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

"Aunt Nabby seemed to be making little dolls of clay."

"Where did he go?" asked George.

"Down to the centre of the earth, probably," replied Mr. Stacy, solemnly. "But it's more to the point that Jenny recovered, and Aunt Nabby was never again known to carry on any of her witcheries."

"Thank you, thank you," cried all the circle, except Priscilla, who still looked as if she thought stories of this kind rather silly.

"Mamma," cried Lucy, after a moment's pause, as if she, too, shared Priscilla's feeling, "let us have something more sensible than witch stories."

"Let us have a charade—you said you had found one in an old book that you would give us."

Mrs. Danforth looked at the clock. "There is just time for one before you go to bed," she said, "and so I will give you the old one you speak of."

George and Lucy clapped their hands with delight. They were fond of guessing-games, particularly when their mother played with them.

"I must tell you," said Mrs. Danforth, picking up a book from the table, "that this is a very short one and must be guessed within five minutes after I have read it." Whereupon she read slowly:

"Only five minutes!" complained George; "I don't think that's long enough. I didn't understand what the first was."

Patiently Mrs. Danforth read the first two lines, then the second, and finally, at Lucy's request, the last.

"I have it," cried Marcus, before three minutes had passed.

"Can't we have five minutes more? I know I could guess it, if we had time enough."

"You never guess anything, George, no matter how much time there is," exclaimed Marcus.

"Neither does Priscilla," rejoined George; "but if we had more time—"

"Six minutes have passed; you see I have given more than the allotted time," called Mrs. Danforth at last.

"What did you make it, Marcus?"

"Snowballs!" cried Marcus, triumphantly.

"Oh, no!" protested Lucy; "how could it be 'snowballs?' What is yours, Miss Martine?"

Martine handed a slip of paper to Lucy on which she had written a word.

"Yes, yes, that is it. Snowdrops, that is right, isn't it, mamma?"

"Yes, my dear; it is almost too simple a charade to set before our guest. It would have been harder to guess if we had tried to act it. Perhaps to-morrow we can act charades."

When the younger children had gone to bed, Martine enjoyed the quiet hour with Priscilla and Mrs. Danforth and Mr. Stacy.

"I had no idea Plymouth could be so interesting," she said. "I feel that my two or three more days will not be enough for all that I wish to see."

Nevertheless, Martine spent less time in actual sight-seeing than at first she had planned. The second day of her stay was so warm and springlike, that all voted for a mayflower picnic in the beautiful Plymouth woods. The next day was rainy—a genuine southerly storm, and no one cared to venture out.

"In town neither of us would think of staying in simply on account of a storm," protested Martine.

"I know it," responded Priscilla, lazily curling herself up in a corner of the big settle before the open fire. "But this is vacation, and home," she concluded, "and we can't behave just as we would in the city."

Finally, on the fourth day of their stay, under the guidance of Mr. Stacy, the two went up to Burial Hill.

"You won't care if I do not pretend to be awfully interested in the epitaphs," said Martine, frankly. "I wish that Amy were here. She loves old graveyards and inscriptions and everything that has a scrap of history. Now I am fond of funny epitaphs, and I love—oh, what a beautiful view!"

"I am glad that Burial Hill has something of interest to offer you. Even in Plymouth we call this a fine view. Generally, we try to be modest about our possessions, but this really is worth praising."

"It is wonderful!" and Martine gazed in admiration at the expanse of blue water that stretched far, far to the East, with only the tiny Clark's Island to break its continuity.

"It looks almost like a toy town," she added, gazing down at the houses and spires of the old town seeming to nestle at the foot of the hill.

"Those woods toward the West are where the Indians used to lurk, and you can see how wise our forefathers were in placing their fort here near the summit of the hill. You remember, probably, that it was a wooden building made of sawed planks, but the six cannon mounted for its defence made it really formidable to the Indians. From this point the defenders of the town could quickly discover the approach of the enemy. For a time, too, the fort was used as a church."

"That is why they used the hill as a burying-place, I suppose."

"Well, oddly enough, the founders of Plymouth were not buried here. Undoubtedly, the first settlers buried their dead near their dwellings. No stones mark the resting-place of most of the Mayflower passengers. There are memorials to many of them put up in later generations here on Burial Hill by their descendants, and two or three who lived to an advanced age, like John Howland, are buried here. But the earliest gravestone on the hill is that of Edward Gray, who died in 1681."

Priscilla, browsing among the stones, returned to Martine with a shade of disappointment on her face.

"I am really sorry, but I cannot find a single absurd stone. Some are rather quaint, but there are no amusing epitaphs, at least, of the kind you like, Martine. Often as I've been here, I have never looked for that special kind of thing before, but now that I have made you a true report, we might as well turn down toward Memorial Hall."

"Thank you, Priscilla, I hope Mr. Stacy will not think that I care only for entertaining things that make one laugh. I have been more impressed by this old burying-ground than by any other I have ever visited. There is certainly something in the atmosphere that carries one back to the past. If there were anything here to laugh at I couldn't laugh." And silently and reverently Martine followed her friends down the hill into the quiet streets of the little town.

"Now for Pilgrim Hall," said Mr. Stacy, as they walked along the Main Street.

"And what shall we see there?" asked Martine.

"Oh, relics of all kinds—driftwood of the past—some things that will move you to tears, and others that may make you smile."

"Old furniture, I suppose. There are several shiploads of Mayflower furniture scattered through the country, and naturally I would look for a little of it here in Plymouth."

"It would almost seem as if you had been reading my favorite Holmes," rejoined Mr. Stacy. "You perhaps recall his verses about the old punch-bowl that—

"I am not sure," replied Martine, "whether I have heard those particular lines, though the poet's sentiments are mine. Sometimes I wonder if the Pilgrims brought any furniture with them. Or if the things they brought could have lasted through the centuries."

"You will soon be able to judge for yourself. I think you can safely believe in most of the specimens that you see here. At any rate, we people of Plymouth have believed in them so long that they have acquired a certain sanctity."

When they were at last within the dignified hall, Priscilla and Martine flitted about from object to object, the latter asking questions, the former answering them, while Mr. Stacy in one or two instances had to act as umpire.

A chair once owned by Governor Carver, and another brought by William Brewster in the Mayflower, were accepted by Martine without question, and she was equally interested in a cabinet also brought over in the Mayflower by the father of Peregrine White.

"Priscilla," she cried, "your ancestor, John Alden, was particularly generous in his bequests. Here's his Bible, and an autograph of his that must be genuine because it is so hard to read. It seems to me that the Aldens and the Winslows have done well by this exhibition. Isn't this an odd ring, and do you really imagine it was once worn by Governor Edward Winslow?"

"Why, yes," replied Priscilla, "I believe it, if that is what the placard says." And she drew nearer to read the card that was placed beside the ring.

"The sword of Myles Standish! What a story it could tell! Really, Priscilla, these things have a wonderful power of calling up the past—and this little piece of embroidery, just look at the date. It is more than three hundred and fifty years old, and some of the silk threads have kept their colors."

"Please read the verse in the corner," urged Priscilla. "Even when I was a very small girl I used to stand here, and call up pictures of the little Lorena."

As Priscilla finished her sentence, Martine began to repeat the lines embroidered in the old sampler—for such the bit of work must have been.

"It is touching," said Martine.

"A true Puritan maiden," commented Mr. Stacy, approaching the girls. "But come, you cannot linger too long over any one thing, however interesting. I will not blame you if you pass quickly by the Florida bones, and the Indian relics, and other so-called curiosities that hardly belong in Pilgrim Hall. But there are a number of autographs and old books that I wish to explain to you, and you must study carefully Weir's beautiful painting, 'The Embarkation of the Pilgrims,' and Charles Lucy's magnificent 'Departure of the Pilgrims.'"

The pictures held Martine's attention for a long time, and when at last she left the hall, she had a new and tenderer feeling for Plymouth.

"If ever I have time," she murmured in a laughing aside to Mr. Stacy, "I will try to hunt up some Mayflower ancestors, for I can't let Priscilla continue to be so superior to me in this respect."

"Indeed, I don't feel superior," said Priscilla, "but I can't tell you how pleased I am, Martine, that you have stopped making fun of Plymouth and the Pilgrims."

"Dear Prissie, you should not take things so seriously. My fun was only fun, and you were too ready to take it in as earnest."

Martine from the first had no trouble in winning the affection of all the Danforths. George and Marcus struggled for the first place in her affections, and Lucy admitted that she loved her next to her mother and Priscilla. Martine made other friends in Plymouth besides the members of the Danforth family. A number of Mrs. Danforth's special friends called on her, and at an informal tea-party she met all the young people whom Priscilla cared for especially.

"Every one seems to have heard of me, I am awfully pleased that you should have talked to people about me, but why am I called a 'heroine'? Three people have said to me, 'We are so pleased to meet the young heroine we have heard so much about.' What do they mean?"

"It's the fire," cried Lucy. "Priscilla told us not to say too much to you about it, because you were so modest, but everybody knows how brave you were to pull Priscilla out of the burning house."

"The burning house? Oh, at Windsor; but I didn't pull her out. There wasn't the least danger, and I only tapped at the door. Why, I had almost forgotten about it. It was nothing at all, so far as I was concerned."

But Lucy only shook her head, as she repeated shyly, "But we think you a heroine all the same." Nor could any words of Martine's have made her change her mind. Had she not always been taught that the truly great were modest? Martine's very denials were a strong evidence that she was truly great.

There was nothing, therefore, for Martine to do but accept the place on the pedestal where they put her.

In spite of this idealizing, however, Priscilla's younger friends were not afraid of Martine. If they had felt any awe before they saw her it immediately passed away when they had looked into her frank brown eyes, and had heard the clear notes of her ringing laugh.

Pleasanter even than the tea-party to Martine was the second evening that Mr. Stacy spent with her and Priscilla.

"Everything that you haven't told me before about Plymouth and its early days you must tell me now," Martine had said. "When I go back to Boston I wish to astonish my brother by my display of historical knowledge. I am sure that he doesn't know the difference between a Puritan and a Pilgrim, which you have so carefully explained to me, Mr. Stacy; and there are fifty other things that I shall spring on him, and mortify him to death, for Lucian thinks that he knows a lot of history, but as far as I can make out he hasn't got far beyond Charlemagne in his two years at Harvard."

"Yet he went to school first?" asked Mr. Stacy, quizzically.

"Yes, but everyone knows that boys in the fitting schools remember as little as they can of American history—although," with an afterthought, "I will admit that Lucian did take an interest last summer in the English and Acadian history of Nova Scotia."

This mention of Acadia suggested various questions to Mr. Stacy, and soon Martine had plunged into a vivid account of their experiences of the preceding summer.

"I have heard part of this before from the lips of Priscilla," said Mr. Stacy, "and her description of the various protegées gathered in by your party interested me greatly. I know that she has not forgotten Eunice, and, indeed, we all expect to see the little Annapolis girl in Plymouth before many summers have passed. But what about Yvonne and Pierre, who on the whole interest me rather more than Eunice—as much, perhaps, because of their infirmities as on account of their foreign blood?"

"As to Pierre," responded Martine, "Amy hears from him regularly, and he is very happy this winter in his work. A little money that was given him last autumn (Martine did not mention that this was her father's generous gift) has enabled him to have regular drawing lessons from a good teacher to whom he goes twice a week at Yarmouth. He insisted in using part of the money for his mother, and, like all Acadians, she seems to have spent it very thriftily."

"But what of Yvonne? she, I believe, is your especial pet."

"Oh, Yvonne, too, has had a little money to spend, and so the Babets have let her board with friends at Annapolis. Her eyes have had some attention from a good doctor, and she has been taking music lessons. I was hoping to arrange to have Alexander Babet bring Yvonne to Boston for treatment by a specialist, but for the present I have to wait."

Here Martine sighed a deep sigh. This allusion to Yvonne reminded her of her father and his caution about economy. "I wonder if we shall always have to economize and give up the things we wish to do. Mother talked about economy when I spoke of inviting Priscilla to go to New York. I wonder—" and then a question from Mr. Stacy recalled Martine's wandering thoughts.

"You scold me sometimes for being absent-minded," said Priscilla, "but we spoke to you three times before you heard."

"I was only thinking, Prissie," responded Martine; "and I can't do two things at the same time—listen and think."

Martine at last said good-bye to Plymouth with genuine regret—for Plymouth people at least, and for the Danforth family in particular.

"New York wouldn't have been half as much fun," she said as the train steamed out of the station, "because I know it so well."

Priscilla, who had not heard of Martine's New York plan, did not understand her friend's allusion; and as Martine made no further explanation, she had no opportunity for discontent—if the loss of a trip to New York would have made her discontented.

TROUBLES

The weeks after the Easter visit passed rapidly away. April was melting into May. People called it an early spring.

"It doesn't make much difference to me whether the season is early or late," said Martine one Sunday afternoon, when Lucian and Robert had walked home with her from the afternoon service. "I have to work so hard to keep up with Priscilla that I haven't time to think about anything so commonplace as weather. If I'm not careful, I shall find myself fitting for college."

"Don't," said Robert Pringle.

"Do," cried Lucian. "As I may have said before, if you make half as much of yourself as Amy, nothing could be better for you than college."

"Be yourself," said Robert with an air of wisdom. "Not Amy nor Priscilla, nor any one else. You have the artistic temperament."

"Nonsense," replied Martine, with difficulty repressing a smile. "That's a very sophomorific speech. You've got it out of some of your philosophy courses."

"Or one of the college magazines," growled Lucian. "People who are just beginning to write always love to talk about temperament."

"Well," persisted Robert, "Fritz Tomkins says that Mrs. Redmond says that you have great talent."

"Oh, yes," responded Martine, laughing, "my class at the Mansion considers me a true artist, because I can paint trees and grass that look real; but to tell you the truth, Robert, and to show you that you're not wholly wrong, I will admit that if I hadn't been so busy at school, I should have studied with Mrs. Redmond this spring. I just wish I had time for a sketching class, but fond as I am of riding, I can barely manage an hour's ride twice a week. That reminds me, Lucian," and Martine turned to her brother, "if you can afford a new auto, I surely can afford a new riding-horse. Wherever we go this summer, I mean to ride."

"No, no," cried Lucian, "that is, I probably shall not have the auto, much as I want it."

"Don't worry," said Robert, "you'll get it in season; if it isn't out by June, they'll have it for you in July."

"Oh, that wasn't what I meant," rejoined Lucian, "only—" but at this moment he did not explain what he really had intended to say.

The next evening Lucian came home to dinner.

"What an unexpected honor," said Martine. "I've never known you to favor us with a Monday visit. You look rather glum, too," she added with sisterly frankness. "Is anything the matter?"

"No, no," he said, "nothing special. You shouldn't be so curious."

"I can read you like a book," replied Martine. "You are worrying over your finals and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. If I were a Harvard Sophomore, with all my time to use as I liked, I wouldn't be in such a state of mind over a few questions, for that's all an examination amounts to."

"There, there, Martine, don't worry your brother," interposed Mrs. Stratford, joining them.

"But he is so foolish," continued Martine, "just as if he hadn't as good a chance as anybody else."

"To be perfectly frank," said Lucian at last, "you have no idea, little sister, what you are talking about; so the least said, soonest mended."

Conversation during dinner proceeded cheerfully. Lucian was evidently making an effort to remove the impression that he was troubled about anything.

But a little later, after their mother had left the room, Lucian drew his chair nearer Martine's and began to talk in an undertone.

"You are right, Martine," he said, "I am troubled. I have something serious to say."

Martine's heart beat nervously. She knew that boys in college sometimes did things that they should not do. Lucian had several friends of whom she did not approve. Into what mischief might they not lead him?

"Tell me the worst, Lucian," she said sympathetically. "If it's stealing signs or doing any of those ridiculous Med. Fac. things, of course you were very silly. But I'll help you out if I can, without telling mother, and I'll lend you money, though I have only a very little bit of my own. I am paying for my clothes out of my allowance this spring. And you know I never used to do that."

"Oh, your money wouldn't help, Martine; it isn't that."

"Well, whatever it is, we'll keep it from mother; she certainly isn't as well as when she first came to Boston."

"I know that," responded Lucian, "and that's the worst of this whole business. You see, it's this, Martine. Father's business is all at sixes and sevens and I had the queerest letter from him this morning; I can hardly make head or tail of it."

Martine took the thin sheet of letter paper from Lucian's hand; the wording was incoherent.

"Why, it doesn't sound like father," she exclaimed, "and what queer, trembling handwriting. I am afraid that he is sick. And if he has lost his money as he says, what are we to do?"

"I haven't an idea in the world. This knocks me all to pieces," and Lucian leaned his head on his hands, the picture of bewilderment.

"We ought to tell mother," Martine's voice trembled, "but perhaps we might as well wait another day; perhaps we can think of some one to advise us, or perhaps some plan will come to us in the night."

"Very well," responded Lucian, "but I can't stay here long and pretend to be cheerful; I'll get out to Cambridge as quickly as I can."

"Lucian made a short stay," said Mrs. Stratford when Martine told her that he had gone. "I agree with you that he is troubled about something. Perhaps he told you what it was."

"Yes," said Martine, "he did give me an idea of it."

Then Mrs. Stratford, knowing that it was not wise to interfere in the confidences of brother and sister, to Martine's relief asked no questions. The next day, however, the secret came out in part at least. Mrs. Stratford received a cable from Rio Janeiro. Its few words carried volumes of trouble. Mr. Stratford was ill, very ill; could some of his family come to him at once? Mrs. Stratford recognized the name of the one who had sent the cable; he was a man with whom her husband had long had business transactions. He would not have cabled unless her husband's condition were really serious. The telephone soon brought Lucian to the house.

"There is only one thing," said Lucian; "by taking the afternoon express I can reach New York this evening, sail by a quick boat to-morrow for England, and go on as soon as possible to Rio Janeiro."

"But we don't know anything about the sailings of the Brazilian boats."

"No matter, mother, the sooner I reach England, the sooner I'll reach Brazil. I must go back to Cambridge now, throw a few things into a steamer trunk, and then, good-bye."

"Oh, Lucian, what a help you are. At first I thought there was no one who could go. I will go down town at once and get a draft for you and meet you at the station; that will be better than stopping here on your way from Cambridge."

These hasty plans were carried out exactly.

"Everything is so hurried," complained Martine, "that I haven't had time yet to cry."

"I have cabled to Rio Janeiro," said Mrs. Stratford, "to cable our bankers in London, if—if—anything happens."

"Oh, nothing will happen," said Lucian cheerfully, "nothing serious, I mean. Only I am sure that it is wise for me to go, for father will need me to help him come home. And now good-bye."

So mother and daughter parted with Lucian, and after this one exciting day, things settled down into their accustomed round. Within a week of Lucian's sailing Mrs. Stratford heard by cable that her husband was no worse.

"It does not say 'better'," she murmured.

"But 'no worse' is better than nothing," said Martine.

"When we consider how little Lucian was here with us, it is strange," said Martine one day, "that we should miss him so. Poor boy, I am sorry that I teased him so about his finals. I am sure that he would rather be in Cambridge working for dear life than tossing about on the ocean, not knowing what news he may hear at the end of his journey. But there's one thing, he rose to the occasion, and I'm so thankful that he has really grown up."

In spite of the anxiety of mother and daughter, each for the sake of the other tried to be cheerful. Martine, until the first of June, was fully occupied with school. Priscilla and her more intimate friends sympathized deeply with her when they heard of her father's illness. Letters from others came to them gradually, and some of Mr. Stratford's business associates were frank with Mrs. Stratford when she asked their opinion on her husband's affairs. One day she called Martine to her for a frank talk.

"It is evident," she said, "that we must live at the very smallest possible expense for the next few months. I am going to send the cook away at the end of the present week; now that your school is ending, you will not object to supplementing Angelina's work. Angelina sees something dramatic in what she calls 'our fallen fortunes.' She is delighted to be considered housemaid and cook combined. She tells me that I am not to lift my hand, but wear my prettiest dresses all the time so that there'll be one lady in the house, while you and she are doing the work."

"Well, really," cried Martine, "it's a little too much for her to put me immediately on her own level."

"Oh, she doesn't mean it in that way; in fact, what she said was intended only to make me comfortable. If I were a little stronger I would plan to stay in Boston all summer, but I've had a talk with the doctor and he tells me that I need a complete change. We cannot afford any extravagance this summer, and only one plan suggests itself to me."

"What is it, mamma?"

"Simply this. A few years ago, when your father and I were at York Harbor, we fell in love with a little red farm-house that stood on a knoll commanding a view of the sea. We had no particular object in buying it, the land belonging to it was limited, but I had an idea that sometime perhaps we might build a house there. It is quite outside the fashionable section, yet not very far from the electric cars, and the house is in pretty good repair."

"Does any one live there?"

"Well, that is the curious part of it; the owner was an old woman and we let her stay on there, rent free, on condition that she should keep the little garden planted and let us know when any repairs were needed. Last September she died and the house has been unoccupied this winter; it seems to me that this would be an ideal place for us this summer. Even if I were able to stay in the city, I should not approve of your doing so. You need the out-door life to which you are accustomed. We could take enough of our small belongings with us to make the cottage comfortable and homelike. Angelina would be quite equal to the work."

"With my help," interrupted Martine gayly.

"Yes, with your help; and I know you can be very helpful, Martine, when you wish. What do you think of my plan?"

"I think it's perfectly splendid," replied Martine. "I've often heard of York Harbor. Peggy Pratt used to talk about it. I think her family has a cottage there."

"Of course," continued Mrs. Stratford, "you must remember that we shall live very quietly there; for the present I feel that we have no income coming in. We must live on the little money that I have saved until we know just where your father's business stands. Besides, until we know that he is really well, we are under a shadow. At any moment we may hear the worst news, and that, if nothing else, would lead us to live quietly."

"Of course, mamma, of course I understand this perfectly. I have no wish for gayety; really I would rather live quietly. I am so glad that I got only one silk gown, instead of the three I intended. And, luckily, I haven't given away many of my last summer's clothes; so I shall be all fitted out without any expense."

"There, there," cried Mrs. Stratford, "don't think too much about economy—or clothes; we shall do very well, even as things are, if only we hear good news from South America."

It was now June. Priscilla had gone home. Martine's other friends had left the city for the North Shore or the mountains. Some of Lucian's friends in Cambridge dropped in occasionally, and Amy and Mrs. Redmond were as devoted as ever. Amy, however, was very busy with the many duties and pleasures of a Wellesley Senior when Commencement is only a few weeks away. Of all the invitations that she showered on Martine for the various festivities that Wellesley offers in June, Martine accepted only the one that took her to Wellesley Float Day.

"As long as I live," she said afterwards, "I shall never forget the beautiful twilight on the lake, the boats gliding about so mysteriously and gracefully, the music floating over the water, the lights that bathed everything in glory; no, I never expect to see anything more beautiful of its kind," she added mischievously, as a kind of anti-climax, lest Amy, who was listening to her, should be too proud of her college.

But as the long June days wore away, Martine had little time for anything outside her home; she could not deny the fact that her mother was growing paler and thinner. Mrs. Stratford, looking anxiously at Martine, saw a certain change in her daughter.

"The sooner we get away, the better; Martine is worrying about her father, and will not tell me. A change of air and scene will benefit her. I wish that we had not undertaken to have the cottage painted. The last week in June seems too far away."

In their trouble, Martine and her mother were not neglected by their friends. They had not many near relatives, yet invitations came to them from the cousins in New York, from other cousins in Chicago and even from Mrs. Blair; but mother and daughter both preferred the independence that they would find in their cottage at York to the formality of visiting even the best intentioned friends and relatives.

"You may have visitors of your own part of the summer," said Mrs. Stratford. "We shall have at least one spare room in the cottage, and when things are running smoothly there'll be no reason why you should not have Priscilla with you."

"That reminds me," said Martine, "that I've never told you that Mrs. Tilworth and I have really made up. You know she was rather frigid towards me for several weeks this spring; but after my return from Plymouth she told Priscilla that she had changed her mind about me. It seems that I made a great impression on Mr. Stacy during my holidays, and Mr. Stacy, it also seems, is the one person for whose opinion Mrs. Tilworth has an especial regard; consequently Mrs. Tilworth is inclined to accept Mr. Stacy's estimate of me and for the present the war between us is at an end."

"War between you! My dear child, I should be very sorry indeed had there been such a state of affairs; I think myself that you and Priscilla have always been a little wrong in your opinion of Priscilla's aunt."

THE MISSING TRUNK

It was the Thursday before Class Day, a clear morning, almost cool, with just a suggestion of coming warmth in the air. Martine sank into a chair by the open window, and gazed over the tops of the trees at the long vista of the Avenue. Not for a moment would she have admitted that she was tired, and yet there was a trace of weariness in the sigh with which she sank back in the comfortable easy chair.

As a matter of fact she had been working with a degree of energy that she had seldom shown before. Martine had never been accused of laziness, even in her idler days, yet her energy had never been expended in the prosaic realm of household work. But now the situation was changed, and for the past week she had worked unremittingly, packing, clearing, doing all kinds of little things that would simplify the departure for York a week later. Angelina, it is true, had helped her to the best of her ability, and had even succeeded in subduing some of her own natural flightiness. She was proud of her present position as sole assistant in the little household, and the prospect of continued hard work during the summer in no way troubled her.

If Martine was weary on this particular morning, her weariness was tempered with satisfaction. Everything had gone so smoothly that she would be able to enjoy Class Day without disagreeable remembrances of things left undone.

While she sat by the window, thoroughly enjoying her well-earned rest, she was startled for a moment by feeling two soft hands clasped over her eyes. Before she had had time to wonder long, a soft laugh told her who the newcomer was.

"Why, Elinor Naylor, where in the world—"

"Straight from Bar Harbor," said Elinor, answering the unfinished question, "that is, we arrived early last evening, and I've come here directly from the hotel. Kate Starkweather's brother has a large spread to-morrow, and though I had not intended to come, mamma thinks I ought to see at least one Harvard Class Day—and so here I am."

For a few moments the two talked as rapidly as friends will who have not seen each other for weeks. Elinor told her Class Day plans, and tried to arrange to meet Martine after the statue exercises.

"I do not expect to see very much of Class Day," said Martine, "it would be different if Lucian were here. I am going with Amy to Fritz Tomkins' spread, and to the Pudding because Hazen Andrews is in it. His mother is one of mamma's friends in Chicago. Mrs. Blair thinks I ought to wait until I am eighteen before going at all. But mamma is not so conventional, and she said I might."

"I suppose you are very busy," said Elinor, as she rose to go. "So I hesitate to ask a favor."

"Ask it," cried Martine. "I am not half as busy as I was yesterday. I am sure you won't ask anything I cannot do."

"It's only this," continued Elinor. "My trunk hadn't come this morning, and we could get no information when we telephoned. It would be simply awful if it shouldn't arrive in time for me to go to the Senior spread. Kate and I put our things into the one trunk, and I can't understand why it hasn't come. We gave our checks to an expressman at the station. If only I knew the city a little better, I'd go down town, and find out what has happened to it."

"There," exclaimed Martine, laughing, "Your favor is a very simple one. You would like me to pilot you about—with the greatest pleasure."

"I feared you might be too busy," and Elinor glanced around the room, with its half-filled boxes, and books piled on tables, waiting to be packed.

"I should do little more to-day. My mother is staying with friends in Brookline over Sunday. Angelina is out just now, but I'll leave word with the elevator-boy that I'll be back by one."

Martine was soon ready, and after one more vain effort to learn something by telephone about the trunk, the two set out for the downtown express office. There they were equally unsuccessful, and so continued their journey to the great North Station.

The baggage-master was a trifle impatient. It was a warm day, and a busy season, but the two young girls and their evident anxiety appealed to him.

"It's up to the Express Company," he said at last, "to give you your trunk. I have made a careful search, and no trunk with the number on your claim-check is here. You will find it probably at the hotel. I would advise you to go back."

"You are sure it isn't here?" asked Martine.

"Perfectly sure."

"I know it isn't at the hotel. But of course I can ask again," said Elinor. "I am awfully sorry to have brought you on this wild-goose chase, Martine, we might as well turn about now. The whole thing is very queer."

It seemed queerer when no search, no enquiries produced the missing trunk. One thing only was clear. There was a record that it had been taken from the station. It was perfectly evident that it had not been delivered at the hotel, where, strangely enough, the trunk belonging to Kate's aunt had arrived safely.

"It was a large steamer trunk," said Elinor with a sigh, "but small enough for thieves to carry away. I suppose they took it from the back of the wagon. You shouldn't have thieves in Boston."

"Probably they came from some other city. Philadelphia possibly," retorted Martine. Then, as quickly, "Excuse me Elinor, I did not really mean that. What a pity you and I are not the same size. I would gladly lend you anything of mine you could wear."

"Oh—no—" responded Elinor, "I am sure nothing of yours would fit me. You are so much taller and thinner. Short and dumpy people like me never can wear other people's clothes. It won't be so bad for Kate, when I break the news to her."

"But what will you do?"

"We must go out at once and buy gowns and hats. I begrudge the money just now. Kate won't mind, nor her aunt. They love to spend money for clothes, and can afford anything. I have to be more careful; but after coming so far—I can't be cheated out of Class Day, and this grey gown and dark hat would be utterly out of place."

"Not so very long ago I should have thought it great fun to buy a whole outfit on the spur of the moment," responded Martine, "but the past few weeks I have grown so economical that it seems extravagant to buy anything one doesn't need."

"But I certainly need a muslin gown and a hat, a fan, a parasol, light shoes—"

"There, there, let me lend you a parasol, fan, and some of the other things that don't have to be made to order. Also I have a lovely hat that would fit you like the paper on the wall, if you would borrow it. Please say yes."

With some protests Elinor accepted Martine's offer, and after luncheon, accompanied by Kate and her aunt, they set out for the most fashionable outfitter's. Kate, with Mrs. Starkweather's approval, unrestricted in the matter of money, soon chose a costume complete in every detail. Elinor, wishing to spend less, had greater difficulty in suiting herself.

"By six o'clock surely," said the obliging saleswoman, "everything shall be ready. Two or three workwomen will at once be set on the alterations. This is a special case, and we are glad to do all we can to oblige you."

"Now Elinor, come back with me," urged Martine, "we have half the afternoon before us, and we might as well have a good long talk."

"That will suit me very well. Mrs. Starkweather and Kate have to stay in to see callers. You will not care," she concluded turning to her friends, "if I stay with Martine until five. She is going to lend me a hat, and fan, and other things."

"Provided you return to the hotel by five, you may go with Martine now. We are greatly obliged for your assistance," and Mrs. Starkweather shook hands cordially with the young girl.

The apartment seemed cool and pleasant to the two friends, as they entered it, and Martine sank down in a little willow chair with a sigh of relief.

"Angelina," she called, "Angelina!"

In a moment Angelina stood before her.

"Bring me the large hat-box from my closet, please."

"Certainly, Miss Martine."

"It's handsomer than my own," exclaimed Elinor, as Martine lifted the large white hat from the box, and set it on her friend's head.

"It suits you perfectly. I am so glad I have it!"

Martine did not explain that this was the hat she had herself meant to wear Class Day, and that her second best was not nearly as becoming. Martine was not vain, and it really pleased her that she had something to offer Elinor. The fan, parasol, and other little accessories were quickly chosen from Martine's abundant store, and then the two girls sat down for the promised long talk.

"I know you'll like York," said Elinor. "Every one does."

"Oh,—I dare say,—I remember Peggy Pratt at school was always talking about it. But of course I am not going for fun, and we are to live in the littlest bit of a house, with only Angelina for maid, and I shall hardly have a cent to spend."

"I know, I know," responded Elinor gently, "but spending money is not everything, you can enjoy so many things without it."

"Oh, I dare say, but money helps. You and Kate would have had to give up your Class Day, or wear unsuitable clothes, if you hadn't had money to buy new outfits to-day. Still, I like the idea of the little cottage, and helping mother, and if father only comes back safely, I sha'n't care if we haven't a penny in the world."

"You must have had rather hard work packing up," said Elinor sympathetically; "I suppose Angelina has been more hindrance than help."

"Oh, no—she has surprised us all by taking a real interest. I asked her if she wouldn't rather have a different kind of place for the summer. 'What an idea!' she replied. 'I love hard work when I can get all the credit for it. Wild horses wouldn't keep me away from York. Besides, your mother has got so used to my Spanish flavoring that her health would suffer if I should leave.'"

"She's a case," commented Elinor, "but tell me, is it true that you might have visited Mrs. Stanley at Bar Harbor this summer?"

"Oh, she's papa's cousin," rejoined Martine, "and she did invite me. But of course I had no intention of leaving mamma, even if I had been in the mood for a gay place like Mt. Desert. She has been growing paler and thinner, all the spring, and though she might have boarded in some quiet spot, she just couldn't have got along without me."

"Of course not."

"She thought I could accept the invitation for August, but this was out of the question. I doubt that I should have gone out to Cambridge to-morrow, if I hadn't seen that mother would be disappointed if I gave that up. There will be other Class Days, and I can wait. But it isn't as if I had to buy anything—a muslin that I had made in the winter is just the thing, and I haven't had to bother."

"You are very sweet, Martine, about everything, and so different from what I thought of you that day we ran into each other at the car. Didn't I seem a little hateful when we were first introduced at Mrs. Weston's luncheon?"

"Oh—no—only a little stiff, but that was natural, when you think of our first meeting," and Martine laughed at the remembrance. "I can't imagine you out of temper, since I have really known you."

"Not even to-day?"

"To-day?"

"Why, I have been feeling particularly savage about my trunk. You must have noticed how I spoke to the man in the express office."

"He deserved it, but really I didn't notice anything of that kind. You were really polite, considering you had lost a trunk."

"It is really a loss," responded Elinor, "even to Kate, and I wish that some one could explain what happened to it."

"It may simply be mislaid. Ten to one it may turn up to-morrow."

"Oh, I hope not. That would be exasperating, after all the trouble we have had to-day. I would almost rather that the trunk should stay lost. Then we could bring suit for damages."

"You can generally get only a hundred dollars on a single trunk, at least I remember hearing papa say that was all railroads would pay," said Martine sagely, "and what would that be among two?"

"You shouldn't have put all your eggs in one basket."

Elinor and Martine started at the sound of a strange voice, but looking up they saw Angelina standing at the door leading toward the dining-room. She had used a curious falsetto with which at times she liked to experiment.

"I just meant to remind you it's half-past four, and I heard Miss Elinor say she must be back at the hotel by five. You've just barely time, and if you please I'll carry the boxes for you."

Thus Angelina turned aside the reproof that might have been given her for listening at the door.

CLASS DAY

At the breakfast-table Class Day morning, Martine found an envelope addressed in Elinor's neat handwriting.

"You just must come with us," she read, as she broke the seal; "I had only half as good a time as I might have had last night, thinking of you. There must have been crowds of people you knew there. Kate's brother brought us four tickets for everything—even for Sanders Theatre this morning. So please be ready at ten. Telephone. Hastily, Elinor."

Martine, glancing at the clock, made a rapid calculation. In no way could she double the hours between eight o'clock and one, and she had a morning's work to do before she could rightfully set out on a pleasure-trip.

"Angelina," she called, "please go to the telephone. Call up Miss Naylor, and say that I cannot go with her this morning. Tell her, please, that I will meet her as we agreed in the afternoon."

For a moment Angelina did not move. Telephoning was one of her delights, and Martine wondered why she stood rooted to the spot.

Angelina, however, quickly explained herself.

"Oh, Miss Martine," she cried, "I hate to give a message like that. You just ought to go off and have a good time. It isn't right for you to slave and slave, and you younger than me."

Martine smiled at Angelina's lugubrious expression. She did not wish the latter to see that she was a little downcast at the thought of the quiet morning at home.

"Go, Angelina," she cried, "run quickly; it's a hot day, and I'm thankful enough that I can stay home until noon. Don't wait for an answer. Simply leave the message for Miss Elinor."

Martine's tone was so positive that Angelina had no choice but to obey, and when she returned, Martine was on her knees packing one of her mother's trunks.

"Angelina," she explained, "we have only this morning and to-morrow for the rest of our packing, for I have promised to spend Sunday with the Strothers' in Brookline, where mamma is. You are to go to Shiloh late Saturday afternoon, and on Monday morning you and I must be here promptly at nine, to send off the trunks and boxes. Mamma will stop here with Mrs. Strothers on her way to the station to see that everything is left in perfect condition. So even if we work with all our might this morning we shall barely get through in time."

"There's another helper coming," murmured Angelina.

"Oh, yes, a scrub-woman, who couldn't do the least little thing to help pack the trunks. But hurry with the dishes, Angelina, for you can be a lot of use."

Though she spoke briskly, Martine felt a little depressed—for Martine.

As she lifted trunk-trays, and folded skirts, and packed things in little boxes, she could not help thinking how much pleasanter it would be to spend the morning in Sander's Theatre, listening to witty speeches, or later walking about the college grounds, with Elinor and Kate and half a dozen attendant undergraduates.

"If only mother hadn't been sick—"

Then she suppressed the thought, ashamed of her own selfishness.

At twelve o'clock she glanced around the room with undisguised satisfaction.

"There, Angelina, we can easily finish to-morrow. Only two trunks and one box left, and some little odds and ends to do at the last moment. Oh, dear, I must get away quickly—the rooms look so bare."

The fatigue that Martine had hardly before admitted to herself, almost overcame her while she was dressing. Bending, climbing, wielding a hammer, undoubtedly strengthen the muscles in the long run. Yet the process of muscle-building is often accompanied by sensations that an amateur athlete might pardonably call "weariness."

Consequently, Martine must not be blamed if for a moment her spirit weakened as she looked at the white gown that Angelina had spread out for her on the divan.

"I can't go," she said; "I am too tired. I ought to have waited for Lucian's Class Day, and if he is never to have a Class Day—why, then I am never to have any fun. If we are so poor that he cannot finish college, then I shall be too poor to go to parties—or—or anything."

There is nothing worse for a girl's spirits than self-pity. As Martine bent over the dress on the divan, a big tear splashed on one end of the silk sash. This was followed by a second tear, and then the absurdity of the situation produced the rainbow. The rainbow in this case was the smile that flashed amid the tears, the smile that made the tears seem absolutely absurd as Martine caught sight of herself in the glass.

"What a baby I am! Here I am going to join two of my best friends who have promised me a splendid time, and just because I am a little tired, I feel as if the world were falling to pieces."

A cool bath—an hour of leisurely dressing—a few compliments from Angelina—and Martine was herself again.

She knew that her mother would not altogether approve of her going alone to Cambridge, and she regretted that she had not allowed Amy to send some one for her, as at first she had suggested.

Just as she was wondering whether, if she could afford a carriage, her mother would approve of her driving to Cambridge alone, she heard Angelina's—

"Walk in, please. Yes, ma'am, she hasn't gone yet," and then she recognized the pleasant voice of Mrs. Redmond, saying,—

"Tell her she need not hurry. I can wait."

"But I can't wait—not a single minute," and Martine, rushing from the little bedroom, almost flung herself into Mrs. Redmond's arms.

"There, there, my dear child—it's a warm day, and our clothes—"

"Will not stand crushing. I know it, and how sweet you look in that soft gray. But I thought you were at Cambridge."

"Oh, no, I was not invited to the feast of reason this morning. I am going out merely for the frivolities of the afternoon. I forgot to write you that I had promised your mother I would call for you. I realized my oversight only as I started. Perhaps you have made other plans?"

"I have been too busy for plans. Mamma forgot to tell me you were coming. An hour ago I thought I was too busy to go to Cambridge, but now—it just delights me to think of going with you."

The ride in an open car over the long bridge soothed Martine. She almost forgot that she had been tired. When Mrs. Redmond drew from her the story of her recent responsibilities, the young girl made light of the difficulties that had beset her. She was always happy with Mrs. Redmond, and the latter's quick understanding of her present trials lessened the trials themselves.

When they reached Harvard Square, Martine's spirits rose.

"There's no doubt I love a crowd," she said. "This makes me think of a country fair, only the people are better dressed, and there are no fakirs."

"My dear child—a country fair!"

"I mean the atmosphere is somewhat the same—oh, there are Amy and Fritz."

Somewhere from the crowd pouring out from one of the smaller college gates, Amy and Fritz were approaching the spot on the sidewalk where Martine and Mrs. Redmond were standing.

"I am delighted to see you, children," said Mrs. Redmond. "I was secretly wondering where we should go next—to Fritz' rooms or to the Pudding."

"Oh, to the Pudding at once," responded Fritz; "you are none too early. As for Amy—"

"I shall never dare look a strawberry in the face again. Early as it is, I have already eaten so many, and, oh, mamma, it is all so delightful. Fritz and I have already been at the Pudding, and now we'll go back with you."

At this point Mrs. Redmond interfered. She assured Fritz that she and Martine were quite able to take care of themselves.

"It is the Senior's day," she said; "and Martine and I are here only incidentally. One of us is too old, and the other too young—almost too young—to be exacting about Class Day. Martine's best time will come when Lucian graduates."

"Run, Amy," exclaimed Martine. "It's delightful to see you and Mr. Tomkins getting on so well. You usually try to send him away somewhere; but now you are ready to go where he goes, and so your mother and I won't detain you for even a minute."

"Let us hurry, then," said Amy, turning to Fritz. "If Martine is in one of her mischievous moods, we cannot tell when she will stop teasing."

"At my rooms at four," cried Fritz, as he and Amy left the others at the entrance to the Pudding spread.

From this moment for the rest of the day, Martine not only forgot that she was tired, but her recent troubles seemed altogether of the past. In spite of the great crowd, a number of her Chicago friends found Martine in the corner where Mrs. Redmond made her sit. It is true that she had not even a word with Hazen Andrews, her special host, who, like most Seniors, was thoroughly occupied looking after relatives and the girls of the older set, to which Martine did not belong.

She had not many friends among the Seniors, though two or three in their flowing gowns, mortar-boards in their hands, came up to speak to her or Mrs. Redmond.

"Isn't it fun?" cried Martine to the latter. "It's like taking a journey somewhere, and running upon all kinds of people that one hasn't seen for a long time—only one seldom sees so many persons one knows on a single journey."

Promptly at four o'clock Mrs. Redmond and Martine met Amy and a number of her friends at Fritz' rooms, and together they all went over to the Memorial delta where the statue exercises were held.

"It's dazzling!" cried Martine, looking about at the tiers and tiers of gayly dressed girls and women; "only more beautiful than a flower garden, because it's more alive, this garden of people. I wish we could see Elinor here."

"My dear little girl, this is a great pleasure," said a voice at Martine's elbow, and turning to the left, to her great surprise, Martine found her neighbor to be a Chicago friend of her father.

"Didn't know I was an old Harvard man! Well, the West does take the starch of culture out of us. I'm going down there among the graduates after a while. I'm holding these seats for my niece and a friend, who thought they could never find it unless I was here as a landmark. They failed to meet me, as people always fail on Class Day. Let me see, Lucian doesn't graduate this year?"

"No, he isn't in Cambridge; he has gone to join father."

"Yes, yes, of course; this has been a hard year for your father."

The tears came to Martine's eyes.

"Bless my soul, child, don't cry. It's coming out all right. Everyone must have some business cares, and up to the present your father has been remarkably successful. But money isn't everything!"

"That's just it," responded Martine. "The money doesn't matter at all—to me. But we are afraid that father is breaking down—that's why Lucian has gone to South America; and we can't hear for some time just how things are."

"Well, well! I didn't realize that things were going so badly—at least you must think they are going badly, or you wouldn't look downcast. A bright girl like you should always look on the bright side of things. But so far as your father's business is concerned, I may tell you that it is likely to take a turn for the better—at present I am not at liberty to say more. It's this news about his health that troubles me. Let me know what you hear from Lucian."

Mr. Gamut's words were more cheering than anything Martine had heard for weeks, and in the few minutes that intervened before the arrival of his niece, he told her a number of interesting stories about earlier Class Days.

"This is a larger gathering, this crowd around the statue, than we used to see at the tree. But give me the tree, and the wreath, and the wild scramble, and the torn flowers that the boys were almost ready to stake their lives for! Sometimes I am afraid we are making everything too refined; a little rough and tumble is good even for the most cultivated students. This confetti!—no, I don't care for it."

Mr. Gamut, on the arrival of his niece, departed to his place among the graduates. The niece was a girl whom Martine had known slightly at home. She had recently come from Chicago, and in consequence, was able to tell Martine various bits of news, which, if not important, at least had some interest for one away from home.

After the mass of students had marched into the enclosure, and had given all the regulation Harvard cheers, Martine felt herself thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the day. She listened intently to the cheers, hummed the air of "Johnny Harvard" while the students sang it. When her own stock of confetti was exhausted, she helped Mrs. Redmond throw hers in the direction of Fritz.

"It's the prettiest sight I ever saw," she cried. "This wonderful shimmering network of ribbons—it's as if we had been caught in a rainbow—and if we were only a little farther away from people, they would seem like real fairies. Oh, I am glad I came!"

"I am glad that you are cheerful again," whispered Mrs. Redmond. "For a moment to-day, I feared that you were going to be blue."

"Well, it was only for a moment. Now I feel happy—almost as happy as Amy. Come, Amy dear, Fritz will never find you in this crowd. Let us return to his rooms as quickly as we can. The sooner we are there, the sooner we shall go on to the spread."

How Priscilla would have shuddered at the teasing tone that Martine used in addressing Amy. Even though she now understood Martine so much better than formerly, and, indeed, really loved her, Priscilla could not accustom herself to Martine's frivolity of speech and manner toward Amy. Fortunately for her own feelings, Priscilla was safely at Plymouth at this particular moment, and Amy, whom Martine never offended, only smiled indulgently at the younger girl.

They had not long to wait at Fritz' pleasant rooms before he appeared, flushed and triumphant, accompanied by two or three friends.

"Wasn't it fine? We managed to bring you a few sprays of flowers. The bevy of beauty on the seats above almost blinded us. But for that we might have done better, although I can tell you, no one else got more; and we fairly had to fight our way out. Now we are ready to share our trophies. This for you, Amy, and Barton—yours, I believe, are for Miss Martine; but I forget, you have never met. Mr. Barton, Miss Stratford—I always forget that the men I know do not always know the girls I know. But now, Barton, you will escort Mrs. Redmond and Miss Martine to our humble spread—and Helmer—ah, here they are—Miss Naylor, Miss Starkweather—let me present Barton and Helmer, and Jack Underwood. Now we can start—I thought your aunt was coming—ah! lost?"

"Of course she isn't lost, Kate," interposed the practical Elinor. "I am sure that I hear her on the stairs." And to prove that Elinor was right, a moment later the elder Miss Starkweather came panting into the room.

"You should have waited for me, girls; I had such a fright—I was sure you were lost!"

"Not lost—only gone before," interrupted Fritz. "I am sorry I shocked you, Amy," he whispered, catching her look of reproof. "Let us hurry on, ahead of the others."

Martine, walking with Fritz' friend, Barton, across the college yard, felt quite in her element. The young man was by no means bashful, and in a few moments the two were deep in a lively conversation. Martine's fatigue had passed away. Family trials were forgotten.

Fritz Tomkins had united with four or five of his friends in giving a large spread in one of the modern halls outside the yard.

Secretly Martine thought the affair conventional, "like any afternoon tea, with flowers on the table, and candelabra, and all the fashionable bonbons."

"But you wouldn't see so many men at a mere tea, truly I think it's great fun," said the staid Elinor, snuggling into a corner beside Martine. "At the next game I shall hardly know what side I am on. I like Harvard so well, and your hat, Martine, the one I am wearing, you can't imagine how many compliments it has had. You were altogether too good to let me have it. Do you suppose I shall ever find that trunk?"

Before Martine could reply, some one came to carry Elinor off for a walk. Martine, left to herself, eagerly watched everything around her.

"I wonder why Fritz pays more attention to Amy than to anyone else. He sees so much of her always that I should think to-day he'd look after other people. Now, I'm sure Amy isn't sentimental."

But just at this moment, Martine caught an expression on Fritz' face as he turned toward Amy that set her thinking. Rising to her feet, she hurried toward Mrs. Redmond.

"Tell me, please, how late you mean to stay. It's dark now, and the lanterns in the yard must be lit. I'd like to see the illumination, and hear the Glee Club sing, but I ought to be home by nine, please. I have a busy day before me."

"Just as you wish, my dear. I will speak to Amy."

A moment later, Amy, Fritz, and Elinor surrounded Martine, protesting against her departure, urging her to go with them to Memorial, to return with them to Fritz' rooms, to watch the illuminations; in short, to do anything but go home.

Martine, however, was firm, and when she started off for the yard with Mrs. Redmond, Mr. Barton went with them.

"It is a glimpse of fairyland," said Martine, as they strolled about through the crowd. "Why do these lines of lanterns make the yard look ten times its usual size? Why do these red lights make every one seem beautiful? Why—"

"Let me continue," interrupted Emmons Barton. "Why won't you come over to Memorial? Why must you hurry home?"

"Because I am Cinderella," responded Martine gayly. "Because I should hate to lose my glass slipper. Come, Mrs. Redmond, I am sure our car is waiting, if Mr. Barton will only find it for us."