"And so," Molly went on, "we'll just get rid of her and do the work ourselves. I've always been dying to try it, and this is a splendid chance. We won't do much sweeping and dusting, for it will only be for a day or two—How long was she going to be gone, Polly?"
"A week," answered Polly briefly.
"A whole week!" Molly's face fell. Then she resumed, "Well, we shall get on, in some way or other."
"We needn't do much but get the meals and wash the dishes," said
Polly, with renewed courage.
"We shouldn't have time, if we wanted to," returned Molly. "Now,
Polly, the question is: how much do you know about cooking?"
"Not very much," Polly confessed. "I can boil eggs and make toast, and I have made coffee, once or twice, just for fun."
"That's good," said Molly enthusiastically; "you're a treasure, Polly. I can do codfish and milk, and make molasses candy, and fry griddle-cakes. We shan't have such a bad time, after all."
"We have ever so many cook-books," suggested Polly. "Can't we do something with them?"
"I'm afraid they'd be tough, unless we boiled them a good while," giggled Molly. "But really, Poll, we can work out of them; try lots of new things, you know, to astonish your father. What does he like?"
"Welsh rarebit," responded Polly promptly; "and baked macaroni, and lemon pudding, and—"
"Not too much, Polly; we can't do all that at once. We'll try something new every meal. Oh, say! don't let's tell your father Mary has gone. We'll have dinner all ready when he comes, and not let him know that we cooked it ourselves, until he's eaten it. Then we'll tell him and surprise him."
"Well," assented Polly, with a vague misgiving that her father might discover the change of cook; "I think it will be fun, Molly; and then, if we get hard up, there are plenty of crackers and preserves to fall back on."
"We shan't want them," said Molly scornfully. "I know we shall have a great deal better things to eat than if Mary stayed. Servant girls are so unreliable!" she added, with a whimsical imitation of Aunt Jane's manner.
"I'll tell you one thing," said Polly, with decision, "we must not tell the girls or Alan, for if they knew about it, they would invite themselves to meals. If we cook for us three, that is all we can do."
"What if they come here to see us?" asked Molly.
"We'll lock the door and hide," replied Polly inhospitably. "There are times when company is a nuisance,—I don't mean you, Molly, for you are head housekeeper, and I couldn't get along without you. But come, we'll go up and put our room in order, while we are waiting for her to get out of the way."
At this very moment Mrs. Adams, one hundred and fifty miles away, was congratulating herself that she had left her little daughter with such a competent servant who, though far from amiable, yet was quite capable of taking the entire charge of the house during her absence. Perhaps it was just as well that she was not within hearing of the conversation which the girls had just been holding.
CHAPTER VII.
POLLY'S HOUSEKEEPING.
"I'm going now, miss," remarked Mary's voice at the foot of the front stairs.
"Go on, then," said Polly, with dignity, turning to Molly to add, "She wouldn't dare do that if mamma were here. Then she never thinks of calling to us, like this."
Peeping stealthily out at the front window, the girls watched her as she walked off, dressed in her state and festival suit. Then they descended to the kitchen to survey their field of operations.
"She's left it in splendid order, and there's a hot fire; that's one good thing," said Polly, lifting the stove lid to look in.
"With a fire and a cook-book, we can work wonders," said Molly.
"Now, Polly, let's plan."
"All right." And Polly sat down on the wood-box. "What shall we have for lunch? That comes first."
"I'll tell you," suggested Molly suddenly, as if struck with a brilliant idea; "let's not have much for lunch. Your father won't be here, so we can eat up whatever was left over from breakfast, and have all our time for the dinner."
"But 'tisn't time to get dinner now; it's only eleven o'clock," said Polly.
"Yes, it is time," returned Molly. "I want to try a lemon pudding for dessert, if he likes them, and it takes ever so much time, I know. We must feed him up well, so he won't look thin to your mother when, she gets back."
"Let's see how the oven is," said Polly, pulling open the door and peering in. "It feels nice and warm, so perhaps we'd better go to work."
"Where are your cook-books?" demanded Molly.
"Here." And Polly brought out a number of books and pamphlets. "We ought to find a rule in some of these."
Molly possessed herself of the largest.
"'Marion Holland'—no, 'Harland,'" she read. "Oh, I've heard of her! I'll look in this, and you take another. Let's see, where's the index? 'Soups—fish—poultry—meats—company.' Oh, where is it? 'Eggs—cake.' That sounds like it. 'Servants—puddings.' At last! 'Apple—cottage—cracker—lemon.' Here are two lemon puddings, Polly." And Molly glanced up to see Polly, with an anxious frown, reading intently from her own small book. She looked up, in her turn, to answer,—
"Here's another, so you read yours and then I'll read mine, and we'll see which we like best."
"'One cup of sugar, four eggs, two tablespoons cornstarch, two lemons, one pint milk, one tablespoon butter,'" read Molly. "You get your milk hot and put in the starch and boil five minutes— Oh, there's a lot more to do! Just see here."
Both heads were bent over the book. Then Polly exclaimed,—
"Mine is easier, I know. Listen: 'A quarter of a pound of suet, half a pound of bread crumbs, four ounces of sugar, the juice of two lemons, the grated rind of one, and one egg. Boil it well in an Agate pot, and serve with sauce.'"
There was an expressive pause.
"Yours is better, after all," said Polly. "I don't know what suet is, but I don't believe we have any; and besides, it's ever so much easier to measure cups than pounds."
The girls enveloped themselves in gingham aprons and set to work. Polly rummaged in store-room and pantry, and brought out the necessary materials for the pudding, while Molly measured and mixed.
"Polly," she called suddenly, in a tone of distress. Polly put her head out from the pantry. Her face was decorated with coal-dust from the stove and flour from the barrel, but she was too intent upon her work to care for that.
"Well," she asked, "what's the matter?"
"There isn't enough cornstarch," said Molly, showing the empty paper.
"How much more do you need?" asked Polly, looking rather blank.
"Another spoonful," replied Molly; "and the milk is all boiling now, ready for it."
"I wish we had Alan here, to send for some," sighed Polly.
"There isn't time. Don't you suppose your mother has another package?" asked Molly, stirring the boiling milk in an excited fashion that sent occasional drops spattering and hissing over the stove.
"Perhaps she has." And Polly hurried away to the store-room, jingling her keys with a comical air of consequence.
She came flying back, in a moment, with a small package in her hand.
"I wonder if this won't do just as well," she said. "It's marked elastic starch, instead of cornstarch, but it looks ever so much like the other, and it's all there is, anyway."
Molly eyed it with little favor.
"It isn't just the same," she said thoughtfully; "but if we can't get anything else, we may as well use it. Here goes, anyway." And she added a heaping spoonful.
The pudding was mixed, poured into a baking dish and set into the oven.
"There," said Molly, with an air of relief, "that's done, all but watching to see that it doesn't burn."
"And clearing up the table," sighed Polly. "It doesn't seem as if we could have used so many dishes, just for one little pudding; does it, Molly?"
"Never mind," said Molly consolingly; "when it's done, we shall feel paid for it all. I don't mind washing dishes. You put the sugar and stuff away, while I do them. I wish I felt sure about this other starch," she added, taking up the paper and glancing at it.
Polly's back was turned, when she heard an exclamation of horror. Looking around, she saw Molly who, with the package still in her hand, had dropped into a chair.
"What is it?" she asked anxiously.
"See here!" And Molly pointed solemnly to the label, then burst into another fit of merriment, as she watched Polly's face grow blank while she road aloud,—
"'Elastic Starch: Prepared for Laundry Purposes, only.'"
"Whatever do you suppose it will do to us?" asked Molly, struggling to regain her self-control, and then laughing harder than ever.
"I'm sure I don't know," answered Polly. "It can't kill us, but it may stiffen us up some. I wonder if we'd better try to eat it, Molly." "I'm not going to have all my work wasted," said Molly decidedly, as she opened the oven door and peeped in. "It's browning just beautifully, and looks all right. We won't say or think anything about it, and I don't believe it will hurt us any. Even if it does, we have a doctor right in the house."
"Unless it kills him, first of all," added Polly gloomily. "But I'm tired now, Molly; we'll have lunch while that is baking, and then we can rest till time to get dinner. I never supposed it was so much work to keep house."
"What are you going to have for dinner?" asked Molly, ignoring the last remark.
"Beefsteak and potatoes and pudding," said Polly. "That's enough.
We don't want to begin better than we can keep up."
Their lunch was over, and the dishes piled up, to be washed later, when they should feel more like it; the girls had made themselves presentable again after their labors, and were sunning themselves like two young turtles, on the front steps, when they saw Alan coming towards the house.
"Now, Molly," Polly cautioned her; "remember we aren't going to tell that we are housekeeping."
"What have you been doing with yourselves?" inquired Alan, as he sat down on the step below them and pulled his soft hat forward, to keep the dazzling sun out of his eyes. "I came here just before noon, but I couldn't start up anybody. Where were you?"
"How strange we didn't hear you!" said Molly innocently. "We were here all the morning. Are you sure the bell rang?"
"I should say it did," said Alan. "I pulled it till I was tired.
You must have been deaf, or asleep."
"We weren't either; we were only just busy," answered Polly, with, an air of importance which would have roused Alan's suspicions, had not Molly come to the rescue by asking about her cousins.
"They're off driving, this afternoon," answered Alan. "They tried to make me go, but I told them flatly I didn't want to, so they took Florence instead. I had to play casino with Kit all last evening, and that was all I could stand. I say, I'm going to stay to dinner over here, if you ask me to." The girls exchanged glances of consternation which, happily, passed over the top of Alan's head, and were unseen.
"Well," assented Polly, with some reluctance; "you can stay, I suppose, but you won't get much to be thankful for, I warn you."
"As long as you tease so hard," responded Alan, disregarding the coolness of her tone; "I'll stay, then. I told mother I knew you'd be in a fight, by this time, and need me to make peace, so she'd better not expect me till I came. Now, honestly, aren't you glad to see me?" And he beamed up at the girls with such goodwill that they relaxed their severity, and took the lad into their confidence.
"Now, Alan," Molly began solemnly; "if you stay here, you mustn't ever tell the other girls, but Mary has gone, and Polly and I are doing the cooking ourselves."
Alan whistled; but not even his whistle was as disrespectful as was his following remark,—
"Anything left over from yesterday that I can have?"
"You must behave, if you stay, Alan," said Polly firmly. "You can go home, or else you can go to work with us, when it's time. I've told you before now that we won't have any lazy people around this house."
"All right; what shall I do first?" And Alan pulled off his cuffs and folded back the bottoms of his sleeves. "Hullo! who's this coming?" he exclaimed, as a figure turned in at the gate.
"Why, it's Mr. Solomon Baxter," said Polly, in some surprise. "How queer! He never comes here." "Perhaps he's after your father," suggested Molly, in an undertone.
"He must be," answered Polly, as she rose to meet him; "but I should think he would know that papa's at his office, not here." Mr. Baxter was a widower of fifty, whose wife had recently died, leaving him with six children under ten years old. Whatever may have been the motives leading to the match, surely Mrs. Baxter could never have married her husband either for his personal beauty or for his repose of manner; for Mr. Baxter's bald head was covered with a smooth yellow wig, and his figure presented every appearance of having its joints so tightly wired together that they could not play freely in their places, while it was a matter of common report that his nervous, excitable manner had worried his wife until she was glad to be at rest.
"How do you do? Is your aunt at home?" he answered Polly's greeting.
This was unexpected, but Polly reflected that they might be on some committee together.
"I am sorry, but she and mamma were sent for to go to New York," she explained courteously. "Their brother is ill. Won't you come in, sir?"
"Just for a little while, perhaps," said Mr. Baxter, following her into the parlor. "If they're away, who's keeping house?"
"We are, Molly Hapgood and I," answered Polly, a little surprised at the question.
"A good girl?"
Polly looked up in astonishment, thinking that he had taken that way of praising her. On the contrary, she discovered that this was intended as a question.
"What was it you said," she asked.
"Have you a good girl?"
"We haven't any," replied Polly meekly; "ours went away this morning."
"Just like them! They're the greatest plague in the world!" said Mr. Baxter explosively, and so rapidly that his words appeared to be tumbling over each other, in their haste to escape from his lips. "They haven't any honor; mine went off yesterday, and I haven't any to-day. She was a splendid girl with a great trunk full of real nice clothes, and such refined tastes, she always drank English breakfast tea. But she wouldn't stay, because I would not let her have all the soap she wanted. Extravagant things!" Mr. Baxter suddenly reined in his tongue; then added abruptly, "Who's housekeeper generally, your mother or your aunt?"
"Mamma is," replied Polly.
"Oh!" Mr. Baxter's tone was rather annoyed. There was a prolonged pause, while Polly watched the clock and reflected that it was time to put on the potatoes.
"Are your children well?" inquired Molly politely, feeling that it was her duty to say something.
"Quite well, only the baby has the croup almost every night. They have a great many colds, but I tell them that it's good enough for them, and perhaps it may teach them to be a little more careful," answered their fond parent sympathetically.
"I had a cold last winter," remarked Alan, launching himself into the conversation with this bit of personal reminiscence.
"Oh," said Mr. Baxter again.
There was another pause, a long one this time. Polly broke it, for she saw that both Molly and Alan were on the point of laughing.
"It is a beautiful day," she began. "We were going to ride this morning with Job, but—" She paused abruptly. Job had done conspicuous duty in Mrs. Baxter's funeral procession, in fact, he had helped to bear the disconsolate widower and his children to her grave. Polly felt that further mention of him would be ill- timed. Mr. Baxter appeared to be pursuing his own train of thought. "Is Miss Roberts well?" he asked, after another interval.
"Very," answered Polly.
"Not given to being sick much?"
"No, she is very strong."
"Well," said Mr. Baxter, rising with an air of relief, "I must be going. Just tell your aunt, sissy, that I called on her. Where's my hat?"
He had mislaid it somewhere, and while he charged up and down the parlor looking for it, Alan and Molly prudently withdrew, to laugh unseen. At length he discovered it in the hall, and went away, leaving the children to speculate vainly on the cause of his visit.
"Sissy!" exclaimed Polly violently. "Sissy! I wonder how he'd like me to call him bubby! I'll try it, the next time he comes. But he stayed so forever that we shan't have time to cook any potatoes for dinner."
They surely would not, for the fire was out and the stove was cold.
"Your poor father!" groaned Molly. "And we weren't going to let him know that anything was wrong."
"Never mind," said Polly; "we'll give him just meat and pudding.
That's enough for any man."
They cheered up at that, and, with Alan's help, they went to work to build a fire, making many discoveries during the operation about dampers and grates and their uses. But time, always unaccommodating, refused to wait for them, and six o'clock came far too soon, and brought the doctor in its train.
Dr. Adams was rather perplexed when he went into the house and was met by no one at the door. Polly and her mother usually greeted him, but to-night the front of the house was deserted.
"The girls must be off somewhere," he said to himself. "Well, I'll go out and tell Mary to give me my dinner now, without waiting for them."
He made his way to the kitchen, noting to his surprise, as he passed through the dining-room, that the table was only half set for the meal, and that the few articles on it had a little the appearance of having been thrown at it from a distance. Dr. Adams was an orderly, methodical man, and his wife's careful housekeeping was quite to his liking. However, he reflected that, during her absence, there must and would be irregularities, and passed on to the kitchen. As he opened the door, he was met by a cloud of dense, bluish white smoke which brought the quick tears to his eyes. Through the thick air he could see, not the ample proportions of his usual cook, but three small figures that were hurrying to and fro with a purposeless, ineffectual bustle which yet accomplished nothing. One of the figures hailed him in disconsolate tones,—
"Oh, papa! are you home so soon?"
"So soon?" he answered, as well as he could for coughing; "it's six o'clock now. Is dinner ready? What are you doing out here?"
It took but a moment to explain the matter, and then the doctor showed that it was not without reason that Polly called him the best father in the world. He was just back from a long drive out into the country with a fellow doctor, to pass judgment upon a critical case; he must visit a man in the hospital before his evening office hour; he was tired, hungry, and in a hurry, and there was no immediate prospect of dinner. But the three weary, heated, crocky faces before him moved him to pity, and he threw open the outer door, saying briskly,—
"Let's have a little air here, and see what's the matter."
"The fire won't seem to burn," said Alan. "It just smokes and goes out."
"So I see," said the doctor laughing. "Perhaps it would go better, my boy, if the dampers were not shut up tight. All it needs is a little draught,—see?" And in a moment there was a comfortable crackling sound going on inside the stove.
Before his marriage, the doctor had been in the habit of camping out every summer, and his old experiences came to his aid in the present crisis. While the girls flew in to set the table, he quickly brought the fire into order, and cooked the meat as handily as a woman. Thanks to him, the supper proved a merry one in spite of the smoky dining-room, the meagre bill of fare, and the great white blister on the side of Alan's hand, which the lad was doing his best to keep out of the doctor's sight. Molly raised her eyebrows and darted a comical glance at Polly when the doctor asked for a second plate of the pudding, and it was not until long afterwards that the girls knew of the manful effort he had made to swallow the sticky compound.
"Can I do anything more to help you?" he asked, stopping behind
Alan's chair as he was going away.
"You've done enough already, I should think," answered Molly gratefully.
"It was too bad for Mary to leave you in the lurch," he replied. Then, as his eyes fell on Alan's hand, he added, "That's a hard burn, my boy! Why in the world didn't you say something about it?"
"What was the use?" inquired Alan calmly. "Grumbling about it wouldn't do it any good."
"No; but I could," responded the doctor. "I like your pluck, but there's no use making a martyr of yourself for nothing. Come into my den and let me put something on it." And after a moment's delay, he went striding away down the street, looking at his watch as he walked.
"How do people ever manage to keep house?" sighed Molly, an hour later.
The dishes were washed, the rooms in order, and the two girls were luxuriously settled on the sofa, which they had drawn up in front of Alan's blazing fire on the hearth. Alan himself was stretched out on the rug, with his yellow head resting against the seat of the sofa, beside Polly's hand. Too tired to talk, the children had sat there quietly watching the fire until Molly broke the silence.
"I don't see, I'm sure," returned Polly. "It never seems as if mamma did much, even when we haven't any girl; and I'm tired almost to death, with what little we've done."
"I'm slowly getting to think," said Molly reflectively; "that our mothers are wonderful women. If it takes three of us to spoil one dinner, how do they get along, to do all the housekeeping and look out for us and sew and all?"
"Perhaps they know more to start with," suggested Alan, ducking his head out of reach of Polly's threatening fingers.
"If you hadn't been and gone and burned yourself in our service,
Alan," she said, laughing, "I would turn you out of the house."
But Molly was too much in earnest to heed this by-play.
"I believe I'll learn to cook," she went on. "I don't mean fancy cooking, but good, plain things that one could live on."
"Why not go to cooking school?" asked Polly.
"Yes," rejoined Molly scornfully; "and learn to make chicken salad and angel cake and chocolate creams. That's all very well, but I want to know how to do something that will help along, when we get in a tight place. Hark! what's that?" she added, as a sudden flurry of rain swept against the windows.
"That's cheerful!" said Alan, starting up. "I don't care about getting a ducking. I wish I'd gone home before this."
"No matter," urged Polly. "Stay till papa comes; he'll be in at nine, and then we'll give you an umbrella and things."
"Well." And Alan threw more wood on the fire and then settled back into his former position; "I may as well, for I don't believe it will rain any harder than it does now, and maybe it will stop. I say, Polly," he went on; "tell us a story, there's a good fellow."
"I'm too tired to-night, Alan," Polly began; "I haven't an idea in my head and—Is that you, papa?" she called, as the front door opened and shut.
"No, it's mamma," and Mrs. Adams walked into the parlor.
"Jerusalem!" and Polly sprang up with a glad cry. "Wherever did you come from?"
She was surrounded and dragged forward to the sofa, where Alan took her cloak, Molly her bonnet, and Polly pulled off her gloves.
"This is delightful to be so waited on," said Mrs. Adams. "It is worth while going away, to have the pleasure of coming back to my three children. Now come and sit down, and tell me all about it." And with a girl at each side and a boy at her feet, she prepared to hear the story of their doings.
"First, how is Uncle Charlie?" asked Polly, sure from her mother's bright face that there was no bad news.
"It was a sudden attack of indigestion, and he was much better before we reached him; but for a little while they thought there was no chance for him. Aunt Jane is going to stay for a week or two, but I was in a hurry to come back to my baby. And that reminds me, I stopped at your house, Alan, to tell your mother I had come and that Molly would stay here till Monday; and when I found that you were here, I said I should keep you, too, till morning. But now you must tell me how you've been amusing yourselves."
"With cooking," said Polly, with a tragic groan. "Mary's gone off for a week, and the fire went out, and Alan burned himself, and we nearly starved. I'm glad you've come back; oh, you can't guess how glad!"
By degrees they told the tale of their woes, not omitting the slightest detail, while Mrs. Adams leaned back on the sofa and laughed till the tears came.
"But there's one good thing about it all," observed Molly, in conclusion. "We've had a perfectly dreadful time, but it will teach us to appreciate our mothers and know a little what they are doing, the whole time."
CHAPTER VIII.
HALLOWE'EN.
"You have such a different way of looking at things from what mamma did," said Katharine.
"Perhaps it is because we have lived so differently," Mrs. Hapgood answered her.
It was a cold, gray day in late October, a day which showed that November was close at hand. The other girls were off for some frolic, Alan was reading and dozing on the sofa in the next room, so Mrs. Hapgood and Katharine had the parlor to themselves, and were snugly settled in two willow chairs drawn up in front of the fire, Katharine busy on a dainty bit of embroidery, Mrs. Hapgood putting a new sleeve into a gown which had yielded before Molly's energetic elbows.
"I wonder if that is it." And Katharine laid down her work and fell to pondering on the matter. After a time, she resumed, "After all, auntie, I don't know but I like your way better. I thought at first it was going to be slow here. At home, there's never any time for quiet talks like this; it's just nothing but a hurry and a scrabble, and when we get through, we've nothing to show for it. I've only been here six weeks, but I really feel as if I know you now better than I do mamma." And Katharine rested her head against the back of her chair, while the dark eyes fixed on the fire grew a little dim.
Mrs. Hapgood leaned over and rested her hand on the girl's, as it lay on the arm of her chair.
"I'm glad to have you say so, Katharine," said she. "For this year, I am to stand in place of a mother to you, you know, and I like to have you feel at home here."
"I know all that," answered Katharine; "and I'm glad they sent me here, only it mixes me all up. When I was at home and kept hearing little bits about it, the parties and the flowers and the pretty gowns, I felt as if I couldn't wait to be old enough to be in it all. When I came away, mamma said I was to be here a year, and then, go home to come out, so I could be ready to be married at eighteen, as she did. A year is such a little while to wait that I thought I was almost there. But when I came here, I found the girls of my age acting like children, and having splendid times doing what I had always thought was silly, and not caring the least bit about society and all that. I shall just get used to this and like it, and then go back into the other once more."
"But not in just the same way, I hope."
"I suppose not, auntie; but it won't make so very much difference, after all."
"Perhaps not," her aunt answered; "but it may make a little. If you hadn't come to us, you would never have seen the other side, that there are a few good times outside of the parties and the young men. And even if you go back into it when you go home, as you probably will, Katharine, it won't do any harm for you to have had a year to stop and think, and talk matters over, before plunging into the 'scrabble,' as you call it."
"It seemed so queer, when I first came East," said Katharine, as she took up her work again, "to see you and Molly sit down and talk for an hour at a time. Mamma hasn't ever done it with us, only to joke with us, or ask about our lessons once in a while. But everything that comes up, Molly and Polly Adams say, 'Mamma says so,' or 'Mamma thinks so.'"
She sewed steadily for a few moments, then she broke off, to ask, with an air of mock tragedy,—
"Mamma says she wants me to marry at eighteen; but what in the world should I do, auntie, if nobody should ask me?"
"Not get married, I suppose," returned her aunt composedly.
Katharine's face fell.
"What! be an old maid, like Polly's Aunt Jane!" she exclaimed.
"It isn't necessary that you should be like her, even if you shouldn't marry." And Mrs. Hapgood laughed at the horror in Katharine's tone. Then she went on, seriously, "Katharine, may I talk very plainly with you, just as if you were really my daughter?"
"Please do, auntie." And Katharine drew her chair a little closer to her aunt's.
"You were just saying that your mother and I look at things differently, Katharine, and it is true that we do. I wouldn't find fault with her for anything, for she has been a dear, good sister to me; but it seems to me that she has made a little bit of a mistake in letting your head get filled with all these thoughts of being married. You are only a child yet, my dear, and it is years before such ideas ought to come to you. But now they are here, I am going to tell you just what I think about it all. Not all women are fitted to marry; some would be happier and better without it. The day is long past when a woman must either marry or be laughed at as an old maid. What I want my girls to do is to grow into strong, noble women who are fitted to fill any position that opens before them, and to fill it well, with no thought of self, but only for the good of others. Then, if the time ever comes that you are asked to be the wife of a man, for the sake of whose love and companionship you are ready to give up all else, then you will do right to marry him, but not until then."
There was another pause. Mrs. Hapgood went on,—
"And since we are on the subject, Katharine, there is one more word to say. If the time ever comes for you, remember, in making your great decision, that married life is not all sunshine, but that there are the same little every-day worries after marriage as there were before. If a woman is strong enough to be a true, devoted wife, she can have no happier, better life than in her own home. But she has no right to promise without thinking it all over, whether she can sacrifice and work, can suffer hardship and even wrong for her husband's sake. Those are solemn words, dear, and should never be spoken thoughtlessly: 'For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health—'"
"You make it all mean so much more than mamma did," said Katharine thoughtfully. "She never talked to me like this. You make me half afraid of it, auntie."
"So much the better," her aunt replied. "It isn't anything that you can do one day, and undo the next; but it is a matter of life— and death," she added, as if to herself. Then she went on, with an entire change of tone, "Now, Kit, we have been talking about a very serious matter, and I am nearly through. But we may never speak of it again, so before we leave it, I want to just say that I wish you could put this whole subject out of your head for years, until the great question comes to you,—better still, if it had never been put into your head in the first place. However, that mischief is done. Still, try as hard as you can, for this year at least, to forget all about it. Then, if you must remember it at all, remember it as we have spoken of it, a serious question which must be settled between you and your conscience. In the meantime, do the very best you can to develop yourself into a helpful woman, ready for any call that may come. Your call will come, in one way or another, and all you have to do is to be prepared to answer 'ready.' And the grand secret of this preparation lies in perfect unconsciousness of self. It is all hidden in you, Kit, if you only try to make the most of it. And now I shouldn't at all wonder if we were better friends than ever for this frank talk, should you?"
The girl did not speak, but, bending over, she kissed her aunt impulsively and left the room.
"The child is finding her soul at last," said Mrs. Hapgood to herself. "Kate had smothered it and buried it under her false ideas of womanhood; but it is there, and Katharine might so easily make a woman to be proud of, with her warm, loving nature, if only she could be kept out of the 'scrabble' for a few years longer. Well, my son, what is it?" she added aloud, as Alan came in, yawning and stretching, and dropped into the chair just vacated by Katharine.
"Nothing, only I'm sick of reading, and came in for my share in the talk. Has Kit gone?"
"She just went up-stairs," answered his mother, surveying her boy with fond pride, for, in all truth, Alan was good to look at as he sat there, a real bonnie boy who might gladden any mother's heart. Mother-like, she passed a caressing hand over his yellow hair, and straightened out his coat-collar, but she only said, "Alan, you are positively growing tall, every single day."
"Am I?" asked the boy absently. Then he went on. "Speaking of Kit, mother, has it struck you that she is leaving off a little of her airs and graces? She isn't near as silly as she was when she first came."
"I don't think Katharine is silly," his mother replied; "it is only a little way she has. You are too critical of her, Alan."
"Well, she makes me tired," responded the boy, rolling up his eyes at his mother, whose deep-seated objection to that phrase he well knew. "She wants to be the very middle of things when we're together, and must have just so much fuss made over her. She'd be well enough, if it wasn't for that."
"Katharine has a great deal of character, after all," said his mother. "You aren't quite fair to her, Alan. If Polly or Florence did the same things she does, you would think it was all right."
"Polly and Kit aren't to be spoken of in the same breath," answered Alan energetically. "Florence doesn't count, one way or the other; but Polly is a splendid girl, and about the best friend I have. She always fights for me, and it would be mean if I didn't return the compliment once in a while. Here comes Mrs. Adams now," he added, as he glanced out of the window.
It was only an errand, not a call, she hurriedly explained. Friday night was going to be Hallowe'en, and wouldn't Alan and the girls come over to celebrate, as a surprise to Polly? Jean and Florence would be there, too. Then she went away again, leaving Alan to discuss the matter with his mother.
Friday evening came, and the surprise was kept a profound secret. Mrs. Adams had called Polly up-stairs to try on a new gown which she had just finished, and Polly was still revolving in front of the mirror, making vain attempts to view her back, when the bell rang.
"You go down, Polly," said her mother. "I am all covered with basting-threads."
So Polly, in all the glory of her new gown, went running down the stairs to the door, and started back in astonishment as her six guests came solemnly marching into the house, dressed in their best, to do honor to the occasion.
"Why, what are you doing here?" she was beginning rather inhospitably, when her mother unexpectedly came to her relief and invited the girls to take off their things.
"We're a party, Polly," exclaimed Jessie. "How stupid you are not to see it!"
"It's Hallowe'en," added Florence; "and we've been asked to come to celebrate it."
"Oh-h-h!" And a new light dawned on Polly. "It's a surprise party, is it? Who started it? You, Jerusalem?"
"Why don't you take your little friends into the parlor and converse with them, Polly?" asked Aunt Jane's prim voice. "Don't you know that it isn't polite to leave them standing here?"
A sharp reply was trembling on the tip of Polly's tongue; but she caught her mother's warning glance, so she resolutely turned her back on the blue satin bow which Aunt Jane had donned for the party, and led the way into the parlor.
Then the fun began, for Mrs. Adams had studied to find all the amusing tricks, whether they belonged to Hallowe'en or not. She was the gayest of the gay, entering into all the frolic, and doing her best to make Aunt Jane unbend and have a share in the games. But there must be a skeleton at every feast, and Miss Roberts played the part to perfection, sitting back against the wall, and only smiling indulgently, now and then, as the room rang with the shouts of the young people. It all started with a tub and a plate of apples which mysteriously appeared in the dining-room, and soon they were all in a kneeling circle around the tub, bobbing for the apples, that took a malicious delight in ducking under the water and rolling away, just as the white teeth were ready to seize the stem. The captured apples were only just pared and the seeds counted, when Mrs. Adams called them away to try their fate on one single apple which hung by a string from the top of the room.
"It is an unfailing test," she said. "If you can take a bite out of this apple without touching it, except with your teeth, you will live to get married. Otherwise, you will die an old maid."
Now, it sounds like a very easy matter to bite an apple; but when it is free to swing this way and that as you touch it, the success is not so sure. Alan first chased the apple up and down, gnashed his teeth and retired. Next Florence took her turn, with no better success. Jessie, too, failed to get a taste, even of the skin. Then Jean advanced to the charge.
"Now watch," she said, laughing. "I'm going at this on scientific principles. See here!"
She hit the apple with such force as to throw it far up and out, waited with wide-open mouth until, pendulum-like, it swung back and, at the instant of its reaching her, before it had turned, she struck her strong, young teeth into the side and brought away a generous mouthful.
"There!" said she triumphantly, as she marched back to her place.
"I defy anybody to do better than that."
They melted lead and poured it into water, to learn from the shape as it cooled the secret of their future work; they floated needles on water, watching them sink, or swim and gather in groups; they roasted nuts in the ashes, and tried the old, old test of the three dishes of water. But the prettiest trick of all was one that brought them back to the great tub once more, to float the walnut- shell boats, with their burning candles fixed in each. As the girls took their pairs of shells, one with a pink, the other with a blue candle placed in the middle like a mast, it was curious to see the difference in their ways of launching them on this mimic ocean of life. Jean and Jessie dropped theirs in thoughtlessly, only intent on the fun of the moment. Florence put hers in daintily and with care not to wet her fingers, and Molly and Katharine launched theirs out boldly, following them up with a little ripple which sent them rocking away into the midst of the tiny fleet. But Polly, Polly who did not believe in signs, had an anxious pucker about her eyebrows as she started out her wee vessels, and hurried them all their way with a mighty splash which threatened to capsize them, there and then.
Mrs. Adams stood back, watching the group of bright-colored gowns and eager faces, as the young people gathered more closely about the tub to see the fate of their lights, now exclaiming in chorus at some crisis, now in anxious silence while they waited for new developments.
"My light has failed, first of all," said Katharine regretfully.
"Which is it?" asked Mrs. Adams.
"The pink one."
"That is the man," she answered, bending over to look at the poor little end of candle, with only a smouldering wick to show that any life was left.
"It may come up again, Kit," said Florence consolingly. "While there's life, there's hope."
"They are alive as long as they float," Mrs. Adams interpreted. "When they sink, they are dead; but this one is only ill, or else his plans have failed."
"That's almost as bad," said Jean. "But isn't this just like Florence? Her two have cuddled up side by side, and are blazing away in a corner, all by themselves." "Look at Polly's and mine," said Molly. "We have joined hands. We must be going to live together, all four of us."
"In a New York tenement house," suggested Alan unkindly.
"No such thing," returned Polly. "Molly shall keep house, and I'll board with her. I hope my man will be proprietor of a restaurant, though," she added, in an aside to Alan.
Suddenly there came a wail from Jessie.
"Girls, girls! Just look at mine!"
"Where are they?" asked Molly.
"Here." And Jessie pointed tragically to one side of the tub, where the blue candle lay at the bottom of the sea, and the pink one, though still floating above it, had burned out and tilted to one side in an attitude of profound dejection.
"'Where was Moses when the light went out?
Where was Moses, what was he about?'"
sang Alan teasingly.
But even while he was singing, an energetic wave from Jean's side overturned his own small ships and left them floating bottom upwards.
"Just my luck!" he remarked, as he rose. "I knew I should come to some untimely end. As Poll says, I don't believe in signs, anyway."
The chocolate and wafers had been passed, and the fateful loaf of cake had been cut, bringing the ring to Florence, and the thimble, fitting symbol of single blessedness, to Jean; and still there was time for a little more of the fun. Some one suggested a game of forfeits, and a pile of them was soon collected, to be held over the head of Jessie who was chosen judge, as being the youngest girl present. Her ingenuity was endless, and she kept them laughing over her ridiculous fines, until nearly all had been redeemed.
"Only two or three more," said Jean encouragingly. "Here's one of them, now."
"Fine or superfine?"
"Fine."
"Fine? Let's see, I know whose 'tis," meditated Jessie. "Oh, I haven't any ideas left! Let him.
"'Bow to the wittiest,
Kneel to the prettiest,
And kiss the one he loves best.'"
Like most sensible mothers, Mrs. Adams had a horror of anything like kissing games; and now she frowned a little, in spite of herself. No one of the V, she felt sure, would have pronounced this fine. She turned to glance at Alan who stood for a moment, blushing as his eye moved over the group. Then he walked up to Polly and bowed low, passed on to Katharine's chair where he dropped on one knee, and then, walking straight to Mrs. Adams, he bent down and kissed her cheek with a heartiness which was not all play. She put out her hand and drew him down on the sofa, at her side.
"Thank you, dear," she whispered. "It was a pretty compliment, and we old people enjoy such things, you may be sure."
"It was true," said Alan simply, as he settled himself beside her with a confiding, little-boyish motion.
The last forfeit had not been redeemed, when the heavy portieres swung open, and a figure swathed in dark draperies and with a veil over her face came slowly into the room. The girls gazed doubtfully at this ghostly apparition, till a brown hand—was extended and a deep voice spoke from under the veil,—
"I am here to reveal the future. To-night is the time to know the secret of your coming lives. Let the oldest advance first."
Katharine, still a little in awe of the mysterious stranger, stepped forward and laid her hand on the dark one before her. The being scanned it closely.
"A long life," she said, "and a happy one, for you will slowly learn the joy of doing good to those around you and forgetting yourself for others. Then, wherever you go, you will be surrounded with friends and your name will long be remembered."
Katharine smiled, as she stepped back and Jean took her place.
"You will have the best possession the earth can give, a contented mind. I see in the future a little house presided over by a strong, quiet woman whose life is in her home."
Then Molly's turn came. Her fate was quickly spoken.
"Yours is a husband six feet tall, and your children will number nineteen, as they sit about your meagre table."
Molly groaned, as she yielded her place to Florence.
"I see a lordly house, richly furnished and filled with servants. Within is a devoted husband who watches over a wife with golden hair."
"How elegant!" said Polly. "Now it's my turn." And she held out her hand with a smile.
"You will suffer much and have much happiness," the voice went on. "You will love deeply and be loved in return, and the end will more than repay the beginning."
"Isn't that queer!" And Polly withdrew, to ponder on her mystical fortune.
"Now Jessie," said Mrs. Adams; "see what fate has in store for you."
"I'm half afraid," she said, laughing.
"Love, happiness, and sunshine," was what she heard. "A tiny cottage simply furnished with a teapot and eleven cats."
There was a shout.
"Now, Alan."
The brown hand trembled a little, and the eyes under the veil looked right into Alan's, as she spoke. "Some pain, much joy; a slow, even growth into a glorious manhood that knows no wrong, but lives for truth. Whatever else maybe is hidden from my sight."
"What a splendid one, Alan!" exclaimed Polly, her face flushing, as she took in all the meaning of the words.
And Katharine added quietly,—
"You have read us very well, Aunt Ruth."
"Mamma?" exclaimed Molly and Alan, in a breath.
"Yes, mamma," answered Mrs. Hapgood's voice, as she quickly shed her wrappings. "I thought I would have a finger in this pie, too. But how did you know me so soon, Katharine?"
"I knew nobody else would say what you did, for it was just a part of our talk the other day," she replied, as she unpinned the thick veil from Mrs. Hapgood's hair.
"Good-night, Mrs. Adams," said Jean, as they stood grouped about her in the hall. "This has been a lovely Hallowe'en, and I shall always remember it, I know."
"I hope you will, too, till next year," added Alan suggestively, as he went out into the bright starlight.
CHAPTER IX.
THE NEW READING CLUB.
"The beautiful summer of All Saints" was at its height, and the soft haze lay upon the blue hills and rested lightly over the meadows along the river. Such days were tempting enough to entice a hermit from his cell, and Mrs. Adams and the young people had agreed to devote Saturday afternoon to a long drive. Soon after their early lunch they had started off, Job leading the way, with Mrs. Adams, Jessie, Molly, and Jean, followed by Cob, the wiry little mustang that Mr. Shepard had sent East for his daughters' use, drawing Katharine, Florence, Polly, and Alan. Their destination was the nearer of the two mountains, a drive to the foot and then a scramble to the tip-top house, for the sake of one last look down upon the beautiful valley, before winter should shut it in. Unfortunately, Job was in one of his languid moods that day, and in spite of warning checks and flapping of lines, and even a mild application of the whip, he refused to break into a trot; but, with bowed head and discouraged mien, he plodded onward with as much apparent effort as if each motion of his aged frame were to be his last. In vain Katharine again and again reined in Cob, to wait for his companion; the old horse lagged farther and farther in the rear. At length Mrs. Adams called,—
"This is unbearable, Katharine! I am afraid we shall have to give up and go home. Job acts as if he couldn't crawl another step. I'm sorry," she added to her passengers, "to spoil our plan, but I dare not drive this old fellow any further, for fear he might never get home."
But even the turning back again failed to inspire Job as it usually did. In her secret heart, Mrs. Adams regarded this as an ominous symptom, and felt an ever-increasing anxiety lest he should never reach home alive. They were less than two miles from the town, but it was a long hour before Job dragged his weary way up the street, in at the gate, and tottered feebly up to the open door of the barn. By making little side excursions up and down the country, the other carriage had managed to keep respectfully in the rear; and Katharine now tied Cob outside the gate, while the others crowded around Job to watch with pitying eyes, as Mrs. Adams unharnessed this feeble veteran who had probably gone on his final march. The last strap was unbuckled and allowed to fall to the ground, while Mrs. Adams invitingly held up the worn old halter, to slip it on Job's nose. Perhaps she was slower than usual, perhaps some sudden thought of a neglected opportunity shot through Job's brain. However that might be, there was a quick scattering of the group, as two iron-shod heels flew up into the air, the brown head was playfully tossed from side to side, and Job, the feeble, the lifeless, went frisking away across the lawn, now galloping furiously up and down, with a lofty disregard of the holes he was tearing in the soft, dry turf, now stopping to roll on his back and kick his aged legs ecstatically in the air, with all the joyous abandonment of a young colt, then scrambling up again, to go pounding away, straight across a brilliant bed of chrysanthemums and only pausing, for a moment, to gaze pensively out over the front gate.
"Whoa, Job! Whoa, boy!" Mrs. Adams was calling in vain, while Jean exclaimed spitefully,—
"Mean old thing! I'll never be sorry for him again! I didn't lean back all the time we were gone, but just sat on the very front edge of the seat and tried to make myself as light as I could."
Then followed an exciting chase, for Job appeared to have regained all the agility of his far-off ancestors that roamed the plains at their own sweet will. Such sudden wheelings! Such wild leaps! Such frantic kicks! He refused to be coaxed; he cocked up his ears in derisive scorn when they scolded him and requested him to whoa. He had no intention of whoaing. He recognized from afar that a snare lay hidden somewhere in the measure of oats which Mrs. Adams held out before him, and he drew back his lips in a contemptuous smile, as he capered away to the remotest corner of the grounds. The pursuit lasted for an hour, and at the end of that time, Job appeared to be far fresher than his pursuers, fresher even than he had been at the start.
It was plain that nothing was to be gained in this way, so Mrs.
Adams and the girls retired to the house to take counsel, leaving
Alan to drive Job to the stable, and come back to dinner with the
others.
"I am tired, if he isn't," sighed Mrs. Adams, dropping into a chair by the window overlooking the lawn.
"Has he ever done it before?" asked Florence sympathetically.
"Never with me; but he used to get away from John, when he was younger. Now he has started, I am afraid he will repeat the experiment, he has had such a good time to-day. It just makes me want to whip him!" And Mrs. Adams glared out at the unconscious Job who was quietly cropping a tuft of green grass.
It may be that the stolen fruit was not so sweet to his tongue as Job had expected, or his conscience may at length have begun to act once more. He slowly raised his head and gazed longingly up and down the street, as if yearning to try a wider field for his gymnastics. Then apparently his sense of duty carried the day for, turning reluctantly, he plodded away to the open stable door, and quietly marched into his accustomed place.
"Run, Polly, quick! Run and fasten the door!" her mother exclaimed, as she hurried away to tie up the prodigal, to prevent any fresh wanderings.
When the doctor came home to dinner and heard the story, he was merciless in his teasing.
"One woman, six girls, and one boy, all to be outwitted by one poor old horse twenty-nine years old! "he exclaimed.
"Now, that's not so!" interposed his wife.
"Job isn't but twenty-three, so don't put any more years on his devoted head."
Dr. Adams laughed. He took a sinful pleasure in reminding his wife of Job's advanced age.
"Twenty-nine last June," he said, as he gave Polly her second piece of meat. "If you are careful of him and keep him for a few years longer, you can sell him out at a high price, to be exhibited as a curiosity."
"Sell Job! Never!" protested Mrs. Adams. "I would almost as soon sell Polly. No money could ever make up for that old fellow's intelligence, and for the real love he gives me."
"Yes," added Alan sympathetically; "and no money could buy his obedience to you, this afternoon, when he was loose."
While the table was being cleared for the dessert, the doctor suddenly turned to his daughter.
"Well, Polly," he asked; "how comes on the reading club?"
"Finely, papa. Why?"
"I didn't know but you were tired of it, by this time, and wanted something else."
"Oh, no; we have such good times," said Jean enthusiastically. "And if we gave it up, you never would get your stockings darned, either."
"Oh!" And the doctor lapsed into silence.
"What made you ask, papa?" inquired Polly.
"Mere curiosity."
"I know better than that," she said, seizing his hand as it lay on the table. "Now, popsy Adams, you just tell us what you are driving at."
"What is the use?" asked the doctor provokingly. "I did have another plan; but if you are all satisfied, I'll offer it to some of the other girls, or perhaps Aunt Jane will take it in charge."
This was too much for Polly.
"Do tell us," she begged. "We'll do it too, whatever it is; won't we girls?"
"But what if it is something that isn't funny at all, something for which you have to give up your own good times?"
Polly's face fell, but she answered steadily,—
"We'll do it, just the same."
"I am glad to hear you say so," remarked Aunt Jane approvingly. "I have felt that it was high time you girls were made to take an interest in something really useful."
"What is it, Dr. Adams?" implored Jessie, whose curiosity was by this time fired.
"Well, it's just this: down in the hospital there's a girl about Katharine's age shut up in a room by herself, where she must stay a year. She isn't pretty; she isn't especially bright; she is an Irish girl from one of the hill towns in the northern part of the state. But she has something the matter with her back, so all she can do is to lie there on a sort of frame, and look at the wall of her room."
The doctor paused. While he had been talking, he had watched the faces of the girls, curious to see the effect which his short story would have on them. Polly's cheeks were flushed, Jean's eyes were shining with her interest, but Katharine's lashes drooped on her cheek, and were a little moist. He nodded approvingly to himself, as he looked at her.
"Go on, papa," urged Polly.
"There isn't much more to say," returned her father, resting his arm on the back of her chair. "It occurred to me to-day to wonder if you girls couldn't each of you take a day a week,—there are just the six of you, you know,—and run in to see her for a few minutes after school. She is perfectly well, except for her back, and you can imagine how dull it must be for her there. Now, suppose you could drop in for half an hour and get acquainted with her, or read something simple to her? She's not up to 'Pilgrim's Progress' yet." And he pinched Polly's cheek playfully.
He stopped again. This time there was a murmur of assent from his hearers. Then he resumed,—
"Now, talk this over among yourselves and see what you think of it. I don't say you ought to do it, remember; you all have a good deal to do, I know. I only suggest the chance to you. I would think of it well, for unless you could be regular, it might be worse than nothing, for she would come to depend on it, and be disappointed. I warn you, she isn't very attractive, she is only ill and lonely."
"What's her name?" asked Florence, as the doctor started to leave the table.
"Bridget O'Keefe."
"What!" And in spite of herself, Jessie wrinkled her nose in disgust.
"Yes, I told you she was Irish, you know," answered the doctor briskly. "Now I must be off. Think it over till Monday and then let me know."
And a moment later, the front door shut behind him.
Aunt Jane went out after dinner, and Mrs. Adams made an excuse to leave the girls to themselves. Gathered around the parlor fire, they had an animated discussion, and, with many a practical suggestion from Alan, their plan of work was agreed upon. Each was to take her own day, and give up half an hour after school to a call on this other girl, who was condemned to lie still and know that the world was going on around her just as usual. There was no difficulty in planning for the first five days of the week; but the girls, though fired with a desire to do good, yet drew back from pledging themselves to break into their Saturday afternoons, the one holiday of the week.
"What's the use of going Saturday?" said Florence. "If we go to see her every other day but that, it ought to be enough."
"I don't want any half-way work," said Jean decidedly, "and yet, it does seem too bad to upset our fun when we've always been together. What if we draw lots for it?"
But Alan objected.
"That's kind of a shirky way to do. If I'm ever ill, I don't want you drawing lots which shall go to my funeral. I'll go Saturday, myself."
"You can't, Alan; you aren't a girl," said Molly. "No," added Katharine, as she leaned over to lay her small, slim hand on his; "the boy can't go, but he can teach the girls a lesson in generosity. I'll take Saturday myself, girls."
Alan turned to her impulsively.
"Good for you, Kit!" he said warmly. "I'm proud to have you for a cousin."
Katharine laughed lightly.
"It's nothing, after all. I have more time than most of you, and it's only a little while, anyway."
It was only a little thing, as Katharine had said, but by it she gained far more than the one short half-hour a week would ever cost her; and, too, from that time onward, Alan looked on his cousin with a new admiration which her beauty and her attempts to win his liking could never have brought.
The girls entered into their work heartily, charmed by the novelty of their experiment. It was an unknown sensation to them to feel sure that some one was eagerly listening for their step in the outer room, to see the dull, plain face before them brighten with a new life, as they came through the door. For the first few weeks, they begged to be allowed to prolong the half-hour; but the doctor, mindful of the fate of "Pilgrim's Progress," and knowing that a reaction would probably come, checked their zeal, and only encouraged their shorter visits. How much good they did to their young patient, they never knew. The healthy, out-of-door atmosphere which they brought in, their scraps of news, and their gay chatter did as much to brighten the rest of the long, lonely days, as the one or two pictures they brought did towards beautifying the plain, white walls of the little room where Bridget was learning her lesson of patience. Still less did they realize how much they themselves were gaining from the quiet half- hour in the corner of the great hospital. The little self- sacrifice, the interest in this girl so far removed from their usual world, their girlish desire to gain her liking, and the womanly tact which was needed to win her from her rough shyness, all these had their influence on their young maidenhood, an influence which lasted far on through their lives.
And by degrees their interest widened. At first they had shrunk from the suffering around them, dreading and almost fearing to look on its outward signs. But as they became more accustomed to the place and its associations, they no longer hurried along the corridors, with their eyes fixed on the ground; but glanced in, now and again, through some open door, to see the long lines of little beds and the white-capped nurses moving quietly about the room, or sewing cosily by the sunny window. Winter was not half over before the girls used to turn aside, now to spend a few moments among the forlorn midgets in the children's ward, then to pass slowly along through the accident ward, giving a pleasant word or two in exchange for the smiles that never failed to greet their coming. Each one of them had her own particular circle of friends whom she gravely discussed with the doctor, learning much of the history and needs of these fellow-beings, for whom, until lately, they had thought and cared so little. Molly and Jessie devoted themselves to the little girls, Polly lavished all her attentions on three or four small boys, while the others preferred the older patients. But all this was only incidental, and the girls considered Bridget as their especial property, the younger ones regarding her as a superior sort of toy, to take the place of the dolls which they had cast aside.
However, Katharine, who was older and more mature than the others, had come to understand Bridget and to be friends with her, before any of the others. At first she could feel nothing but repugnance for this uncultivated, unwholesome-looking girl, a repugnance which she struggled hard to conceal; but, little by little, as she talked to her, she was won by her quiet endurance and courage. At length, one day, Katharine coaxed the girl's story from her, how she was left an orphan with younger children to care for; how she had fallen and hurt her back; how she had strained it with overwork, when it was still weak; how she had struggled to keep on, until the doctor had brought her where she was; and how she must hurry to get well, in order to earn money to pay the neighbors for caring for the little children. It was a homely tale and simply told; but when it was ended, Katharine was surprised to find her eyes full of tears, as she bent over and touched her lips to the girl's forehead. "I am glad you told me this, Bridget," she said. "Now we can talk about it together, and it will make us better friends."
And Bridget answered gratefully, as she looked up into the clear eyes above her own,—"Thank you, miss. It's nice to have a body know all about it. Somehow it helps along."
Three weeks later, as Katharine went into the room and dropped two or three scarlet carnations on the girl's idle hand, she was saluted with exciting news.
"A letter from home, to-day, Miss, and somebody has sent money enough to pay the children's board for ever and ever so long; and they don't know at all who it is. Isn't it wonderful!"
Not so wonderful, perhaps, as it appeared to the simple girl. No one but Katharine and her parents ever saw the letter that went hurrying westward to remind her father that Christmas was coming, and to tell him in what way she would prefer to take her present. The secret was kept, and no thanks were ever spoken; but Katharine cared for none. It was enough to watch the girl's happy content, now that her one anxiety was removed. Mrs. Hapgood, alone, had a suspicion, when Molly told her of the affair; but she wisely asked no questions, and in silence rejoiced over the broader sympathy her niece was daily gaining.
"How queer it is, the way things are divided up!" Katharine said to Molly, one day when they were out driving.
It was a clear, cold December day, and Cob trotted briskly over the frozen ground, as if he too, as well as the girls themselves, were enjoying the air and motion.