, when he heard of Angelina's Spanish proclivities, laughed heartily.

"She is worth watching," he said. "Each of us must keep an eye on her."

ANGELINA'S COUP

The first occasion for Angelina to make herself spectacularly useful came on the Saturday after New Year's, when Mrs. Stratford invited Priscilla and Mrs. Tilworth to dine. The latter had already shown Mrs. Stratford some little courtesies, such as she felt were due Mrs. Blair's cousin. On account of Martine's growing fondness for Priscilla, Mrs. Stratford was anxious to have the two households on more intimate terms. Lucian and Robert Pringle were also coming home to dinner, and although Mrs. Tilworth was the only outsider, on her account a certain amount of formality had been planned for this little dinner for six.

At about four o'clock on the afternoon Angelina knocked at the door of Martine's room. Her face wore its most solemn expression.

"Why, Angelina, what is the matter? You look as if you had been drawn through a keyhole."

Angelina at first did not reply.

"There, there, speak out! Is it anything very dreadful?"

Martine rose from her little desk, where she had been writing a letter to her father, and as she took a step or two toward the door, Angelina spoke.

"That depends on how you look on it; it's only that the cook's gone."

"Gracious! you don't mean it. But perhaps she has only gone for a walk—"

"Oh, no, Miss Martine. I fear that she's gone for good and all. I've been down to her room, and not a vestige of her possessions remains." Angelina, even in a crisis, had to use long words. "In fact I may say that I heard her trunk being carried away about two o'clock. There it went, thumpity, thump down the stairs—those expressmen are so careless, and I was quite unaware whose trunk it was, or I might have reported it to your mother. But when the luncheon dishes were washed, the cook followed the trunk; at least she is nowhere in sight now, and not a thing done about this evening's dinner. It's the dinner, and not the cook that disturbs me," explained Angelina.

"The dinner! I should say so," responded Martine. "We must get word to Mrs. Tilworth at once. She's the fussiest old—I mean she's a very particular person, and mother wishes everything to be just so when she dines here."

"Of course, Miss Martine. Every guest of Mrs. Stratford's should receive the greatest consideration." Angelina's manner was respectful in the extreme.

"Dear me!" Martine's perplexity showed itself in her wrinkled forehead. "I certainly don't know what's to be done. Mamma and Mrs. Tilworth were to come home together from a meeting in Brookline. Mrs. Tilworth is always taking people to meetings of some kind. Poor mamma didn't want to go, but she couldn't get out of it. There's no way of getting word to them until nearly dinner time. Mrs. Tilworth would think it awfully rude to uninvite her. The only thing is to let her come, and then we can all go out to a hotel or something, and she'll call that very shiftless."

Martine was really excited. She knew Mrs. Tilworth's opinion of people who lived in apartments, and she had had a thrill of pleasant anticipation at the idea of Mrs. Tilworth's finding everything as homelike in their apartment as within the four walls of a detached house.

To have to go outside to a hotel would indeed be ignominious—from Martine's present point of view.

"Do you think Mrs. Stratford is strong enough to go to a hotel to dinner, after being out all the afternoon? I certainly shouldn't advise it."

Angelina spoke with all the impressiveness of one in authority.

"You make me think of a trained nurse, Angelina. But what in the world are we to do?"

"Come with me," cried Angelina, and Martine, following her to the kitchen, noticed as she turned her head that there was a twinkle in Angelina's eye.

"Perhaps there's something in the refrigerator," thought Martine; "refrigerators always are full of things that can be warmed over. We might call it 'luncheon' instead of 'dinner,' and tell Mrs. Tilworth that's the way we do in Chicago. She will believe anything about Western people."

A glance at the refrigerator did not greatly encourage Martine. There were a quantity of cold potatoes, and a great roast of beef for their Sunday dinner, as well as eggs, bacon, milk, and butter.

"How frightfully unattractive it all looks—and smells," cried Martine, slamming the door. "I never could be a good cook, for I hate the sight of raw food. But what were we to have for dinner to-night? What are we to have now? You wouldn't have brought me out here if you hadn't some plan. It's half-past four, and if anything's to be done, it ought to be doing now."

"Oh, if you request me to take hold," said Angelina, "I shall be only too happy to accept your orders in your mother's place. Come, see!" and removing a cloth that had covered the kitchen table, she showed Martine an inviting array of vegetables and two pairs of small chickens.

"First of all the dessert," she began.

"Before the soup?" asked Martine. Then remembering that if she stood in her mother's place it would be undignified to trifle with Angelina, she waited for the latter to disclose her plans.

"What I mean is this," continued the latter; "you can telephone to the creamery for ice-cream and cake. The cook had orders to make something with a long name, but that's impossible now. Then the black coffee—your brother loves to potter with that electric coffee machine—and there's plenty of crackers and cheese."

"And finger bowls, too," said Martine, laughing, "that will finish the dinner. But how shall we begin? If we begin dinner well, it won't matter how it ends."

"Well, there's no trouble about oysters, now, is there? And the soup—well, instead of the potage something or other that we were going to have, it'll be bouillon with croûtons, and a sprig of parsley on top; that always looks foreign, and with my Spanish seasoning, Mrs. Tilworth will never know it's plain extract of beef. It won't take me a minute to prepare the minced fish, and you can put it in these little shells to bake when the oven is hot. The salad won't be any trouble, just tomato on a leaf of lettuce. The chickens can be broiled, and there's only one vegetable to boil besides the potatoes. The other things like celery and radishes only need to be put on attractively."

"But what about these lobsters?"

"Oh, yes, that's an idea of my own. They were meant for salad. But if I were you, as long as you've got such a big chafing-dish, I'd have a lobster Neuberg. Mrs. Tilworth will expect something out of the ordinary, and a lobster Neuberg at dinner is very unexpected."

"And very good to eat, and I'll let Robert Pringle cook it at the table."

"Yes, Miss Martine, only I'll prepare the sauce first, so much depends on that."

"You're a genius," said Martine; "but who'll wait on table?"

"Why, I will, Miss Martine, if you'll set it now. I'll have my hands full until dinner is served, and don't tell your mother about the cook until dinner's over. She'll be surprised that the dinner is different from what she ordered. But she won't find anything to be ashamed of."

Seldom, indeed, had Martine worked harder than in the hour succeeding her discovery of the cook's departure. In setting the table she made many little mistakes that Angelina gently but firmly corrected. But at half-past five, just before her mother came home, she surveyed the finished whole with pride, and then hurried away to her room to change her dress as she heard some one opening the door.

"Oh, Lucian," she cried, "if mother asks for Angelina, please say she's busy just now; keep Mrs. Tilworth amused until dinner. I wonder why Prissie's so late."

"I'm not late," and in a moment Priscilla was with her. "I came in without ringing, as the door was partly open."

To Priscilla Martine explained the secret of the dinner.

"Angelina will wait on table, though I don't see how she'll manage. But if there's any chance to help things on, you'll do so, won't you?"

"With pleasure," replied Priscilla, not realizing just what her promise might involve.

As it happened the dinner went on very smoothly from beginning to end, at least almost to the end. Mrs. Tilworth was in her most amiable frame of mind, even condescending to smile at some of the inane jokes perpetrated by the two Sophomores. This was doubtless due to her having a soft spot in her heart for boys in general, as her only son had died when he was six years old.

Mrs. Stratford, it is true, looked somewhat mystified at Angelina's occasional long absences in the kitchen. But at these moments Martine and Priscilla managed to introduce interesting subjects for discussion, whereby their elders were diverted from observing the remissness of their waitress.

Before the dessert, however, the wait was suspiciously long. Mrs. Tilworth, in an aside, had just been complimenting Mrs. Stratford on her daughter's ease of manner, when looking up she saw Martine gesticulating and frowning, apparently at Priscilla. A moment later Priscilla had dashed from the room through the door into the kitchen.

"What's up?" asked Robert.

"What's down?" added Lucian, as a tremendous crash fell on their ears.

"Oh, it's nothing," responded Martine, reddening. She felt Mrs. Tilworth's keen eye upon her and wished that Priscilla had acted less impulsively. Mrs. Stratford fanned herself nervously. There were disadvantages, she began to think, in apartment housekeeping with a limited staff.

In the meanwhile what had happened? When Angelina went to the kitchen for the ices and cakes, a sorry sight presented itself to her.

The cover of the freezer had been left off,—she had meant it to be but a moment, and not the half hour that had really passed. Through her carelessness, not only had the ices begun to soften, but some of the salt and coarse ice from the freezer had drifted in.

In her efforts to repair the damage, much time had passed before Priscilla appeared. Then Priscilla, in her effort to help, had taken hold of one side of the heavy tin to lift it to the table. The edge was slippery, the tin glided from between Priscilla's fingers, and as it crashed back into the tub of ice, a stream of pink and green stickiness spurted over her new blue gown.

"No matter about me," cried poor Priscilla, as Angelina began to mop off the gown. "I must go back to the dining-room. I can hold my handkerchief over the spots. The dinner mustn't be spoiled. My aunt is so critical."

"But there's no dessert. What will they think?" and Angelina looked the picture of despair. For to her no festivity was complete without the finishing touch of pink and white ice-cream.

"I will explain," began Priscilla. "Isn't there anything to come but the ices?"

"Oh yes, cakes and fruit and coffee and cheese." Angelina had already recovered her spirit. "I'll hurry in and attach the coffee machine to the electric light; that will divert them, while you make the explanations. It wouldn't be proper for me in my capacity of waitress to say a word."

So Priscilla, hastening back, explained that the ices had met a mishap, and she wondered if they all wondered what her part had been in the misadventure. No one, however, attached as much importance as Angelina did to the loss of the ices. The coffee machine diverted them all. Even Mrs. Tilworth was interested in watching the water bubble in the crystal globe.

Of them all Priscilla alone was disturbed. She realized, when too late, that she must have misunderstood her friend's signals, and that it had been Martine's duty, and not hers, to go to the kitchen. Moreover, she dreaded the merited reproof from her aunt when the spots on her skirt should be discovered.

Mrs. Stratford was amused rather than displeased when Martine, after the departure of their guests, explained the whole matter.

"I realized that something strange was going on, and though Angelina covered herself with glory so far as the cooking was concerned, she certainly did not appear an expert waitress. Then, my dear, if you had only given me a hint of the situation, I need not have perjured myself to Mrs. Tilworth. She thought everything so exquisitely seasoned that I told her all about the cook, how she had lived at Dr. Gostar's and later at Mrs. Rowe's. I admitted that the menu was a little different from what I had expected, but still—"

"Excuse me, mamma—but why do you suppose the cook left?"

To this question Mrs. Stratford had no answer.

A DROP OF INK

"Somehow I find it awfully hard to settle down to work," said Martine to one of the girls at school a day or two after Washington's Birthday. "I don't know whether it's the holiday—or what."

"It's 'what,' I think; vacations ought not to hurt us, they are meant to set one up."

"How literal you are! Look at Priscilla; she's as busy as can be. She knows how to study at school; but then of course there couldn't have been anything very exciting in a Plymouth holiday; but although she was away only two days I do wonder that she can study so in school."

"It's a sensible thing, all the same, and saves home study. I begrudge more than an hour a day out of school, and if you don't work here, you surely have to spend three or four hours there."

"You'll have to spend more than an hour a day on home work if you are going to prepare that essay. Isn't it outrageous?"

"Well, it's as fair for one as for another. There's no use in talking about it now; we must keep at this translation." And for the next ten minutes the two girls kept their eyes on their Virgils.

Martine and Grace had gone into a small room off the main schoolroom, where a certain amount of conversation was permitted to two girls who happened to be studying together. They were not expected, however, to wander far from the lesson they had set out to prepare, and idle conversation, if overheard, would have carried a reproof. Yet the special essay to which Grace had referred was for the time uppermost in the minds of most of Miss Crawdon's pupils, and to Martine the necessity for writing it was peculiarly disagreeable; she did not pretend to be literary; her brightness and energy expressed themselves in far different ways. She could talk better than most girls, but when it came to putting her thoughts on paper in an extended form, she was really at sea. No one sympathized with her when she protested that it was absolutely impossible for her to write a ten-page essay on the question "Is the pen mightier than the sword?"

"Why, it's what I call the simplest kind of a subject," said Priscilla. "We all know that war is a terrible thing and ought to be done away with, and that a good book accomplishes a great deal more than the most famous battle. That's all the subject means."

"Oh, is it?" queried Martine, somewhat sarcastically. "Well, I'd like to see you fill ten large foolscap pages proving it."

"That's easy enough; just get your thoughts together."

"I can get a few of them together, but when it comes to putting them on paper, that's quite another thing."

Yet in the face of Martine's evident despair, Priscilla still insisted that the subject was not difficult, and that if Martine would simply collect her thoughts, she would soon find words to fill ten pages.

"Of course you've got to look up authorities on peace and war and some of the poets like Whittier and Tennyson, and Longfellow's 'Ship of State,' and say something about 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' and look over your English history pretty carefully."

"Oh, Priscilla, with all my other lessons? It's quite natural for you to know where to find all these authorities and poems, but it's quite another thing for me, and there's likely to be some splendid skating this month; and it's odious to have to stay cooped up in the house when the afternoons are short enough at the best."

But at last Martine had to yield to necessity, and less than a week before the day when the essays were to be handed in she sat down for one last, and it may be said first, great effort.

Lucian, happening in from Cambridge, laughed as he saw her forlorn face as she sat at a table littered with papers.

"What a ridiculous fuss," he cried, "about a little composition."

"It isn't a little composition; it's an essay."

"Well, what's the difference? You ought to have daily themes, then you'd know."

"We do, we have them once a week, every Monday morning."

"Daily themes,—once a week!" and again Lucian laughed.

"You needn't laugh, Lucian. Of course it's easy enough to write; that isn't the trouble; but it's getting things together."

"What things?"

"My ideas. Oh, if I were only Priscilla."

"Well, you are not; she's altogether different. But what's this?" cried Lucian, picking up a paper from the table.

"Oh, that's one of Priscilla's last year's essays. It's perfectly splendid, and she thought it might help me to look it over."

"Why don't you get her to help you in some other way?"

"Oh, that wouldn't do. We're supposed to do this all alone. It's a kind of test. You see the little themes are different. We write accounts of things we see, or that somebody tells us; but Miss Crawdon likes things we observe, and I am always seeing something funny. Everyone laughs at what I write. But I just can't do a long logical essay, and I don't want mine to be the very worst in the class."

"Of course not." Lucian's tone was more sympathetic than usual. "There can't be any harm in my helping you." And he took up a pencil.

"I'm not sure," responded Martine; "but still a brother, I suppose, is different from anyone else."

"Naturally," said Lucian, undisturbed by any scruples.

In a moment the two were at work, or rather Lucian was working, while Martine listened intently.

"First of all," he began, in a professorial manner, "you must think out your subject carefully and sub-divide it—so—and so. Then, well, whenever you have a thought, write it down on a piece of paper or a card—if I were you I'd buy a box of blank cards." Martine instantly resolved to pay a visit to a wholesale stationer's, and Lucian spent a few moments in cogitation and then wrote down a number of headings on small squares of paper. He had never before had so good a chance to expose the methods of his favorite English course.

"See, now, you kind of shuffle and arrange your headings, and you begin to think of other funny little things to put in, and write them out on large sheets, and before you know it, it's almost done. Now try."

Martine tried. Lucian's method was something like a game, and under his guidance she made a fair beginning. Before they had fairly started on the essay, Lucian talked learnedly about "clearness," and "force," and "elegance," and Martine listened, somewhat dazzled by her brother's show of knowledge.

"Well, Harvard has done you some good, after all, Lucian. As a sophomore you seem to be making up for what you lost in your freshman year."

"There, there, child, no twitting on facts. Of course Harvard has done a great deal for me. Why else should I go to college?"

"I wonder what college would do for me. What would you think of my going to Radcliffe, for example?" Martine looked anxiously at her brother; she had known boys who positively opposed their sister's ambitions in this direction.

"Well, if you could get in," said Lucian, "I think it would be a mighty good thing."

The "if" nettled Martine.

"What other girls do I suppose I could do too."

"Oh, yes; and if you should turn out like Miss Amy Redmond, or if you'd work like Priscilla, why I'd be proud enough of you."

"Ah, Amy's a brick," responded Martine, "but I didn't know that you really admired Priscilla. Robert Pringle says she's just the kind boys don't like."

"Oh, Robert is too fresh; he can't settle everything, though he thinks he can. But here, we can't waste time. Remember that you're trying to prove your point."

"Yes, the point of the sword," said Martine.

"No frivolity, child." And by their united efforts they made a draft of the essay, which Lucian copied out in his peculiar back hand, and later Martine, still further expanding what he presented to her, was able to produce ten pages that were not only fairly logical, according to Lucian's standards, but in addition had various humorous little touches from the hand of Martine. Priscilla was so busy with her own work that she hardly had time to observe that Martine had ceased to complain at what she had at first called "an outrageous task."

On the morning when the essays were handed in, Miss Crawdon made a short speech to the class. "You will be interested, I am sure, to hear that I have decided to award a prize for the best essay. I did not suggest this in advance, because in a general way I do not approve of school competition. You have worked under natural conditions, and although only one girl will have a prize, I am sure all the others will see nothing unfair in this distinction, since all have had an equal chance. All have worked independently without help from anyone, and none have been tempted to put themselves under too severe a strain. I ought to say that the prize, which consists of the new two-volume 'Life of Tennyson,' is a gift from Mrs. Edward Elton. You remember that she was one of our teachers here a few years ago and that English was her specialty. When she left this school she helped establish the Mansion School in the house of her grandmother, Madame DuLaunuy. For more than a year she and Mr. Elton have been travelling abroad, but she writes to me often about the school, and her interest in our English work still continues."

In the brief interval following Miss Crawdon's speech, those girls who had known the former Miss South said one or two agreeable things about her to the others, and it pleased Martine to recall that Mr. Elton was a cousin of Brenda's. But she was not altogether pleased that the essay with which Lucian had helped her was to compete for a prize. In this special case Martine was not quite sure of the precise line between right and wrong, and until she could decide this for herself, she thought it not worth while to discuss the matter with others.

Now it happened, strangely enough, that the essay which in a small way had been a snare for Martine also caused some trouble for Priscilla. The beginning came on the Friday after the essays were handed in. In the early afternoon Priscilla had an errand to do for her aunt at the farther end of Commonwealth Avenue. There was no Symphony this week, and she enjoyed the change. As she walked homeward, she was in an unusually happy mood. It was one of those mild days in late January that seemed to be preparing the way for an early spring. The path under the trees in the middle of the park was rather wet from melting snow and ice, and after trying it for a few steps, Priscilla preferred the sidewalk. There she walked down between the rows of nurses with their baby carriages, or little children in charge. "A prize baby show" Martine had called it. Priscilla enjoyed the show and thought of her little brothers and sisters at home as she stopped at intervals to speak to some child she knew. From the Avenue she crossed the Garden and stood for a moment on the bridge to watch the ice breaking in the pond; and she continued her walk along the mall of the Common, until she was opposite Spruce Street. Turning into the narrower streets, when at last she reached her aunt's house, it seemed particularly gloomy, and she wished that she might have stayed out in the sun an hour longer. But she realized that the task before her could not be postponed. The weekly theme must be ready on Monday, and nothing could be accomplished unless she set herself at work. Filling her fountain pen carefully she sat down at a small table near the window and began her task.

Although Priscilla frowned slightly, as almost any girl will frown when writing a theme, the frown was not very deep. She expected no real difficulties at the present stage of her work, as she had already made a good draft in pencil, and it only remained now for her to copy it.

At first her pen fairly flew over the paper, but after a time, as it may happen even with more accomplished authors, she grew a little weary, and rising, she walked to the window. Then she took a few steps around the room, at the same time idly flourishing her pen. The habits of fountain pens are indeed hard to understand. There certainly seemed to be no reason why Priscilla's pen should have chosen the particular moment when she stood beside her bureau for a catastrophe. Priscilla herself was almost petrified with horror as she gazed at the great black spot on the immaculate bureau-scarf. How could one little drop of ink, falling carelessly from a pen held upside down, spread itself into such a big spot?