Jewel's Story Book

ROBINSON CRUSOE

A long stretch of white, fine sandy beach, packed hard; an orderly procession of waves, each one breaking in seething, snowy foam that ran or crept after a child's bare feet as she skipped back and forth, playing with them; that was Long Island to Jewel.

Of course there was a village and on its edge a dear, clean old farmhouse where they all lived, and in whose barn Essex Maid and Star found stables. Then there were rides every pleasant day, over cool, rolling country, and woods where one was as liable to find shells as flowers. There were wide, flat fields of grain, above which the moon sailed at night; each spot had its attraction, but the beach was the place where Jewel found the greatest joy; and while Mr. Evringham, in the course of his life, had taken part to the full in the social activities of a summer resort where men are usually scarce and proportionately prized, it can be safely said that he now set out upon the most strenuous vacation of his entire career.

Mr. Evringham had just come to the beach, and the incessant noise of the waves made eavesdropping impossible; but his gestures and Jewel's replies roused her curiosity. The child's bathing-suit was dripping, and her pink toes were submerged by the rising tide, when her grandfather seized her hand and led her back to where her mother was sitting.

"Madam," he said, "this child mustn't overdo this business. She tells me she has been splashing about for some time, already."

"And I'm not a bit cold, mother," declared Jewel.

"H'm. Her hands are like frogs' paws, madam. I can see she is a perfect water-baby and will want to be in the waves continually. She says you are perfectly willing. Then it is because you are ignorant. She should go in once a day, madam, once a day."

"Oh, grandpa!" protested Jewel, "not even wade?"

"We'll speak of that later; but put on your bathing-suit once a day only."

Mr. Evringham looked down at the glowing face seriously. Jewel lifted her wet shoulders and returned his look.

"Put it on in the morning, then, and keep it on all day?" she suggested, smiling.

"At the proper hour," he went on, "the bathing master is here. Then you will go in, and your mother, I hope."

"And you, too, grandpa?"

"Oh, goody!" Jewel jumped up and down on the warm sand. "What fun it must have been to be your little boy!" she added.

Mr. Evringham refrained from looking at his daughter-in-law. He suspected that she knew better.

"Look at all this white sand," he said. "This was put here for babies like you to play with. Old ocean is too big a comrade for you."

"I just love the foam," returned the child wistfully, "and, oh, grandpa," eagerly, "I tasted of it and it's as salt!"

Mr. Evringham smiled, looking at his daughter.

"Yes," said Julia. "Jewel has gone into Lake Michigan once or twice, and I think she was very much surprised to find that the Atlantic did not taste the same."

"Sit down here," said Mr. Evringham, "and I'll show you what your father used to like to do twenty-five years ago."

Jewel sat down, with much interest, and watched the speaker scoop out a shallow place in the sand and make a ring about it.

"There, do you see these little hoppers?"

Julia was looking on, also. "Aren't they cunning, Jewel?" she exclaimed. "Exactly like tiny lobsters."

"Only they're white instead of red," replied the child, and her grandfather smiled and caught one of the semi-transparent creatures.

"Lobsters are green when they're at home," he said. "It's only in our homes that they turn red."

"Really?"

"Yes. There are a number of things you have to learn, Jewel. The ocean is a splendid playmate, but rough. That is one of the things for you to remember."

"But I can wade, can't I? I want to build so many things that the water runs up into."

"Certainly, you can take off your shoes and stockings when it's warm enough, as it is this morning, if your mother is willing you should drabble your skirts; but keep your dress on and then you won't forget yourself."

Jewel leaned toward the speaker affectionately. "Grandpa, you know I'm a pretty big girl. I'll be nine the first of September."

"Yes, I know that."

"Beside, you're going to be with me all the time," she went on.

"H'm. Well, now see these sand-fleas race."

"Oh, are they sand-fleas? Just wait for Anna Belle." The child reached over to where the doll was gazing, fascinated, at the advancing, roaring breakers.

Her boa and plumed hat had evidently been put away from the moths. She wore a most becoming bathing costume of blue and white, and a coquettish silk handkerchief was knotted around her head. It was evident that, in common with some other summer girls, she did not intend to wet her fetching bathing-suit, and certainly it would be a risk to go into the water wearing the necklace that now sparkled in the summer sun.

"Come here, dearie, and see the baby lobsters," said Jewel, holding her child carefully away from her own glistening wetness, and seating her against Mrs. Evringham's knee.

"If lobsters could hop like this," said Mr. Evringham, "they would be shooting out of the ocean like dolphins. Now you choose one, Jewel, and we'll see which wins the race. We're going to place them in the middle of the ring, and watch which hops first outside the circle."

Jewel chuckled gleefully as she caught one. "Oh, mother, aren't his eyes funny! He looks as surprised all the time. Now hop, dearie," she added, as she placed him beside the one Mr. Evringham had set down. "Which do you guess, Anna Belle? She guesses grandpa's will beat."

"Well, I guess yours, Jewel," said her mother; but scarcely were the words spoken when Anna Belle's prophecy was proved correct by the airy bound with which one of the fleas cleared the barrier while Jewel's choice still remained transfixed. They all laughed except Anna Belle, who only smiled complacently.

Jewel leaned over her staring protégée. "If I only knew what you were so surprised at, dearie, I'd explain it to you," she said. Then she gently pushed the creature, and it sped, tardily, over the border.

They pursued this game until the bathing-suit was dry; then Mr. Evringham yawned. "Ah, this bright air makes me sleepy. Haven't you something you can read to us, Julia?"

"Yes, yes," cried Jewel, "she brought the story-book."

"But I didn't realize it would be so noisy. I could never read aloud against this roaring."

"Oh, we'll go back among the dunes. That's easy," returned Mr. Evringham.

"You don't want to hear one of these little tales, father," said Julia, flushing.

"Why, he just loves them," replied Jewel earnestly. "I've told them all to him, and he's just as interested."

Mrs. Evringham did not doubt this, and she and the broker exchanged a look of understanding, but he smiled.

"I'll be very good if you'll let me come," he said. "I forgot the ribbon bows, but perhaps you'd let me qualify by holding Anna Belle. Run and get into your clothes, Jewel, and I'll find a nice place by that dune over yonder."

Fifteen minutes afterward the little party were comfortably ensconced in the shade of the sand hill whose sparse grasses grew tall about them.

Jewel began pulling on them. "You'll never pull those up," remarked Mr. Evringham. "I believe their roots go down to China. I've heard so."

"Anna Belle and I will dig sometime and see," replied Jewel, much interested.

"There are only two stories left," said Mrs. Evringham, who was running over the pages of the book.

"And let grandpa choose, won't you?" said Jewel.

"Oh, yes," and the somewhat embarrassed author read the remaining titles.

"I choose Robinson Crusoe, of course," announced Mr. Evringham. "This is an appropriate place to read that. I dare say by stretching our necks a little we could see his island."

ROBINSON CRUSOE

"I guess I shall like Robinson Crusoe, mamma!" exclaimed Johnnie Ford, rushing into his mother's room after school one day.

"You would be an odd kind of boy if you did not," replied Mrs. Ford, "and yet you didn't seem much pleased when your father gave you the book on your birthday."

"Well, I didn't care much about it then, but Fred King says it is the best story that ever was, and he ought to know; he rides to school in an automobile. Say, when'll you read it to me? Do it now, won't you?"

"If what?" corrected Mrs. Ford.

"Oh, if you please. You know I always mean it."

"No, dear, I don't think I will. A boy nine years old ought to be able to read Robinson Crusoe for himself."

Johnnie looked startled, and stood on one leg while he twisted the other around it.

"If you have a pleasant object to work for, it will make it so much the easier to study," continued Mrs. Ford, as she handed Johnnie the blue book with a gold picture pressed into its side.

Johnnie pouted and looked very cross. "It's a regular old trap," he said.

"Chips, I'd rather be Robinson Crusoe than a king!" exclaimed Johnnie.

"So would I," responded Chips. "Let's play it."

"But we can't both be Crusoes. Wouldn't you like to be Friday?" asked Johnnie insinuatingly, "he was so nice and black."

"Ye-yes," hesitated Chips, who had great confidence in Johnnie's judgment, but whose fancy had been taken by the high cap and leggings in the golden picture.

"Then I've got a plan," and Johnnie leaned toward his friend's ear and whispered something under cover of his hand, that opened the younger boy's eyes wider than ever.

"Now you mustn't tell," added Johnnie aloud, "'cause that wouldn't he like men a hit. Promise not to, deed and double!"

"Deed and double!" echoed Chips solemnly, for that was a very binding expression between him and Johnnie.

For several days following this, Mrs. Wood and Mrs. Ford were besieged by the boys to permit them to earn money; and Mrs. Ford, especially, was astonished at the way Johnnie worked at clearing up the yard, and such other jobs as were not beyond his strength; but, inquire as she might into the motive of all this labor, she could only discover that Chips and Johnnie wished to buy a hen.

"Have you asked father if you might keep hens?" she inquired of Johnnie, but he only shook his head mysteriously.

Chips' mother found him equally uncommunicative. She would stand at her window which overlooked the Fords' back yard, and watch the boys throw kindling into the shed, or sweep the paths, and wonder greatly in her own mind. "Bless their little hearts, what can it all be about?" she questioned, but she could not get at the truth.

Suddenly the children ceased asking for jobs, and announced that they had all the money they cared for. The day after this announcement was the first of April. When Mr. Ford came home to dinner that day, he missed Johnnie.

"I suppose some of his schoolmates have persuaded him to stay and share their lunch," explained Mrs. Ford.

She had scarcely finished speaking when Mrs. Wood came in, inquiring for Chips. "I have not seen him for two hours," she said, "and I cannot help feeling a little anxious, for the children have behaved so queerly lately."

"I know," returned Mrs. Ford, beginning to look worried. "Why, do you know, Johnnie didn't play a trick on one of us this morning. I actually had to remind him that it was April Fools' Day."

Mr. Ford laughed. "How woe-begone you both look! I think there is a very simple explanation of the boys' absence. Chips probably went to school to meet Johnnie, who has persuaded him to stay during the play hour. I will drive around there on my way to business and send Chips home."

The mothers welcomed this idea warmly; and in a short time Mr. Ford set out, but upon reaching the school was met with the word that Johnnie had not been seen there at all that morning. Then it was his turn to look anxious. He drove about, questioning every one, until he finally obtained a clue at the meat market where he dealt.

"Your little boy was in here this morning about half past ten, after a ham. He wouldn't have it charged; said 'twas for himself," said the market-man, laughing at the remembrance. "He didn't have quite enough money to pay for it, but I told him I guessed that would be all right, and off they went, him and the little Wood boy, luggin' that ham most as big as they was."

"Then they were together. Which way did they go?"

"Straight south, I know, 'cause I went to the door and watched 'em. You haven't lost 'em, have you?"

"I hope not," and Mr. Ford sprang into his buggy, and drove off in the direction indicated, occasionally stopping to inquire if the children had been seen. To his great satisfaction he found it easy to trace them, thanks to the ham; and a little beyond the outskirts of the town he saw a promising speck ahead of him on the flat, white road. As he drew nearer, the speck widened and heightened into two little boys trudging along before him. His heart gave a thankful bound at sight of the dear little legs in their black stockings and knee breeches, and leaving his buggy by the side of the road, he walked rapidly forward and caught up with the boys, who turned and faced him as he approached. Displeased as he was, Mr. Ford could hardly resist a hearty laugh at the comical appearance of the runaways. Chips carried the big, heavy ham, and Johnnie was keeping firm hold of a hen, who stretched her neck and looked very uncomfortable in her quarters under his arm.

"Why, father!" exclaimed Johnnie, recovering from a short tussle with the poor hen, "how funny that you should be here."

"No stranger than that you should be here, I think. Where, if I have any right to ask, are you going?"

"To Lake Michigan," replied Johnnie composedly. "Oh, I do wish this old hen would keep still!"

"Then you have fifty miles before you," said Mr. Lord.

"Yes, sir," replied Johnnie, "but it would have been a thousand miles to the ocean, you know."

"Ha, ha, ha!" roared Mr. Ford, mystified, but unable to control himself any longer at sight of Johnnie and the hen, and patient-faced Chips clutching the ham.

"I am glad you don't mind, father," said Johnnie. "I thought it would be so nice for you and mother and Mrs. Wood not to have Chips and me to worry about any more."

"It was very thoughtful of you," replied Mr. Ford, remembering the anxious faces at home. "And what are you going to do at Lake Michigan?"

"Take a boat and go away and get wrecked on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe," responded Johnnie glibly, at the same time hitching the hen up higher under his arm.

"And how about Chips?"

"Oh, I'm Man Friday," chirped Chips, his poor little face quite black enough for the character.

"I am so sorry we had to tell you so soon," said Johnnie. "We were keeping it a secret until we got to the lake; then we were going to send you a letter."

Mr. Ford looked gravely into his son's grimy face. It was an honest face, and Johnnie had always been a truthful boy, and just now seemed only troubled by the restless behavior of his hen; so the father rightly concluded that the blue and gold book had captivated him into the belief that what he and Chips were doing was admirable and heroic.

"What part is the hen going to play?" asked the gentleman. "Is she going to help stock your island?"

"Oh, no, but we couldn't get along without her, because she's going to lay eggs along the way."

"Lay eggs?"

"Yes, for our lunch. At first we weren't going to take anything but the hen, but Chips said he liked ham and eggs better'n anything, so we decided to take it."

Another pause; then Mr. Ford said: "You both look tired, haven't you had enough of it? I'm going home now."

"No, no," asserted the boys.

"And have you thought of your mothers, whom you didn't even kiss good-by?"

Johnnie stood on one leg and twisted the other foot around it, after his manner when troubled.

"I thought you knew, Johnnie, that nothing ever turns out right when you undertake it without first consulting mother."

"I wish now I'd kissed mine good-by," observed Friday thoughtfully.

"Come, we'll go back together," said Mr. Ford quietly, moving off as he spoke, "and we will see what Mrs. Wood and mother have to say on the subject."

Johnnie and Chips followed slowly. "Father," said the former emphatically, "I can't be happy without being wrecked, and I do hope mother won't object."

His father made no reply to this, and three quarters of an hour afterward the children jumped out of the buggy into their mothers' arms, and as they still clung to their lunch, the ham and the hen came in for a share of the embracing, which the hen objected to seriously, never having been hugged before this eventful day.

Mrs. Wood and Chips took tea at the Fords' that evening, and the boys, once delivered from the necessity of keeping their secret, rattled on incessantly of their plans; talked so much and so fast, in fact, that their parents were not obliged to say anything, which was a great convenience, as they had nothing they wished to say just then. It had been a mild first of April, and after supper the little company sat out on the piazza for a time.

"As Johnnie and Chips will be obliged to spend so many nights out of doors on their way to Lake Michigan, it will be an excellent plan to begin immediately," said Mr. Ford. "You'll like to spend the night out here, of course, boys. To be sure, it will be a good deal more comfortable than the road, still you can judge by it how such a life will suit you."

Johnnie looked at Chips and Chips looked at Johnnie; for the exertions of the day had served to make the thought of their white beds very inviting; but Mr. Ford and the ladies talked on different subjects, and took no notice of them. At last the evening air grew uncomfortably cool, and the grown people rose to go in.

"Good-night, all," said Mrs. Wood, starting for home.

Chips watched her down to the gate. "Aren't you going to kiss me good-night?" he called.

"I think we are going to have a thunder-storm, unseasonable as it will be," remarked Mr. Ford pleasantly, standing in the doorway. "Well, I suppose you won't mind it. Good luck to you, boys!" then the heavy front door closed.

Johnnie had never before realized what a clang it made when it was shut. The key turned with a squeaking noise, a bolt was pushed with a solid thud; all the windows came banging down, their locks were made fast, and Johnnie and Chips felt literally, figuratively, and every other way left out in the cold.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute; then Chips spoke.

"Your house is splendid and safe, isn't it, Johnnie?"

"Yes, it is."

"I wonder where we'd better lie down," pursued Chips. "I'm sleepy. Let's play we're Crusoe and Friday now."

"Oh, we can't," responded Johnnie impatiently, "not with so many com—" he was going to say comforts, but changed his mind.

The night was very dark, not a twinkling star peeped down at the children, and the naked branches of the climbing roses rattled against the pillars to which they were nailed, for the wind was rising.

A little chill crept over Johnnie's head from sleepiness and cold. "Our mothers don't care what happens to us," he replied gloomily. The stillness of the house and the growing lateness of the hour combined to make him feel that if being wrecked was more uncomfortable than this, he could, after all, be happy without it.

"What do you think?" broke in the shivering Man Friday. "Mamma says ham isn't good to eat if it isn't cooked."

"And that's the meanest old hen that ever lived!" returned Crusoe. "She hasn't laid an egg since I got her."

A distant rumble sounded in the air. "What's that?" asked Chips.

"Well, I should think you'd know that's thunder," replied Johnnie crossly.

"Oh, yes," said little Chips meekly, "and we're going to get wet."

They were both quiet for another minute, while the wind rose and swept by them.

"I really think, Johnnie," began Chips apologetically, "that I'm not big enough to be a good Man Friday. I think to-morrow you'd better find somebody else."

"No, indeed," replied Johnnie feelingly. "I'd rather give up being wrecked than go off with any one but you. If you give up, I shall."

The rain began to patter down.

"If you don't like to get wet, Chips, I'd just as lieves go and ring the bell as not," he added.

A sudden sweep of wind nearly tipped the children over, for they had risen, undecidedly.

"No," called Chips stoutly, to be heard above the blast. "I'll be Friday till to-morrow." His last word sounded like a shout, for the wind suddenly died.

"What do you scream so for?" asked Johnnie impatiently; but the storm had only paused, as it were to get ready, and now approached swiftly, gathering strength as it came. It swept across the piazza, taking the children's breath away and bending the tall maple in front of the house with such sudden fury that a branch snapped off; then the wind died in the distance with a rushing sound and the breaking tree was illumined by a flash of lightning.

"I think, Johnnie," said Chips unsteadily, "that God wants us to go in the house."

A peal of thunder roared. "I've just thought," replied Johnnie, keeping his balance by clutching the younger boy as tightly as Chips was clinging to him, "that perhaps it wasn't right for us to run off the way we did, without getting any advice."

They strove with the wind only a few seconds more, then, with one accord, struggled to the door where one rang peal after peal at the bell, while the other pounded sturdily.

"That's the last of one trial with those boys, I'm sure," said Mr. Ford, laughing, and he was right; for it was years before any one heard either Johnnie or Chips mention Robinson Crusoe or his Man Friday.

ST. VALENTINE

After that day when, on the lee side of the sand-dune the Evringham family read together the story of Johnnie and Chips, it was some time before the last tale in the story book was called for.

The farmhouse where they boarded stood near a pond formed by the rushing in of the sea during some change in the sands of the beach, so here was still another water playmate for Jewel.

"I do hope," said Mr. Evringham meditatively, on the first morning that he and Jewel stood together on its green bank, "I do hope that very particular housekeeper, Nature, will let this pond alone until we go!"

Jewel looked up at his serious face with the lines between the eyes. "She wouldn't touch this great big pond, would she?" she asked.

"Ho! Wouldn't she? Well, I guess so."

"But," suggested Jewel, lifting her shoulders, "she's too busy in summer in the ravines and everywhere."

"Oh," Mr. Evringham nodded his head knowingly. "Nature looks out for everything."

"Grandpa!" Jewel's eyes were intent. "Would she ask Summer to touch this great big pond? What would she want to do it for?"

"Oh, more house-cleaning, I suppose."

"Yes," the broker nodded gravely. "No doubt that is why she has to empty it so seldom. Sometimes she lets it go a very long time; but then the day comes when she begins to think it over, and to calculate how much sediment and one thing and another there is in the bottom of that pond; and at last she says, 'Come now, out it must go!'"

"But how can she get it out, how?" asked Jewel keenly interested. "The brooks are all running somewhere, but the pond doesn't. How can she dip it out? It would take Summer's hottest sun a year!"

Mr. Evringham looked down and met the unwinking gaze fixed upon him. "Then why—why," asked Jewel, "when the big rollers keep coming, doesn't the pond get filled fuller than ever?"

The broker lifted his forefinger toward his face with a long drawn "Ah-h! Nature is much too clever for that. She may not have gone to college, but she understands engineering, all the same. All this is accomplished just at the right moment for the outgoing tide to pull at the pond with a mighty hand. Well,"—pausing dramatically,—"you can imagine what happens when the deep cut is finished."

"Does the pond have to go, grandpa?"

"It just does, and in a hurry!"

"Is it sorry, do you think?" asked Jewel doubtfully.

"We-ell, I don't know that I ever thought of that side of it; but you can imagine the feelings of the people in the farmhouse, who went to bed beside the ripples of a smiling little lake, and woke to find themselves near a great empty bog."

Jewel thought and sighed deeply. "Well," she said, at last, "I hope Nature will wait till we're gone. I love this pond."

"Indeed I hope so, too. There wouldn't be any pleasant side to it."

Jewel's thoughtful face brightened. "Except for the little fishes and water-creatures that would rush out to sea. It's fun for them. Mustn't they be surprised when that happens, grandpa?"

"I should think so! Do you suppose the wind gives them any warning, or any time to pack?"

Jewel laughed. "I don't know; but just think of rushing out into those great breakers, when you don't expect it, right from living so quietly in the pond!"

"H'm. A good deal like going straight from Bel-Air Park to Wall Street, I should think."

Jewel grew serious. "I think fish have the most fun," she said. "Do you know, grandpa, I've decided that if I couldn't be your little grandchild, I'd rather be a lobster than anything."

The broker threw up his head, laughing. "Some children could combine the two," he replied, "but you can't."

"What?" asked Jewel.

"Nothing. Why not be a fish, Jewel? They're much more graceful."

"But they can't creep around among the coral and peek into oyster shells at the pearls."

"Imagine a lobster peeking!" Mr. Evringham strained his eyes to their widest and stared at Jewel, who shouted.

"That's just the way the sand-fleas look," she exclaimed.

"Well," remarked the broker, recovering his ordinary expression, "you may as well remain a little girl, so far as that goes. You can creep around among the coral and peek at pearls at Tiffany's."

"What's Tiffany's?"

The child looked up at him seriously. "It can be met," she answered quickly.

He smiled. He understood her peculiar expressions in these days. "Hardly, I think," he answered. "It is this: that you are going to grow up."

Jewel looked off at the blue water. "Well," she replied at last hopefully, "you're grown up, you know, and perhaps you'll like me then just as much as I do you."

He squeezed the little hand he held. "We'll hope so," he said.

"And besides, grandpa," she went on, for she had heard him express the same dread before, "we'll be together every day, so perhaps you won't notice it. Sometimes I've tried to see a flower open. I've known it was going to do it, and I've been just bound I'd see it; and I've watched and watched, but I never could see when the leaves spread, no matter how much I tried, and yet it would get to be a rose, somehow. Perhaps some day somebody'll say to you, 'Why, Jewel's a grown up lady, isn't she?' and you'll say, 'Is she, really? Why, I hadn't noticed it.'"

"That's a comforting idea," returned Mr. Evringham briefly, his eyes resting on the upturned face.

"So now, if the pond won't run away, we'll have the most fun," went on Jewel, relieved. "They said we could take this boat, grandpa, and have a row." She lifted her shoulders and smiled.

"What's bail?" eagerly.

"Dipping out the water with a tin cup."

"Oh, that'll be fun. It'll be an adventure, grandpa, won't it?"

"I hope not," earnestly, was the reply; but Jewel was already sitting on the grass pulling off her shoes and stockings. She leaped nimbly into the wet boat, and Mr. Evringham stepped gingerly after her, seeking for dry spots for his canvas shoes.

"I think," said the child joyfully, as they pushed off, "when the winds and waves notice us having so much fun, they'll let the pond alone, don't you?"

"If they have any hearts at all," responded Mr. Evringham, bending to the oars.

"Oh, grandpa, you can tell stories like any thing!" exclaimed Jewel admiringly.

"It has been said before," rejoined the broker modestly.

When outdoor gayeties had to be dispensed with one day, on account of a thorough downpour of rain, the last story in Jewel's book was called for.

The little circle gathered in the big living-room; there was no question now as to whether Mr. Evringham should be present.

"It is Hobson's choice this time," said Mrs. Evringham, "so we'll all choose the story, won't we?"

Now Mr. Evringham settled in a big easy-chair; the reader took a small one by the window, and Jewel sat on the rug before the fire, holding Anna Belle.

"Now we're off," said Mr. Evringham.

"Go to sleep if you like, father," remarked the author, smiling, and then she began to read the story entitled

ST. VALENTINE

There was a little buzz of interest in Miss Joslyn's room in the public school, one day in February, over the arrival of a new scholar. Only a very little buzz, because the new-comer was a plain little girl as to face and dress, with big, wondering eyes, and a high-necked and long-sleeved gingham apron.

"Take this seat, Alma," said Miss Joslyn; and the little girl obeyed, while Ada Singer, the scholar directly behind her, nudged her friend, Lucy Berry, and mimicked the stranger's surprised way of looking around the room.

The first day in a new school is an ordeal to most children, but Alma felt no fear or strangeness, and gazed about her, well pleased with her novel surroundings, and her innocent pleasure was a source of great amusement to Ada.

"Isn't she queer-looking?" she asked of Lucy, as at noon they perched on the window-sill in the dressing-room, where they always ate their lunch together.

"Yes, she has such big eyes," assented Lucy. "Who is she?"

"Why, her mother has just come to work in my father's factory. Her father is dead, or in prison, or something."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed a voice, and looking down from their elevated seat the girls saw Alma Driscoll, a big tin dinner-pail in her hand, and her cheeks flushing. "My father went away because he was discouraged, but he is coming back."

Ada shrugged her shoulders and took a bite of jelly-cake. "What a delicate appetite you must have," she said, winking at Lucy and looking at the big pail.

"Oh, it isn't full; the things don't fit very well," replied Alma, taking off the cover and disclosing a little lunch at the bottom; "but it was all the pail we had." Then she sat down on the floor of the dressing-room and took out a piece of bread and butter.

"Well, upon my word, if that isn't cool!" exclaimed Ada, staring at the brown gingham figure.

Alma looked up mildly. She had come to the dressing-room on purpose to eat her lunch where she could look at Lucy Berry, who seemed beautiful to Alma, with her brown eyes, red cheeks, and soft cashmere dress, and it never occurred to her that she could be in the way.

"Oh, why did you say that, Ada?" exclaimed Lucy, making a movement as if to slip down from the window-seat and follow.

"Don't you go one step after her, Lucy Berry," commanded Ada. "My mother doesn't want me to associate with the children of the factory people. She'll find plenty of friends of her own kind."

"But you hurt her feelings," protested Lucy.

"Oh, no, I didn't," carelessly; "besides, if I did, she'll forget all about it. I had to let her know that she couldn't stay with us. Do you want a stranger like that to hear everything we're saying?"

"I feel as if I ought to go and find her and see if she has somebody to eat with."

"Very well, Lucy. If you go with her, I can't go with you, that's all. You can take your choice."

The final tone in Ada's voice destroyed Lucy's courage. The little girls were very fond of one another, and Lucy was entirely under strong-willed Ada's influence.

This first school-day was Alma Driscoll's introduction into the world outside of her mother's love. She had never felt so lonely as when surrounded by all these girls, each of whom had her intimate friend, and among whom she was not wanted. She could not help feeling that she was different from the others, and day by day the wondering eyes grew shy and lonely; and she avoided the children out of school hours, bravely hiding from her mother that the gingham apron, which always hid her faded dress, seemed to her a badge of disgrace that separated her from her daintily dressed schoolmates.

Such was the state of affairs when St. Valentine's day dawned. Alma's two weeks of school had seemed a little eternity to her; but this day she could feel that there was something unusual in the air, and she could not help being affected by the pleasurable excitement afloat in the room. She knew what the big white box by the door was for, and when, after school, Miss Joslyn was appointed to uncover and distribute the valentines, Alma found herself following the crowd, until, pressed close to Lucy Berry's side, she stood in the centre of the merry group about the teacher.

"Did you ever see such a goose!" exclaimed Ada Singer, as she watched the mixture of shyness and eagerness with which Alma took her valentine and opened the envelope.

Poor little Alma! How her heart beat as she unfolded her prize—and how it sank when she beheld the coarse, flaring picture of a sewing girl, with a disgusting rhyme printed beneath it. She dropped the valentine, a great sob of disappointment choked her, and bursting into tears, she pushed her way through the crowd and rushed from the schoolroom.

"What is the meaning of that?" asked Miss Joslyn.

For answer some one handed her the picture. The young lady glanced at it, then tore it in pieces as she looked sadly around on her scholars.

"Whoever sent this knows that Alma's mother works in the factory," she said. "It makes me ashamed of my whole school to think there is one child in it cruel enough to do this thing;" then, amid the silent consternation of the scholars, Miss Joslyn rose, and leaving the half-emptied box, went home without another word.

"What a fuss about nothing," said Ada Singer. "The idea of crying because you get a 'comic!' What else could Alma Driscoll expect?"

Lucy Berry's cheeks had been growing redder all through this scene, and now she turned upon Ada.

"She has a right to expect a great deal else," she returned excitedly, "but we've all been so hateful to her it's a wonder if she did. I wish I'd been kind to her before," she continued, her heart aching with the remembrance of the little lonely figure, and the big, hollow dinner-pail; "but I'm going to be her friend now, always, and you can be friends with us or not, just as you please;" and turning from the astonished Ada, Lucy Berry marched out of the schoolroom, fearing she should cry if she stayed, and sure that if there were any more beauties for her in the white box, her stanch friend, Frank Morse, would take care of them for her. Among the valentines she had already received was one addressed in his handwriting, and she looked at it as she walked along.

"It's the handsomest one I ever saw," she thought, lifting a rose here, and a group of cupids there, and reading the tender messages thus disclosed.

"I know what I'll do!" she exclaimed aloud. "I'll send it to Alma. Frank won't care," and covering the valentine in its box, she started to run, and turned a corner at such speed that she bumped into somebody coming at equal or greater speed, from the opposite direction. A passer-by just then would have been amused to see a boy and girl sitting flat on the sidewalk, rubbing their heads and staring at one another.

"Lucy Berry!"

"Frank Morse!"

"What's up?"

"Nothing. Something's down, and it's me."

"Well, excuse me; but I guess you haven't seen any more stars than I have. I don't care anything for the Fourth now, I've seen enough fireworks to last me a year."

Both children laughed. "You've got grit, Lucy," added Frank, jumping up and coming to help her. "Most girls would have boo-hooed over that."

"Oh, I wouldn't," returned the little girl, springing to her feet. "I'm too excited."

"Well, what is up?" persisted Frank. "I skipped out of the side door to try to meet you."

"Well, you did," laughed Lucy. "Oh, Frank, I don't know how I can laugh," she pursued, sobering. "I don't deserve to, ever again."

"What is it? Something about that Driscoll kid? She was crying. I was back there and I didn't hear what Miss Joslyn said; but I saw her leave, and then you, and I thought I'd go to the fire, too, if there was one."

"Oh, there is," returned Lucy, "right in here." She grasped the waist of her dress over where her heart was beating hard.

Frank Morse was older than herself and Ada, and she knew that he was one of the few of their friends whose good opinion Ada cared for. To enlist him on Alma's side would mean something.

"Is Ada still there?" she added.

"Yes, she took charge of the valentine box after Miss Joslyn left."

"Oh, Frank, do you suppose she could have sent Alma the 'comic'?" Genuine grief made Lucy's voice unsteady.

"Supposing she did," returned Frank stoutly. "Is that what Big-Eyes was crying about? I hate people to be touchy and blubber over a thing like that."

"You don't know. Her mother works in the factory, and this was a horrid picture making fun of it. Think of your own mother earning your living and being made fun of."

"Ada wouldn't do that," replied Frank shortly. "What made you think of such a thing?"

"It was error for me to say it," returned Lucy, with a meek groan. "I've been doing error things ever since Alma came to school. Oh, Frank, you're a Christian Scientist, too. You must help me to get things straight."

"You don't need to be a Christian Scientist to see that it wasn't a square deal to send the kid that picture."

"No, I know it; but when Alma first came, Ada said her mother didn't allow her to go with girls from the factory, and so I stopped trying to be kind to Alma, because Ada wouldn't like me if I did; and it's been such mesmerism, Frank."

The boy smiled. "Do you remember the stories your mother used to tell us about the work of the error-fairies?"

"Indeed I do. My head's just been full of it the last fifteen minutes. I've done nothing for two weeks but give the error-fairies backbones, and I don't care what happens to me, or how much I'm punished, if I can only do right again."

"Who's going to punish you?" asked Frank, not quite seeing the reason for so much feeling.

"Ada. We've always had so much fun, and now it's all over."

"Oh, I guess not. Ada Singer's all right."

Lucy didn't think so. She was convinced that her friend had done this last unkindness to Alma, and it was the shock of that discovery that was causing a portion of her suffering now.

Frank and Lucy talked for a few minutes longer, and it was agreed that the former should return to the school and get any other valentines that should be there for Lucy and himself; then, as soon as it grew dark, they would run to the Driscoll cottage with an offering.

Late that afternoon three mothers were called to interviews with three little girls. Lucy Berry surprised hers by rushing in where Mrs. Berry was seated, sewing.

"Oh!" exclaimed the little girl, "I'm so sorry all over, mother!"

"Then you must know why you can't be," returned Mrs. Berry, looking up at the flushed face and seeing something there that made her put aside her work.

Lucy usually considered herself too large to sit in her mother's lap, but now she did so, and flinging her arms around her neck, poured out the whole story.

"To think that Ada could send it!" finished Lucy, with one big sob.

"Be careful, be careful. You don't know that she did," replied Mrs. Berry. "'Thou shalt not bear false witness.'"

"And how about the beam in my little girl's own eye?" asked Mrs. Berry gently.

"Haven't I been telling you all about it? I've been just as selfish and cowardly as I could be." Lucy's voice was despairing.

"I think there's a beam there still. I think you are angry with Ada."

"How can I help it? If it hadn't been for her I shouldn't have been so mean."

"Oh, Lucy dear!" Mrs. Berry smiled over the head on her shoulder. "There is old Adam again, blaming somebody else for his fall. Have you forgotten that there is only one person you have the right to work with and change?"

"I don't care," replied Lucy hotly. "I've been calling evil good. I have. I've been calling Ada good and sticking to her and letting her run me."

"Was it because of what you could get from her, or because of what you could do for her?" asked Mrs. Berry quietly.

Lucy was silent a minute, then she spoke: "She wanted me. She liked me better than anybody."

"Well, now you see what selfish attachments can turn into," returned Mrs. Berry. "Do you remember the teaching about the worthlessness of mortal mind love? Here are you and Ada, yesterday thinking you love one another, and to-day at enmity."

"I'm going with Alma Driscoll now, and I'm going to eat my lunch with her, and everything. I should think that was unselfish."

"Perhaps it will be. We'll see. Isn't it a little comfort to you to think that it will be some punishment to Ada to see you do it?"

"I don't know," replied Lucy, who was so honest that she hesitated.

"Well, then, think until you do know, and be very certain whether the thoughts that are stirring you so are all loving. You see, dearie, we're all so tempted, in times of excitement, to begin at the wrong end: tempted to begin with ourselves instead of with God. The all-loving Creator of you and Ada and Alma has made three dear children, one just as precious to Him as another. If the loveliness of His creation is hidden by something discordant, then we must work away at it; and one's own consciousness is the place where she has a right to work, and that helps all. It says in the Bible 'When He giveth quietness who then can make trouble?' You can rest yourself with the thought of His great quietness now, and you will reflect it."

Mrs. Berry paused and her rocking-chair swayed softly back and forth during a moment of silence.

"You know enough about Science," she went on, at last, "to be certain that weeks of an offended manner with Ada would have no effect except to make her long to punish you. You know that love is reflected in love, and that its opposite is just as certain to be reflected unless one knows God's truth."

"But you don't say anything at all about Alma," said Lucy. "She's the chief one."

Lucy sat upright. Her cheeks were still flushed, but her eyes had lost their excited light. "Frank Morse and I are going to take some pretty valentines to Alma's as soon as it is dark," she said.

"That will be pleasant. Now let us read over the lesson for to-day again, and know what a joyous thing life is."

"Well, mother, will you go and see Mrs. Driscoll some time?"

"Certainly I will, Sunday. I suppose she is too busy to see me other days."

In the Singer house another excited child had rushed home from school and sought and found her mother.

Mrs. Singer had just reached a most interesting spot in the novel she was reading, when Ada startled her by running into the room and slamming the door behind her.

"Mother, you know you don't want me to go with the factory people," she cried.

"Of course not. What's the matter?" returned Mrs. Singer briefly, keeping her finger between the leaves of her half-closed book.

"Why, Lucy Berry is angry with me, and I don't care. I shall never go with her again!"

"Dear me, Ada. I should think you could settle these little differences without bothering me. What has the factory to do with it?"

Angry little sparks were shining in Ada's eyes, and she evidently made great effort not to cry.

"What was this comic valentine that made so much trouble?"

"Oh, something about a factory girl. You know the verses are always silly on those."

"Well, it wasn't very nice to send it to her before all the children, I must say. Who do you suppose did it?"

"No one ever tells who sends valentines," returned Ada defiantly. "No one will ever know."

"Well, if the foolish child, whoever it was, only had known, she wasn't so smart or so unkind as she thought she was. Mrs. Driscoll isn't an ordinary factory hand. She is an assistant in the bookkeeping department."

"Well, they must be awfully poor, the way Alma looks, anyway," returned Ada.

"Oh, I know where they live," interrupted Ada, "and I knew they were factory people anyway, and you wouldn't want me going with girls like Alma."

"I'd want you to be kind to her, of course," returned Mrs. Singer.

"Then she'd have stuck to us if I had been. I guess you've forgotten the way it is at school."

Mrs. Singer sighed and opened her book wistfully. "You ought to be kind to everybody, Ada," she said vaguely, "but I really think I shall have to take you out of the public school. It is such a mixed crowd there. I should have done it long ago, only your father thinks there is no such education."

Ada saw that in another minute her mother would be buried again in her story. "But what shall I do about Frank and Lucy?" she asked, half crying.

"Why, is Frank in it, too?"

"Yes. I know Lucy has been talking to him. He came back and got her valentines."

"Oh, pshaw! Don't make a quarrel over it. Just be polite to Alma Driscoll. They're perfectly respectable people. You don't need to avoid her. Don't worry. Lucy will soon get over her little excitement, and you may be sure she will be glad to make up with you and be more friendly than ever."

This hard little determination seemed to give Ada a good deal of comfort for the present, and she longed for to-morrow, to begin to show Lucy Berry what she had lost.

Meanwhile Alma Driscoll had hastened home to an empty cottage, where she threw herself on the calico-covered bed and gave way again to her hurt and sorrow, until she had cried herself to sleep.

There her mother found her when she returned from work. Mrs. Driscoll had plenty of troubles of her own in these days, adjusting herself to her present situation and trying hard to fill the position which her old friend Mr. Knapp had found for her. Alma knew this, and every evening when her mother came home from the factory she met her cheerfully, and had so far bravely refrained from telling of the trials at school, which were big ones to her, and which she often longed to pour out; but the sight of her mother's face always silenced her. She knew, young as she was, that her mother was finding life in the great school of the world as hard as she was in pretty Miss Joslyn's room; and so she kept still, but her eyes grew bigger, and her mother saw it.

To-day when Mrs. Driscoll came in, she was surprised to find the house dark. She lighted the lamp and saw Alma asleep on the bed. "Poor little dear," she thought. "The hours must seem long between school and my coming home."

She went around quietly, getting supper, and when it was ready she came again to the bed and kissed Alma's cheek.

"Doesn't my little girl want anything to eat to-night?" she asked.

Alma turned and opened her eyes.

"Guess which it is," went on Mrs. Driscoll, smiling. "Breakfast or supper."

"Oh, have you come?" Alma sat up. She clasped her arms around her mother. "Please don't make me go to school any more," she said, the big sob with which she went to sleep rising again in her throat.

"Why, what has happened, dear?" Mrs. Driscoll grew serious.

"I don't want to tell you, mother, only please let me stay at home. I'll study just as hard."

"You'd be lonely here all day, Alma."

"I want to be lonely," returned the little girl earnestly.

Mrs. Driscoll looked very sober. "Let's sit down at the table," she said, "for I have your boiled egg all ready."

Alma took her place opposite her mother. Supper was usually the bright spot in the day, but this evening there seemed nothing but clouds.

"I want to hear all about it, Alma, but you'd better eat first," said Mrs. Driscoll, as she poured the tea.

"It isn't anything very much," replied the little girl, torn between the longing for sympathy and unwillingness to give her mother pain; "only there aren't any lonely children in that school. Everybody has some one she likes to play with."

A pang of understanding went through the mother's heart, so tender that she forced a smile.

"Oh, my dearie," she said, "you remind me of the old song,—