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

"'This little scarf—it is Roman, too,—is just the thing for Julius Cæsar.'"

Then with one or two minor touches to the room she hurried away.

A PRIZE WINNER

While Martine was thus mischievously occupied, Priscilla, unconscious of what was going on, continued her work.

She had not heard her aunt come in, but when she went down to dinner she instantly realized that Mrs. Tilworth was displeased. Was there any possibility that the injury to the bureau-scarf had been discovered? At once Priscilla dismissed that thought, knowing Mrs. Tilworth could not have been in her room, as she herself had not left it.

As the young girl turned toward the dining-room Mrs. Tilworth laid her hand on her shoulder.

"This way, please," she said briefly, pointing toward the room where Julius Cæsar was enthroned in his easy-chair.

Priscilla could not suppress a smile at the absurd sight.

"Then you did it?"

"I? Why of course not! I haven't been downstairs."

Then Priscilla stopped. She remembered her visit to the kitchen, and for the present she was not anxious to explain the glass of milk.

"But who could have done this ridiculous thing? An earthquake couldn't have done much more."

Priscilla hardly dared glance around the dishevelled room. Some of the results accomplished by Martine were foolish, others were improvements on the original arrangement of things.

"You must have had a visitor," continued Mrs. Tilworth, pursuing her search for information.

Priscilla was silent. She perceived that Martine had been the mischief-maker, and for the moment she was indignant with her friend. Martine might have realized that an act of this kind would bring Mrs. Tilworth's wrath on Priscilla as well as on the absent perpetrator of the mischief.

"Then it was Martine Stratford!" continued Mrs. Tilworth. "I am glad that you had no hand in this foolishness, Priscilla. For I take your word that you have not been downstairs. But I am disappointed in Martine. She has attractive manners, and lately she seemed to be toning down. Certainly she appeared very well at the dinner the other evening. Her mother, too, is a sensible woman. So it must be her father who spoils Martine. The girl has had a training very different from yours, and her sense of responsibility is small."

"She didn't mean anything, I am sure of that," protested Priscilla.

"Didn't mean anything! That's just the trouble. After this I must ask you to see less of Martine. Really I ought not to have let you spend so much time with her."

"Mamma knows all about Martine. She does not object."

"She will object when she learns how disrespectful Martine has been to me. As if I did not know how to arrange my own furniture."

Again Priscilla felt like smiling. Martine's hints had been understood, even though they might not be followed.

Mrs. Tilworth was a fair-minded woman, and after expressing herself clearly on the subject of Martine's misdeeds, she did not try to make her niece more uncomfortable. Nevertheless, Priscilla's dinner hour that evening was far from cheerful. She wondered if it might not be wiser, as well as more honest, to tell her aunt of her own mishap of the afternoon. Yet the more she thought of it, the less inclined was she to do this. She clung to the hope that with a further effort she could make the scarf as good as new.

That night she dreamed of wading through rivers of ink, and in her dreams she saw the bust of Julius Cæsar sitting on a bridge with many small black ink-spots mottling the bald head.

In the intervals between her dreams she tossed about restlessly, and she thought of all the little criticisms that she had ever heard anyone make about Mrs. Tilworth.

"After all, she isn't my real aunt," she murmured; "only my uncle's widow, and I suppose she just hates to have me here. But she has a kind of family pride, and thinks that it will help mamma. I know the house is furnished queerly. I heard mamma say that it is neither antique, nor modern—only second-rate. Those black walnut things are always ugly, even Martine knows better."

Yet in all her ruminations Priscilla had to admit that Mrs. Tilworth had always treated her kindly. She had no real grievance against her aunt. She was merely afraid of the reproof that her carelessness merited.

Now it was one of Mrs. Tilworth's theories that a girl should make her own bed and dust her own furniture. It was a theory, too, that she put into practice. Except on sweeping days, Priscilla took entire care of her own room. Sometimes she begrudged the time that she had to spend in this way. But on the morning after Martine's visit she was pleased that no housemaid had the right to handle the things on her bureau. Now, as this was Saturday morning, Priscilla took more time than usual dusting and arranging things generally. She did not dare move the corpulent pincushion lest someone should come in upon her while she was examining the ink mark. She knew that her aunt had a morning engagement, and while she worked she listened eagerly for the closing of the front door that would show that her aunt had departed.

But alas for her calculations! While she was still dusting her mantle-piece, Mrs. Tilworth, with hat and coat on, entered the room.

"My dear," began Mrs. Tilworth, kindly, "you must not take to yourself all that I said about Martine Stratford. You and she are really very different, and although I cannot say that her acquaintance was forced upon you, still it came about almost by accident. Had you not both gone to Acadia in Mrs. Redmond's care, you never would have known each other so well. You are not careless—I see you have been putting your room in order. It looks very well, but this pincushion is too near the edge. Dear me, what is this?"

Poor Priscilla reddened as Mrs. Tilworth gazed in horror at the spot that the cushion had concealed.

Her aunt's praise in the first place had been unexpected, and now she felt that she could hardly bear her reproof.

"What is this?" continued Mrs. Tilworth, picking up one of the tiny crystals from the cloth and touching it to the tip of her tongue. "As I thought, oxalic acid."

"Martine called it salts of lemon."

"So this is some of Martine's work, too. Perhaps she forgot to tell you that the salts, or the acid, whichever you choose to call it, is bound to eat a great hole in linen—and this the most valued of all my bureau covers. Ah, Priscilla, I thought you could be trusted." And pushing back the smaller articles that rested on it, Mrs. Tilworth flung the scarf over her arm and walked away with it—ink-spot and all.

Priscilla was now more deeply disturbed than before. In no way was she willing to have Martine blamed for what she had not done. Her friend was already sufficiently disgraced in Mrs. Tilworth's eyes. But now, even if she wished, she could not explain. Mrs. Tilworth had gone away for the day. In her heart of hearts Priscilla knew that even had her aunt been at home she would have found it difficult to explain things in their true light. For at the best she must appear extremely careless, and quite unworthy the confidence that Mrs. Tilworth had just expressed. Few girls are willing at a moment's notice to pull themselves down from a pedestal on which they may have been placed.

When Mrs. Tilworth and she were together on Saturday evening, Priscilla still found it hard to make the explanation that she knew was Martine's due, and she found the task no easier on Sunday. Monday was the day when the results of the prize contest were to be announced, and the usually calm Priscilla was inwardly perturbed. Her rank in English was high, and she could not help wondering if there might not be a chance that the prize would fall to her.

"What became of your spot?" asked Martine, mischievously, as she met Priscilla.

"Hush," replied Priscilla; "don't talk about it now, it's too, too disturbing. But I finished my theme for to-day," she continued more brightly, "and now I suppose we shall hear the result of the prize essays."

"If I had known prizes were to be given for these essays, I might not have sent mine in."

"Are you afraid that you'll get the prize? Really, I think there's no danger."

Marie Taggart was noted for her sharp tongue, and Martine controlled the quick reply that rose to her own lips.

"Come, Priscilla," she cried, turning to her friend, "let me lead you to your seat, so that I can be free to hunt about for a laurel wreath. I should hate to be unprepared when the prize is awarded you."

There was an expectant air throughout the class as Miss Crawdon arose to announce the result of the essay contest. A moment or two later Priscilla's name was called by Miss Crawdon, and as she stepped forward to receive the prize, no one in the school begrudged her what they knew she had gained by careful and conscientious effort. But everyone, even Martine herself, was amazed when Miss Crawdon added, "I have here a small card of honorable mention for two girls, one of them Martine Stratford and the other Inez Galbraith, who are only second to the prize-winner; and although their side of the argument, 'The sword is mightier than the pen' is the less popular, I am glad to commend them for the independence shown in their work."

Martine's brow contracted as she heard Miss Crawdon's words. She had little pleasure in the commendation bestowed on her, for suddenly she realized that in letting Lucian help her she had probably done wrong. It is true she had thought out each point for herself, following in many cases Lucian's suggestion, and she had added many things that her brother had not thought of; yet, with it all, she was quite sure that, but for Lucian's help, she never in the world could have written the essay. Therefore the smiles of approval that met her as she went to her seat almost stung her, and Priscilla later, at recess, was surprised at Martine's irritability when she asked her how she had managed to deceive them all by pretending that she could not write.

Yet Martine had no intention of cultivating an over-sensitive Puritan conscience. She was an honest girl on the whole, never intentionally untruthful, although sometimes lacking, perhaps, in frankness. This latter quality was the one that Priscilla had especially criticised during their journey through Acadia. In the present instance Martine was not quite sure to what extent she was right, to what extent wrong. If only she could talk it all over with Priscilla.

"Priscilla, I know, will advise my telling Miss Crawdon, and then perhaps the whole thing would have to be explained to the school, and I should feel awfully mortified. It isn't as if I had won a real prize, or kept anyone else out of anything—and I have worked hard enough over my English to get something. So I'll just imagine it's all right and let it go."

Yet in spite of her determination to think little about the affair, Martine's conscience was not quite clear, and at recess Priscilla noticed a certain change in her manner.

Things were not bettered when Martine reminded Priscilla that she had promised to go home with her after school on Monday or Tuesday.

"Monday is better than Tuesday, so you must come to-day, and we can telephone your aunt, that she needn't wonder at your mysterious disappearance."

"Thank you, really I cannot, I am busy, I must go downtown, and besides—" So Priscilla stumbled along, to Martine's great astonishment.

"Oh, I thought you always enjoyed coming home with me. I am sure you have often said so; but you needn't if you don't want to."

Martine's air of injured innocence sat ill upon her. She could not explain to Priscilla why she was so anxious to have her spend the afternoon with her. She could not fully explain this anxiety to herself, although the real reason was her hope that a talk with Priscilla might settle that little problem of right and wrong connected with the prize essay.

If Martine was annoyed by Priscilla's refusal, poor Priscilla was deeply disturbed by the turn of affairs. Not for a moment did it occur to her that she might disregard her aunt's injunction in relation to Martine. Priscilla had been brought up so strictly that, as Martine sometimes said, she did not think it possible to disobey "the powers that be," whether teachers, parent, or guardian. In Boston Mrs. Tilworth stood in her mother's place, and in consequence whatever she said was law. In the present instance, however, obedience was a little harder than usual, because she knew that Mrs. Tilworth's severity toward her friend came from an error of judgment. Foolish though Martine had been, she was much better than Mrs. Tilworth thought her, and Priscilla knew that it lay with her to correct her aunt's impression.

"Good-bye, Martine," said Priscilla, as they parted at the corner below the school. "Really and truly, I am sorry not to go home with you."

"There, my dear child, someway or other I always have to believe you; but all the same you are very ridiculous and disobliging not to come with me," and although she smiled as she spoke, Martine's voice still held a little bitterness as she turned away from Priscilla and went down the hill. Through the week the two went their separate ways—at least out of school. In their classes and at recess they were still the best of friends. But neither said a word to the other about visiting her. Priscilla, conscious of her aunt's disapproval of Martine, was tongue-tied, and Martine's sense of wounded dignity lasted longer than usual.

On Friday Martine did not go to the Symphony rehearsal, and this in itself was not strange, as she not only was not fond of music, but found the restraint of Mrs. Tilworth's presence rather irksome. In her absence her mother, however, usually occupied her seat, and thus the ticket was not wasted. Martine justified her own absences by telling Priscilla that it would be selfish in her to monopolize the seat when really her mother enjoyed the concert far more than she did.

Nevertheless, until this particular week, it had always been her habit to talk the matter over with Priscilla, and often at the last moment she would yield to the persuasions of the latter that this particular symphony, or that particular soloist was too fine for her to miss.

But when on Friday morning Martine said nothing whatever about the rehearsal, and when on Friday afternoon neither she nor her mother occupied the seat next Priscilla's, the latter felt that the time had come for her to speak.

It is to be feared that that particular symphony meant little to Mrs. Tilworth's niece. Discord, not harmony, filled her mind. She hardly noticed the execution of the great pianist who was the soloist of the day, and when her aunt put a question, her answers were so vague that Mrs. Tilworth, glancing at her keenly, said,

"I fear you have been working too hard this winter. It will do you good to go down to Plymouth Easter."

The kindness in her aunt's tone encouraged Priscilla, and that evening after dinner she told the whole story of the spot of ink. When she had finished, to her great surprise, the dignified Mrs. Tilworth began to laugh.

"Excuse me, my dear, but it seems to me you have made much ado about a small matter. It is true that I value that bureau cover, and I consider you most careless in handling your pen, but that you should think me an ogre—"

"Oh, I do not, only I knew I had been careless. I meant to tell you, but I thought I could get it out first."

"That was your mistake, child. A good laundress could have removed the ink if she had had the cover before any one else experimented with it. As it is, the oxalic acid weakened the fibre so that we have had to darn it. When you see it, you will admit that the work has been done very well, but everything would have gone much better had you told me in the first place."

"Yes, aunt, I know it, and I deserve punishment. But what I wanted to say was about Martine. I know she was silly in doing what she did in the drawing-room, but although she seems so grown up, sometimes she acts just like a child. Why, I really believe she has forgotten all about last Saturday; at least she hasn't said a word to me, and she can't understand why I don't go to her house, and I can't ask her here, and I do wish that you'd let me."

"I did not mean to forbid you to go to Martine's," responded Mrs. Tilworth. "I should be sorry to do that, for, as you know, I like Mrs. Stratford. I merely advised you to see less of Martine. There are other girls who ought to be just as companionable—some indeed whom you might like better, if you would make the effort."

"I had to make an effort to like Martine at first, and now that I am used to her, I can't grow intimate with anyone else."

"Very well, my dear, I think still that you are a little tired. If Martine sees fit to apologize for last Saturday, we can turn over the pages of that chapter."

"Then I may go to see her to-morrow?"

"I never forbade you to go."

"Oh, thank you, aunt Sarah," and as Mrs. Tilworth watched Priscilla's expression brighten, she wondered if in some way she had not been wrong in thinking the child overworked.

WORD FROM BRENDA

Martine was at home when Priscilla called on Saturday morning.

"It's really very condescending in your ladyship to come," she began; "and it's a wonder that you found me. I was to take a riding-lesson to-day, but by good luck I found when I telephoned yesterday that I could have an hour to myself then. So here I have Saturday free, with nothing on my mind but your visit and Brenda's letter."

"Oh, have you heard again from Mrs. Weston?"

"Yes; isn't she a dear to write to me when she has so many people who really belong to her. She says she considers I belong to her, and that she's going to call me her ward until I really come out, and, of course, I shall consider myself her ward always. You've no idea how much I learned from her this autumn. If she had been a stiff, frumpy thing, I just couldn't have paid the least attention to her. I only wish mamma would let me do my hair up like Mrs. Weston's, but she says I'm too young. Well, in a year I shall be a perfect model of style à la Brenda."

"But what is in the letter?"

"I can't say there's so much actual news, only it makes you just long to get out of this cold, bleak climate. Only think of picking roses by the bushel in March, and sitting out in the sun without a wrap."

"In San Francisco?" questioned Priscilla. "Why, I heard my cousin say that it was always too cold for thin gowns there, and that the winds were something terrible."

"Oh, my dear child, you are so literal. No, this is down in Monterey, where there are wonderful gardens. Let me read:

"'We are thankful that the rainy season is almost over, for when it rains there is apt to be a perfect flood, and we stay indoors for days. Sometimes it rains in the morning as if it would never stop, and then in the afternoon the sun comes out beautifully and the flowers look as if they had grown inches. But after the middle of June there will be no more rain until winter, and we can camp or plan excursions without casting a thought to the weather. Life, however, is not entirely play with us. Arthur is very busy, and often in the evenings he is too tired to go out. Consequently we are reading together a number of improving things, and when I get back to Boston I am almost sure that every one will say, "How much she knows!" I feel as if my new stock of learning must show on the surface even before anyone has time to discover it by talking with me. Arthur says he doesn't object to it at all, and won't do so unless I have to wear eyeglasses, which every one knows I always did hate.'"

"The letter certainly sounds like her; when she got started she always talked in that breathless way."

"'San Francisco is the most picturesque city I ever saw,'" continued Martine, reading Brenda's letter, "'all up and down hills, so that you feel as if you were riding over the waves of the ocean when you go out in a cable-car.

"'From some of the high places where you go up to get a view, very often you only see things dimly through a fog, and then the towers and spires seem parts of castles and you can imagine you are in Europe.

"'But although I am perfectly contented here, I often wish I were in Boston, and it makes me too blue for anything to remember that except for business I might now be living in the dearest little apartment in the world. I hope you and your mother enjoy it, Martine, as much as I did, and that you and Priscilla are still great friends.'"

Martine let the sheet of paper fall from her hand.

"Are we good friends, Prissie dear?" she asked, leaning forward and resting her hand on Priscilla's arm.

"Why, of course, Martine; that's why I came. You see it was all on account of that acid, or salts, or whatever you call it, and the ink-spot, and—yes—and Julius Cæsar."

"Julius Cæsar?" For a moment Martine appeared to be mystified.

"Oh, yes," she spoke with a smile, "Julius and the Roman scarf, and the other improvements that I made in the drawing-room. Mrs. Tilworth blamed you."

"No, no, not for that. She knew I couldn't be so silly."

"Thanks, my dear. Then she blamed me. To be honest, I had hardly thought about my misbehavior since then. I had a vague idea that you would go down before your aunt came in and restore things to their proper condition. Now I perceive I must apologize. It's written all over you that Mrs. Tilworth will believe me a reprobate until I do so. So that is why you have been so very stiff and Plymouthy this week. Oh, Prissie, Prissie!"

Priscilla made no reply. Now, as always, she found it difficult to reply to Martine's teasing.

"You must stay here to luncheon, Prissie," continued Martine, "and this afternoon we'll have some fun. You must have had a very dull week without me. Dear me, this drawer is too full," she continued, as she endeavored to close a drawer of her desk on the top of which she had just placed Brenda's letter.

"Let me help you," and Priscilla rushed over to Martine's side, but between them they only managed to pull drawer and contents to the floor.

"There, I will leave you to yourself, Prissie," said Martine; "you are better than I at straightening things out. I am going out to the dining-room to speak to Angelina."

As Priscilla carefully replaced the scattered contents of the drawer she refrained from looking at the letters and other papers that lay before her. She acted thus from habit rather than because she thought there was any need of this carefulness just now. She had not come upon the drawer by accident, and therefore she was at liberty to look at anything that attracted her attention. Just as Priscilla's own reflections had taken this turn, she allowed her eye to rest on a half sheet of foolscap that she had last picked up. The handwriting upon it was not Martine's, and almost without realizing what she was doing, she began to read a sentence or two. Then somewhat startled, she folded the paper, and quickly put it back in the drawer.

"Oh, I wish I hadn't seen it!" she thought. "It was Lucian's handwriting, and yet it seemed to be an outline of Martine's essay. I wonder if he wrote it for her. They say he does so well in English. I wish I hadn't seen it. It doesn't seem like Martine."

Priscilla was genuinely distressed, and when Martine returned, her feeling had taken the form of embarrassment. When Martine spoke to her, she replied with hesitation, and her manner had some of its old awkwardness.

"There," exclaimed Martine, with some acrimony, "you are really rather provoking. Here I have been telephoning and planning a good time for you, and you begin to seem as icebergy as you seemed at Yarmouth last summer. Now listen, first of all I have apologized to your aunt by telephone."

"Oh, Martine!"

"Yes, and she says it's all right, and she has forgiven me on condition that I never disturb Julius Cæsar again. It was really very good of her, when you consider that she couldn't see my blushes of repentance. So that is settled. Secondly, you are to stay here for dinner, and go with us to a recital this evening."

"A recital, and who is 'us'?"

"Oh, Lucian, and Robert, and me, or 'I,' whichever is most grammatical. As to the recital, why, haven't you heard that Angelina intends to distinguish herself in elocution? All her little surplus goes for voice-training, and things of that kind—and her recital's to-night. I should have invited you before, only you have been so high and mighty all the week."

"But did my aunt say I could go? She doesn't approve of evening things generally—except parties, on Friday or Saturday evenings."

"Well, thank goodness, there's no stupid party this evening."

"But I'll have to go home to dress."

"Oh, Prissie, Prissie! surely you are not growing vain. What you have on is suitable for any occasion. Observe that I speak as one in authority. Mamma would say the same. The recital is not to be given at the Somerset or the Touraine, but somewhere in the outskirts, where 'glad clothes,' as the boys call them, would be quite out of place."

"Very well," and Priscilla resigned herself to Martine's stronger will. "I suppose it's all right."

"There, dear iceberg, I am glad to see that you have begun to thaw. I hope Lucian and Robert will be as amiable. They have no idea what is before them, except that I am going to take them somewhere. Once in a while Lucian is too amiable to refuse what I ask, and this will be one of the times. For my own part, I shall be as thankful as mamma when the affair is over, for Angelina has been hopping about like a chicken with its head chopped off for a month past. What little mind she has has been fixed on her recitations, and I only hope she'll do herself proud."

"Oh, Martine," protested Priscilla, "how can you use so much slang! Just think how Mrs. Redmond and Amy used to talk to you last summer."

"Yes, and you too, Prissie dear, and this winter, my own mother. But when you begin to deteriorate, you will know that there are moments when one's spirits must have a safety valve, and slang is mine."

Priscilla shook her head.

"So now, my dear Prissie, to show that I am not lost to all refining influences, let me suggest an hour at the Art Museum. I love pictures as dearly as I do not love music, and there are several favorites of mine there that I haven't seen for a month. Put on your hat and coat, and we'll be there in five minutes."

When they were out in the clear air Martine's tone changed.

"Priscilla," she said gently, "do you know I am a little worried about father? He writes as if his business was not going well. He does not say it in exactly those words, but he has written only once, and the letter was far from cheerful. Either it is his business, or he doesn't feel well—and he is so far away. It seems to me now that we oughtn't to have let him go."

"But could you have helped it?" asked the practical Priscilla.

"Perhaps one of us could have gone with him—Lucian or I. South America seems so far away."

Priscilla's sympathy was readily aroused, and she gave it generously to Martine.

"It must be very, very hard for you to have your father so far away, especially if you think that he is not quite well. I know how it was when papa was in Cuba. It just seemed as if I couldn't bear it, and yet I suppose that there was nothing I could do, even if I had been there."

For a moment both girls were silent, though they realized that a bond of sympathy was drawing them more closely together.

Then Priscilla essayed the part of comforter.

"You feel worse about your father because he is so far away. They say far-off fields look green, but I think that far-off worries are harder to bear than those near at hand. I mean when the people or things we worry about are so far away that we can't understand exactly what is going on."

"Thank you, Priscilla, for your sympathy. I dare say you are right, and yet I cannot help wishing that I understood things better. I am old enough to help—if only I really knew how."

"The way will show itself if you are really needed. That is one of the small things I have learned the past year," responded Priscilla.

"Priscilla, you have helped me; you are a philosopher," cried Martine.

In their hour at the Art Museum Martine recovered her spirits. She really knew something about paintings, and her favorites were chosen with discrimination. She lingered long and silently before those she loved best, and gave reasons for her preferences that would have done credit to a connoisseur.

"I don't see how you ever learned so much," said Priscilla. "I feel like a perfect ignoramus before you when you talk of these things."

"I did not mean to pose as an expert; you make me feel as if I had been too bumptious," replied Martine. "It's only because we've travelled so much that I know something of art. I have picked it up little by little; even last summer, in spite of our efforts to devote ourselves to history, I gained a lot from Mrs. Redmond about color values, and light and shade."

"It's a great thing to know just what pictures to like," responded Priscilla. "I like some paintings more than others, but I never know why."

"Neither do I, my dear child, when we come right down to facts. I know why I ought to like certain things, but often those are the paintings that I like least. It's with pictures as with people, we admire many that we do not care for, and when we care very much, it's often because we really cannot help ourselves."

"You and I are so different," mused Priscilla, "I often wonder why you like me."

"Priscilla," cried Martine, "don't try to be a philosopher until you have left school."

Yet hardly an hour before Martine had been praising Priscilla for her philosophy.

THE RECITAL

For a few weeks after Angelina's coup she had little further opportunity to show her skill. The successor of the eloping cook proved a capable, steady person, so in love with her new place that to Angelina's disgust she hardly ever even took the afternoon and evening off to which she was entitled. For it had always been Angelina's custom in the absence of the cook to entertain some of her own friends in Mrs. Stratford's dining-room, and to provide them with refreshments of her own concoction.

For doing this she would have justified herself (had she thought she needed justification) by saying that no one had ever forbidden her to have company—and anyway, Miss Martine would never object.

In this opinion she was quite correct. But, unfortunately, Mrs. Stratford, and not her daughter, was in charge, and the former, unlike Martine, did not find the Portuguese girl a perpetual source of amusement. Neither was Angelina as popular with the new cook as she had hoped to be. Her blandishments had never availed so little to get her what she wanted.

"And why she's so anxious to get me out of the house, I can in no ways understand, Mrs. Stratford, and me as quiet as can be, and never saying nothing to her when she sits there reading them novels with the big pictures on the cover, or making faces over the pomes she's learning."

"Oh, I don't believe she's anxious to have you out of the way—only—"

"Yes'm, it's just that. She's wishing to fill the place up with company of her own, and because I keep an eye to the ice-chest she isn't at all pleased. I know what girls is, ma'am, and that Angelina, she's always up to something."

Martine, when her mother repeated the substance of the cook's words, laughed lightly.

"Oh, it's much more entertaining to have one person in the house who's up to something. If they were all as stupid as the cook, how dull it would be. But I can tell you what's the matter with Angelina—she is going to give a recital."

"A recital?"

"Yes. It seems she has been taking elocution lessons ever since she had any money of her own to spend."

"Did Miss Bourne encourage this kind of thing?"

"Oh, no, she disapproved, but she just couldn't stop her. Brenda Weston told me all about it. Brenda thought there was no great harm in Angelina's amusing herself this way."

"But elocution lessons must cost so—"

"Yes, that's what Miss Bourne said, and she didn't want Angelina to go on the stage, as she threatened."

"Angelina on the stage!"

"Yes, mamma. She has even confided to me that she has been answering advertisements of companies that want soubrettes. Of course I told her it was dreadful, and she's promised to give up that idea for the present. But I have taken some tickets for her recital."

"My dear, I wish you hadn't encouraged her."

"Oh, anything else would have seemed mean, and she didn't dare try to sell you any."

After Martine's explanation, Mrs. Stratford was more patient with Angelina. How could she expect regular work from her until after the recital!

This was the affair that Martine persuaded Priscilla to attend with her, as well as Lucian and Robert. The four other tickets that she had bought in addition to those needed for her party lay unused in her desk drawer. No one to whom she had offered them cared for them. The recital was to be given in a place too far away.

"You are sure we are on the right car?" Martine asked, after the four had been some time on their way.

"You said Chelsea, didn't you? well, this car is bound for the Chelsea Ferry," replied Lucian.

"Chelsea," exclaimed Priscilla, "I didn't know we were going there! Isn't that awfully far away? I oughtn't to go outside of Boston."

"But this is only across the harbor, and Angelina says the hall is a very short way from the dock."

"Oh, very well," and Priscilla sank back in her seat. She must continue with her friends and since they were prepared to go to Chelsea, she could only resign herself to their plans.

She did not like the ferry-boat. She did not enjoy the walk to the hall. Robert's jokes failed to amuse her, and even Lucian's college stories grew tiresome. To tell the truth, Priscilla dreaded the explanation she must give her aunt. Mrs. Tilworth had readily acceded to her dining with Martine. She had objected only slightly over the telephone when Priscilla had asked if she might go to a recital with Martine and her brother. Priscilla had telephoned even after Martine had obtained Mrs. Tilworth's consent.

"I am sorry that it is not to be a musical affair. I do not care for miscellaneous programs. But there will be less harm in wasting time Saturday than any other evening, but I must ask you to be home early. I like to have the house locked at ten."

"Yes, aunt," and as Mrs. Tilworth had asked no questions about the performers, Priscilla was spared the necessity of telling her that Angelina would be the chief attraction. Yet of one thing she was now sure, as the four journeyed Chelseaward—Mrs. Tilworth would be displeased if she should be out late, and to return early from Chelsea, why, that surely was an impossibility.

"I wonder what your Portuguese calls a short walk," growled Lucian, after they had wandered about for some time after leaving the ferry. "Thus far, every one we have asked has given us a different location. Do you know, Martine, this whole undertaking is a fool thing? Who but you would ever have thought of coming to Chelsea for amusement?"

"Thank you, Taps," responded Martine, sweetly, knowing that the old nickname would stir Lucian's anger even more. She did not dread Lucian's anger, for it never flamed very high, and while it lasted it was sometimes rather funny.

"You have good company," continued Martine, in a calm tone, ill-calculated to soothe an irritated brother. "Priscilla and I have to walk just as far as you, and you ought to appreciate our being with you."

Ungallant Lucian did not reply, and the laugh with which the girls received some remark of Robert's did not please him.

"It may seem funny to you to be wandering around the streets of Chelsea, but it would be more to the point, Martine, if you would gather your wits together, and remember the hall where this foolish entertainment is to hold forth."

At this moment by some subtle working of her mind light came to Martine, and the next moment she had whispered the forgotten name of the hall to Robert. Upon this Robert shot ahead of the others, and when Lucian caught up with him, he was standing in front of a corner drug-store.

"Come," he said, seizing Lucian's arm, "I'll show you where to go. We're ever so far out of our way. If you had left it all to me, we should have been there long ago."

Turning the corner beyond the drug-store, and walking a few steps along a street parallel to the one on which they had looked for the hall, the four young people were soon at the entrance of a large building, the lower story of which was occupied by a grocery shop.

In front of the shop was a group of half-grown boys.

"Got a ticket, Mister?" said one of them, holding the green pasteboard card to Lucian.

Lucian, who was really an amiable youth, had quickly recovered from his annoyance with Martine, and would not gratify Robert by showing vexation that the latter had been more successful in finding the hall. He suspected the truth—that Martine had helped Robert, and since they were now at the hall, what did it matter?

"Got a ticket, Mister?" A second boy held out his hand to Lucian.

"Of course, that's why we're here," replied Lucian. "Are you selling them?"

"No, we're giving them away. We want an aujence," was the astonishing response.

"What does he mean?"

"We'll soon know, Martine," said Priscilla, following the two others up a long flight of dimly-lit stairs.

"Did you ever?" Martine gazed around the hall as they entered; "there are not ten people here."

"Just thirty." Priscilla was nothing if not accurate.

"But I thought Angelina said she had sold two hundred tickets, Martine."

"Expected to sell them, Lucian, though, to tell the truth, I thought she had sold them."

"I'll wager she gave away half the seats that are occupied now. Those are Portuguese faces down in the front."

"I paid for mine."

"I know that, Martine. You always had a foolish habit of getting rid of your allowance almost as soon as you received it."

"That reminds me," asked Robert, "is this a charitable performance? It would have been more charitable to let us stay quietly in our rooms. Just think what a fine four hours of study Lucian and I could have put in this evening."

"Yes, you are so apt to study Saturday evening," interposed Martine; "but to answer your question, I can't say that this is wholly charitable. Part of it is for a girls' club over here—I mean part of the profits—and the rest—"

"Here's a poster," interrupted Lucian; "let's see what it says."

"It's easy enough to read. It must have been meant for bill-board decoration. Big black letters on green paper. Listen!" and after reading aloud place and date, Lucian continued:

MISS ANGELINA ROSA
THE EMINENT MONOLOGUIST,
WILL GIVE ONE OF HER CHOICE RECITALS
FOR THE BENEFIT OF
THE GIRLS' EXCELSIOR CLUB
AND A HALF-ORPHAN

"A half-orphan!" shouted Robert. "What in the world—?"

"Why, she means herself, of course; her father is dead."

"Oh, I see!" and then, after the fashion of young people, the four began to giggle.

"Hush! the audience will be disturbed." Priscilla was the first to recover herself.

"What audience?" asked Martine, looking around the almost empty hall.

"It's fifteen minutes past eight." Lucian closed his watch with a snap. "There's something happening. I wonder what it is. Two or three of those foreigners have gone behind the curtain."

At half-past eight Angelina had not appeared. Lucian proposed going home. Martine thought she ought to find Angelina to learn if anything serious had happened. Some of the boys in the front seats scuffled angrily. The hall was neither well heated, nor well lit. Every one was uncomfortable.

"I think that we really ought to go home," whispered Priscilla, half-timidly, to Lucian. But just at this moment the curtain was pushed aside, and Angelina appeared in the centre of the stage.

In her pink satin gown with its tawdry trimmings at neck and sleeves, she looked "blacker and skinnier than ever," as Lucian put it. Just behind her walked a man who stumbled over her train, and then with a bow began to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is most unfortunate that this lady and I may not be able to give our entertainment as advertised."

Hisses from the front soon interrupted the speaker.

"What has he to do with it?"

Lucian looked again at the poster where "Mr. Smithkins, accompanist" appeared in small letters at the bottom.

Mr. Smithkins resumed his speech: "The fact is there's been some misunderstanding with the owner of this hall, who refuses to let us proceed until the rent has been paid in advance."

"Yes, every cent of it," and a stout woman with a red face and a bonnet trimmed with purple flowers pushed her way from behind. Angelina waved a large red fan nervously, but otherwise did not appear discomposed. She was at least the centre of the stage and although the audience was small, all eyes were certainly fixed on her.

The eloquence of the stout lady quite drowned the words of Mr. Smithkins, making vain efforts to give his version of the situation. But after the hubbub had subsided, it was fairly clear to those present that Angelina had failed to pay the fifteen dollars she had promised in advance for the hall. Moreover, it was even clearer that Mrs. Stinton, the owner of the building, meant not only to stop the entertainment, but also to prevent Angelina's "skipping," without giving her her due.

"Will they arrest her?" asked Priscilla, anxiously.

"Oh, no, of course not; Angelina must pay the money."

"But you heard Mr. Smithkins say that she had been disappointed in the sale of tickets, and hadn't a cent even to pay him, and if he could afford to wait, Mrs. Stinton ought to be able to wait too."

"Give us a song or a pome," called a voice from the rear of the hall. The boys, who had been lounging at the door, were now inside.

Lucian and Robert rose from their seats.

"Excuse us for a moment," said the latter to Martine as the two made their way out into the aisle.

"Why, they're going behind the scenes," said Priscilla, in surprise. Still more surprised was she when Lucian, raising the curtain, beckoned to Mrs. Stinton. The latter, impressed by the young man's appearance, went behind the curtain, and Mr. Smithkins, anxious to understand what was going on, followed her. Thus Angelina, to her own great satisfaction, was left in possession of the stage.

When Mr. Smithkins, a little later, appeared before the audience, he had the pleasure to announce, as he phrased it, that Mrs. Stinton's demands had been paid in full by a friend of the talented Miss Rosa, and that the performance would go on as advertised.

In promising this, however, Mr. Smithkins went a little too far. The cold hall, the low-necked gown, the long wait in which the young monologuist had heroically concealed her anxiety, all proved a great strain for Angelina.

Although she began bravely enough with what she considered the gem of the repertoire, the monologue was given quite tamely, and though she continued it to the end she was evidently glad to stop. It was at this point that Mr. Smithkins showed himself of especial service, as he seated himself at the cracked piano. There he pounded out a number of popular airs to the great delight of the audience, and received far greater applause than poor Angelina.

Nevertheless, when Angelina appeared for the second time, there fell at her feet a large bouquet of carnations, for which she bowed her acknowledgments several times.

It was all very pathetic as well as absurd. The dimly-lit, cold hall, the empty seats, the little figure bowing on the platform. Martine, always ready to see the amusing side of things, began to laugh. The rest of her party, even the considerate Priscilla, echoed the laugh. Then it spread to the front seats, and when Angelina was in the midst of her second selection, one in which she meant to move her audience to tears, all she could hear was one prolonged giggle. Poor Angelina! This laughter was the last straw. Still holding the flowers and the fan, she threw one angry glance toward the house, and then turning her back on friend and foe alike fled behind the curtain.

"There, Martine, you've done it. It was your giggling that set them off. You ought to go behind and console her." Lucian seemed in earnest.

"It's half-past nine." Robert looked at his watch.

"Then we ought to start for home. We are so far away."

There was nervousness in Priscilla's tone.

Martine had made no effort to go to Angelina.

"How is the prima donna to get to town?" asked Lucian. "Are you going to look after her, Martine?"

"Oh, no, her brother John is here. He is that tall, good-looking youth, standing near the door. She can depend on him."

"Then we may start," continued Lucian, "even if the show isn't wholly over. We cannot wait for further instalments."

"We've had more than the value of our money," added Robert. "Mrs. Stinton's performance alone was worth the price."

"Yes, girls, you should have heard her express her surprise and gratitude when we gave her the fifteen dollars, and when we told her we were Harvard students, she could hardly believe it."

"But what did Angelina think?"

"Oh, we told her, Martine, that you had sent it, and that she must pay it back gradually. So you see that you, dear sister, will make the most out of this evening, as we'll let you keep whatever she pays back."

With Angelina's fiasco to talk over, the four found the journey back to town much less tiresome than the "voyage," as Martine called it, to Chelsea. It seemed shorter, perhaps, because Robert discovered that they could return to Boston by a bridge instead of the ferry. When at last they left Priscilla at her door, it was not as late as it might have been if Angelina had carried out her full program.

MARTINE'S ALTRUISM

In spite of her love of fun, Martine was considerate enough not to tease Angelina about her recital. Later, by degrees of her own accord, the little Portuguese told the story. After all, there was not much to tell. She had depended on a few posters scattered at random to fill the hall. She had thought that the girls of the Excelsior Club would sell many tickets. But she had fixed the price so high that the girls could neither afford to buy them, nor succeed in disposing of them to their friends.

Moreover, on the night of the recital, a Grand Army fair was holding an auction to which admission was free, and thither every one with a penny to spend had rushed, hoping for bargains. Even if Angelina had been a well-known elocutionist, she would have had difficulty in drawing people from the greater attraction.

"But I never thought," she said, "that some of the people who regularly bought tickets from me would never pay for them, just because they thought it was too much trouble to go when they found out how far away the hall was. My brother John bought and paid for tickets, and so did you, Miss Martine, and with the tickets I sold I just made out to pay Mr. Smithkins the ten dollars I'd promised him. But it was very embarrassing about the hall—and if it hadn't been for your fifteen dollars, I don't know what I should have done."

Martine did not explain her brother's part in the matter.

"Of course, that Mrs. Stinton could have charged it as well as not. It wouldn't have been anything to her. They say she owns a whole block of houses down by the ferry. But it's my last of the Excelsior Club. I consider they went back on me."

"I hope you have learned a lesson, Angelina. You ought not to have promised to pay for the hall until you were sure of getting enough money out of a recital. You should have waited—"

"But I couldn't give a recital without a hall, and I should have paid if I'd sold more tickets."

"Well, this ought to be the last of your recitals."

"Didn't I do well?" asked Angelina, anxiously.

"Oh, that isn't the point."

Martine did not care at this moment to give her precise opinion of Angelina's dramatic ability.

"But you see, this must have cost you a great deal, and you ought to save your money—everybody ought, and life is more serious—there, Angelina—I'll leave it all to mamma. She'll advise you," concluded Martine, feeling that she was getting into deep water, in advocating principles that she herself had not always been able to live up to.

The experience of that memorable Saturday, combined with the advice given by Mrs. Stratford, so far influenced Angelina that for the time she devoted herself exclusively to her household duties, ceased to take elocution lessons, and began to save money. At first she offered to pay Martine a dollar a week, but when the latter learned that Angelina had other debts, she urged her to consider them first.

"I can wait," she said, "and when you have finished paying for that pink satin dress—it would be a good idea for you to make your mother a present."

Nora Gostar, who always kept closely in touch with the Rosas at their home in Shiloh, had asked Martine to influence Angelina to do more for her family.

"Ever since the Four Club years ago began to help the Rosas, Angelina has taken it for granted that the public would look after them. It is true that on the whole they are now fairly prosperous. With her boarders and her garden Mrs. Rosa makes both ends meet, and John always has something to spare for his brothers and sisters. It is only Angelina who seems ready to escape all responsibility. You will remind her, won't you, Martine?"

"Yes," said Martine, "but some people say I haven't enough sense of responsibility myself."

"My dear, then no one has observed you lately. You certainly have taken hold splendidly of the girls in your painting class. Two or three of them, you know, have been called 'hard cases.' No one else ever could interest them, and yet they seem perfectly devoted to you."

"Oh, they are so amusing," said Martine, "that I can't help throwing myself into the work, and then I find out what they want to do, and let them do it. It's silly to make people do things they dislike. Of course," she added, with some embarrassment, "I am aware that this wouldn't be the right principle if I were a real artist, and were trying to make artists out of them. Some of them can't even draw, but they do take an interest in color, and so I am always hunting for good pictures in black and white—and their color effects sometimes are quite wonderful."

Martine did not explain that not a little of her own pocket money was spent for pictures suitable to her rather original method of conducting the class. Photographs and lithographs cost money, and though Amy remonstrated that it was contrary to art to gild the lily, Martine replied that the end would justify her means.

Among her six little pupils only one showed marked talent. She was a Russian girl who had been in Boston but a year, and her gift took the form of a genius for making caricatures.

Her pencil was constantly in her hand, and even with her brush she could outline figures and scenes on the margins of her pictures that would send the others into fits of uproarious laughter.

"Esther, Esther," Martine said one day, "you should never make fun of older people. Who is that tall, thin person, with the lorgnette in her hand?"

"That's teacher," explained one of the others, "the teacher in our school. It's her dead image, ain't it?" and the friend to whom she turned for confirmation, nodded, adding—

"When she's mad she puts her glasses up just so—and we all feel cheaper 'n thirty cents."

"I hope you don't make fun of me this way, Esther, behind my back."

"Oh, no'm, you ain't a teacher."

As Martine was already aware that her girls always spoke of her as "the young lady," this doubtful compliment passed without criticism. Neither in her heart did she think it wise to criticise the little girl's caricatures.

She was delighted when Mrs. Redmond, after looking at Esther's drawings, said that the child had real talent. Then without further delay, without indeed consulting anyone, Martine engaged an expensive teacher to give Esther drawing lessons once a week. Mrs. Redmond would have taught her gratuitously, had she not felt that the little girl's peculiar talent would be best developed by a teacher who made a specialty of figure drawing.

Before Mr. Stratford's departure for England Martine had suggested that he add to the sum he had given her for Yvonne. To the little Acadienne had gone one third of three hundred dollars. This was a sum that Mr. Stratford had asked his daughter to share with her two friends Amy and Priscilla, and expend on the three young people in whom they had taken a special interest during their trip through Acadia.

It had surprised Martine not a little when her usually generous father had hesitated about granting her little request for Yvonne.

"Send her ten dollars from your own Christmas money, dear child, and later I will add to it. Your desire to help her pleases me very much, but just now I would rather not promise a large sum."

"But I did not mean very large, papa; only enough for Alexander Babet to bring her up here and stay for a few months, until the doctors know what can be done for her eyes. It would make you happier, wouldn't it, papa, to know that she could see perfectly?"

"Indeed it would, Martine, but just now I would rather postpone anything of this kind. Besides, even if I were a second Crœsus, I should be more inclined to wait until I could have more thorough knowledge of the condition of the Babet family."

"Oh, papa, surely you believe what I have told you—that Yvonne is almost blind, and that she has the most beautiful voice."

"Yes, my dear, but I know also that the Acadians are thrifty, and that the Babets will spend your gift so carefully, that it will go farther than five hundred dollars with most people. Some day we shall do more for Yvonne, but for the present she must be content with what she has."

So positively did Mr. Stratford speak, that Martine, too, had to be content. She managed, however, not only to send the money that Mr. Stratford had suggested, but a box of slightly worn garments that could be adapted to the use of the little blind girl. She remembered Yvonne's love for pretty things, and what she sent had only enough of the newness worn off to enable the box to pass the watchful customs officials of Nova Scotia.

Priscilla did not pretend to be as altruistic as Martine, though both professed to take Amy for their model. Yet letters between Eunice and Priscilla passed back and forth constantly, and after reading them Priscilla was apt to sigh, and fall into a brown study; for Eunice, having for the first time found a confidante of her own age, opened her heart almost too freely, and in emphasizing the disappointments of her daily life, sometimes threw a cloud over her friend. This is a mistake made by some young letter-writers. They write intensely of personal disappointments that soon pass away. Yet the letter that they send seems to give permanence to their troubles, and if the person to whom they write is sensitive, she pictures the absent one as continually unhappy.

Eunice and Balfour Airton were brother and sister living with their mother in Annapolis. They had been able to make pleasanter than it might have been the stay of Mrs. Redmond and the three girls in the old town.

Eunice and Priscilla had soon become warm friends, and after their comparatively short acquaintance parted almost in tears. The Airtons were descended from Tories who had gone to Nova Scotia after the Revolution, and had always been highly respected. Even before the death of Eunice's father, however, they had lost much of their property, and were under a heavy strain to make both ends meet. Balfour Airton, who was a year or two older than Martine, was working his way through college. In his vacations he served as clerk in a grocery shop. Indeed, Martine had made his acquaintance one day when lost in the fog on the North Mountain. She had been rescued by Balfour, who fortunately drove up in his grocery cart.

Balfour proved a most companionable boy, and his energy and industry made a great impression on Martine, when she contrasted him with the idler college boys whom she knew.

By a combination of proofs needless to describe here, Martine discovered that she and the Airtons were third cousins, since their great-great-grandfather and hers, Thomas Blair, was the Tory exile who had gone to Nova Scotia after the Revolution. In the same way Edith Blair, Brenda's great friend, was a cousin of Eunice and Balfour, and Martine's first impulse on returning home had been to urge her father and Mr. Blair to provide for Balfour, so that he no longer need earn his way through college.

Fortunately enough, before she had spoken to her father, she talked the matter over with Mrs. Redmond.

"My dear Martine, I sincerely hope that you will change your mind about this. Or, if you do not, hope that your father and Mr. Blair will be hard-hearted enough to refuse your request."

"How hard-hearted you are, Mrs. Redmond!"

"No, indeed, not hard-hearted—only hard-headed."

"What do you mean?"

"I am looking strictly to the practical side. In the first place, you would risk the loss of Balfour's friendship, if you should put him in the position of a pauper—for this is the light in which he might regard your interference."

"Oh, no, not a pauper!"

"Well, Balfour is very proud—and in the second place, he could not afford to risk his independence, as he must, if he should accept money from strangers."

"But they wouldn't be strangers; in the South third cousins are very near."

"Well, this isn't the South, and the relationship is on your mother's side, and Mrs. Blair's. Balfour would probably regard the men as strangers. Think over what I have said, Martine, and remember Balfour's disposition."

"It is because he is so bright and industrious that I think it a shame that he should not have as good a chance as Lucian or Robert."

"Balfour has the best possible chance. In the end his friends will be proud of him, and he will be thankful that no one took away his independence."

Martine was sufficiently impressed by what Mrs. Redmond had said to give up for the time the plan she had formed of getting help for Balfour.

When she saw that her father was not quite ready to do what she had planned for Yvonne, she was glad that she had not thrown on him the extra burden of considering the case of Balfour. She decided, however, to interest Lucian in Eunice's brother. In spite of Lucian's fondness for teasing Martine, he was really devoted to her. He was apt in the end to be influenced by her, although in the beginning often pretending to resist her influence.

In his Freshman year, Lucian was drifting into the extravagant habits of an idle group from the preparatory school where he had fitted for Harvard. Fortunately, however, at the critical moment he came under the ken of Fritz Tomkins—a Junior. Between the two there then sprang up a friendship rather unusual in its way. For even at Harvard Freshmen and Juniors are seldom intimate. So it happened that when the summer came, instead of going to Europe with two or three of his classmates, Lucian really preferred a trip with Fritz. The two went to Nova Scotia, and the constant companionship with the sensible Fritz had given Lucian new views of life, or not to put it too seriously—of the value of time and money. Fritz himself was gay and light-hearted, fond of teasing his old friend Amy Redmond, and willing always to have others laugh at him. But beneath all his apparent frivolity was a depth of purpose that those who knew him best fully realized.