Miss Billy

CHAPTER X

A BROKEN SIDEWALK

MISS BILLY entered the study with an agitated whirl of ribbons and hair. Her hat was off, her face flushed, and every curl stood on end.

"What do you think I have discovered?" she said in indignant tones.

Beatrice looked up calmly from her mother's chair. Mr. and Mrs. Lee were spending the day away from home, and the elder daughter responded to the question with a little air of authority that was particularly exasperating to Miss Billy in her present mood:

"If you had asked what you had lost I should know," she said coolly. "Your temper has evidently gone astray."

"I know I'm foolish to blaze up so suddenly," admitted Miss Billy; "but it's the injustice of the thing that made me hot. Mrs. Canary has just been telling me how much rent the Caseys paid for this house."

"How much was it?" inquired Beatrice. "Less than we are paying?"

"Fifteen dollars instead of twenty," said Miss Billy indignantly. "But of course I wouldn't say a word about it if old Mr. Schultzsky had made the repairs he promised. He hasn't lived up to his agreement at all. We paid for having the house painted; father furnished the screens; Theodore mended the gate, and I propped up the back fence, myself. That window upstairs is still broken, and when Ted reminded him of it he grunted and remarked that the cold weather was over. The doorbell is out of order, the step is broken, and that walk in front of the house is a disgrace to the world. The whole tottering skeleton of a house will fall in a heap some day. If we pay twenty dollars a month for rent, as we agreed, he is going to do the things he agreed to."

"How are you going to bring this law of equality about?" inquired Theodore.

Miss Billy hesitated. The conferences with the landlord in the past had not met with any visible amount of success. Still there were forces which had not as yet been brought to bear. Miss Billy decided quickly, as was her custom.

"What he needs is some one to tell him a few unvarnished truths," she said energetically. "Father is too easy to deal with him, and mother is too ladylike. I'm going to interview him myself."

"Billy the Bold!" exclaimed Theodore. "My heart swells with pride at your courage. Where and when is the interview to take place?"

"I don't know," said Miss Billy dubiously. "I don't believe he has an office, and I hate to go inside that mouldy old shell across the street. I have my suspicions about his living there, anyway. He looks as though he slept in that old buggy of his."

"You might advertise and arrange a meeting that way," suggested Theodore. "'Sprightly maiden of sixteen wishes to meet a scholarly and refined gentleman of sixty-five. Object, new sidewalk, and what may follow.'"

"I've half a mind to tackle him to-day," said Miss Billy musingly. "The rent is due, and I might soften the blow with a generous bill. I believe I'll try it. Give me the rent money, Theodore. I'll get a promise out of him, or die in the attempt!"

"Do you mean to say you're going to pay him the rent yourself, and express your sentiments then?" asked Theodore.

"Yes, I do," returned Miss Billy stoutly.

"What shall you say to him?" asked Beatrice, with a note of admiration in her usually even voice, for Miss Billy never looked prettier than when she stood in her face-the-world attitude, with eyes big and earnest and face aglow.

"She will arm herself with the butcher-knife and the rent money," jeered Theodore, "and meet him at the door. And, withering him beneath her stern and forbidding glance, she will say: 'Move at the peril of your life. Mend the doorbell, put in the glass and fix the front walk before you speak a word. Stand and deliver.' And he will remark, like Riley's tree-toad, 'Don't shoot, I'll come down'; and ask, yea, beseech her to permit him to go for his tack hammer."

"Well, we need the improvements badly enough," said Beatrice, "but I don't think you'd better try it, Wilhelmina. It seems so bold,—somehow. Besides, you won't get anything out of him."

"Just you wait and see," said Miss Billy confidently.

It was about an hour later that Mr. Schultzsky's thin horse stopped at the gate, and Mr. Schultzsky himself shuffled up the narrow walk to the front door.

"Here comes your victim, Sisterling," announced Theodore cheerfully. "Do you feel that you need me for a witness, or to preserve the dignity of the occasion?"

Billy took off her sweeping-cap, and slowly adjusted the safety pins at the back of her shirt-waist.

"Just let him wait a while," she said. "That'll show him that the bell is out of order." But in spite of her savage words she met him at the door smilingly.

"Good-morning, Mr. Schultzsky," she said cordially. "Will you come in?"

For answer Mr. Schultzsky held out his monthly account.

"Oh, the rent bill!" responded Miss Billy. "You're like the stork, Mr. Schultzsky, that always comes around with a big bill. But I want to talk with you a few minutes. Won't you come in?"

The landlord ignored the feeble joke, and gave a stolid grunt, which Miss Billy interpreted as a refusal. "Well," she said, sitting down on the doorstep, "if you won't come in I suppose I can talk to you here. Mr. Schultzsky, perhaps you noticed that our doorbell is broken."

The old man made no reply, and Miss Billy went on:

"The window upstairs has never been mended——"

Mr. Schultzsky shuffled his feet uneasily, but gave no other sign of having heard her speech.

"And our front walk is so broken that it will be the death of somebody some day," continued Miss Billy. She paused for a response, but none came.

"When we came in here you promised to put the house in good repair for us," said the girl desperately, "but you have not kept your word. Everything that is new about the premises we have added. Theodore put up the fence, and has been puttering around the place ever since we moved in; the bill for painting and papering the house was sent to father (I never should have paid it if I had been in his place), although you promised to have it done. The whole house is shaky on its legs, and weak in its joints, and yet we are paying you big rent for it. I found out to-day that you are charging us five dollars a month more than you did the last tenants."

Did Miss Billy imagine it, or was there a gleam of avaricious triumph in the half-closed eyes? "You are not dealing fairly with us!" she exclaimed wrathfully. Then, in a more amiable tone, she added: "We want to be good tenants, you know; but aren't you going to make any of your promises good?"

Mr. Schultzsky took out his dingy bandanna and mopped his forehead. He made neither apology nor protest. "The rent is due," he said. Miss Billy's cheeks glowed as she meekly handed out the bills. "Maybe they'll make him more responsive," she thought to herself.

The landlord folded them, put them carefully into a huge wallet, and placing the rent account against the side of the house, receipted the paper in a queer cramped hand. Then thrusting it into her mechanical grasp, he turned, and without another word, shuffled off down the walk.

He hesitated at the gate and turned. "Good-morning, ma'am," he said. Then climbing into the rattle-trap, he drove rapidly away. Miss Billy, left alone on the doorstep, was torn by conflicting emotions. Angry as she was, she could not fail to see the humour in her ignominious defeat. And she was not the only one who was amused. The screen in Theodore's window came down with a bang, and a boyish voice chanted:

Miss Billy at once retorted:

and added, "Did you hear our conversation?"

"Our conversation! I heard yours. Is Mr. Schultzsky going to fix the premises, or did he raise the rent?"

"The old icicle!" scolded Miss Billy. "I couldn't get a word of satisfaction out of him. When he skewered me with those sharp eyes of his I couldn't talk."

"His glances would be in good demand in this family," remarked Theodore. "I'm glad you got slammed, myself. You were so all-fired smart about making an impression on him. I suppose you thought that when you had an axe to grind he'd run at your bidding with the cheerful expression of the lion on the Norway coat-of-arms. You've got your come-up-ance, Miss Billy."

His sister deigned no reply.

"What are you going to do about the sidewalk?" inquired her tormentor.

"Fix it myself," said Miss Billy haughtily.

"I'd like to see you do it," said Theodore. "It will be the second thing you've made a failure of on this bright and beautiful holiday."

"Wait and see," said Miss Billy, with determination in her step. She made her way to the pile of packing boxes in the cellar. "They won't make very good lumber," she said to herself, "but they're all I can get without sacrificing my own modest and retiring income. Beside, I suppose they will be easier to work with than heavy planking would be." It took time and strength to knock the boxes to pieces, and measure the boards; but Miss Billy was a born carpenter, and Ted's parting words added impetus to the task. An hour later, Beatrice, attracted by the noise of hammering in front of the house, looked out of the window. Down on her knees on the front walk was Miss Billy. She had on a chemistry apron made of gorgeous striped ticking, which was much stained by chemicals used in the school laboratory. A hideous garden hat was perched rakishly on her head, and a pair of Theodore's old gloves protected her hands. Her face was flushed, and her hair towsled; but two of the rotten planks in the walk had already been replaced by clean new ones, and the young carpenter was nailing down a third with great energy. Five of the Canarys and a varied assortment of Murphys and Levis were grouped around the spot, making a most appreciative audience.

Beatrice waited to see no more. She threw on a hat, and rushed to the fence.

"Wilhelmina Lee!" she exclaimed angrily.

Miss Billy raised a moist and somewhat grimy face.

"What are you doing?" inquired Her sister.

"Mending the walk," answered Miss Billy, articulating with some difficulty, for her mouth was full of nails.

"Well I should think you'd be ashamed," said Beatrice with spirit.

"I regret to say that I am a trifle ashamed," said Billy, removing the nails. "I have a miserable kind of false pride that fills me with dread lest any one of the Blanchard type see me doing honest labour. That's why I put this apron on,—for a disguise, you know."

"You needn't worry about concealing your identity," responded Beatrice angrily. "Nobody in the world but you would come out in full view of the public to make an exhibition of herself."

Miss Billy turned to her childish audience. "The public don't seem to be shocked," she said.

"If mother were home——" began Beatrice.

"Well, she isn't," responded Miss Billy coolly, "and I'm hoping to finish this walk before she gets back. You'd better go in, Bea. The chips may hit you."

chanted Theodore, looking over the fence; "Goodness, Miss Billy, have you done this much yourself? You are not only a model of industry, but a talented carpenter. I suppose now I'll have to acknowledge my defeat, and come and finish the job."

"You certainly will not have to finish the job," retorted Miss Billy, "although I shall be glad to hear your humble apology."

"Don't you want any help?"

"No," returned his sister stoutly.

"I'm sorry," said Theodore, hanging his coat on the fence, "for I'll have to work 'agin your will.' It isn't that I distrust your ability, Miss Billy, but I should hate to have the neighbours say 'Look at that poor Lee girl laying a walk to save her brother's white and shapely hands.'"

Miss Billy heaved a sigh of relief. "I have to confess that I shall be glad of your help," she said. "I know now what it means to go 'agin the grain.' Every one of those boards grew in that way."

"Sit on the curbstone and boss the job," commanded Theodore, "while your talented brother performs on the saw for a while. Miss Billy, in spite of all that flumpy motion of yours, I am still proud of you. You haven't much in the way of gait, but you have lots of grit."

The last visitor was John Thomas, who was returning from the grocery. He stopped at the sight of Theodore, who was driving nails and fitting boards, and sending Miss Billy into gales of laughter with his droll remarks.

"Would you be likin' help?" inquired John Thomas timidly.

"No, no, indeed," responded Theodore promptly. "Shall I let your ruthless hand have any share in this matchless work of art? Perish the thought! Why, John Thomas, this walk is my masterpiece, the work that shall live after me. Behold in me the Michael Angelo of sidewalks. After my death people will gaze upon this construction with tears and pride, and my monument will bear flattering mention of my prowess."

said Miss Billy, with a sly twinkle.

"That's too good to be impromptu," accused Theodore. "You made that up in the privacy of your apartments, and have been waiting for the chance to spring it on me. Now you observe what sisters' taunts are, John Thomas."

"I know already," said John Thomas. "That darn Mary Jane——"

"Tut, tut, John Thomas," interceded Miss Billy. "Marie Jean is not as bad as she is painted."

"Or powdered," added John Thomas with a sardonic grin.

"How's that for a highly coloured statement, Miss Billy?" asked Theodore impudently.

Miss Billy tried to look severe, but the dimples would show in spite of her efforts. John Thomas gazed at her merry face admiringly. "I wisht you was my sister," he said. "You can make fun over people, without making fun of 'em. Mary Jane is the most provoking—say, don't you want me to help you, honest?"

"Not now," said Theodore. "We have to go back to school this afternoon, and there are no more planks left, anyway. I'll tell you what you can do, John Thomas. If you'll help me finish this, next week, I'll turn in afterwards, and help you mend the broken planks in yours."

"All right," assented John Thomas, not unwillingly.

"We'll show old Abraham Schultzsky-czaravitch that we don't need his help," continued Ted; "and the people on Cherry Street how sidewalks ought to look. What shall I do with those decrepit places near the gate? There isn't another board in sight."

"Dear me," said Miss Billy. "We should have begun at the other end of the walk, where the planks are in the worst condition. Some one will be sure to go through those two old boards, and break a leg or two before next week."

"Maybe it'll be old Moneybags himself," suggested Theodore cheerfully.

"I hope it will," said Miss Billy.

CHAPTER XI

WEEDS

JUNE, departing, had scattered her wealth of floral treasures wide over the land, and Cherry Street, lowliest child of her adoption, had not been forgotten. Under the wholesome influence of trowel, watering-can, and good black soil Miss Billy's garden had grown apace, and now burst into such a riotous excess of bloom as brought the small Cherryites to the fence in groups of silent adoration. Beds of scarlet geraniums glowed like the heart of rubies on the green lawn. Sweet peas were opening their pretty eyes and peeping over into Mr. Hennesy's yard. June roses, white, pink, and blood red, swung on their stems breathing incense night and day, while on the side of the house bloomed the pansy bed, hundreds of pretty faces of many colours and marvellous size. Over the back fence nasturtiums were opening their golden hearts, and a group of tall hollyhocks stood boldly disputing right of way with the arms of the Hennesy clothes reel.

Mrs. Hennesy had been sweeping, and now she stood in the upstairs window looking down at the floral display in her neighbour's yard.

"It do be lookin' loike a park, Mary Jane," she commented at last. "Mrs. Casey was a good neighbour an' its mesilf that'll niver be over missin' her,—but she niver had things lookin' loike that. An' it's that girl—'Miss Billy,' as they call her,—that's done it all."

Marie Jean, who had condescended to the menial task of setting her bureau drawers to rights, turned her head slightly. "Well," she commented indifferently, "if she wants to waste her time on an old garden I suppose it's nobody's business but her own."

Mrs. Hennesy discreetly waived the argument. "I think I'll be goin' over there to see thim this afthernoon, Mary Jane. They're that noice an' frindly it ain't roight for us not to be goin' near thim. Miss Billy has axed me twice to have you come over. It ain't neighbourly, Mary Jane,—that's what it ain't."

"Well, go on if you want to," said Marie Jean, beginning to hum a tune to show the matter was too trifling for further consideration; but she broke off to add, "wear your bead cape and your lace bonnet if you do go."

Mrs. Hennesy's face took on a look of despair. "Well now, Mary Jane," she began, "it's just a neighbour, an' a clane apron——"

"You must wear your bead cape and your lace bonnet," reiterated Marie Jean, with spirit. "And be sure you go to the front door. You must go decently, or not at all."

Mrs. Hennesy departed from the room, and presently went down the stairs in all the glory of her best dress, augmented by the bead cape and the lace bonnet. Marie Jean secretly surveyed her through the crack of the door, and returned to her task somewhat mollified. "I guess they won't find anything to laugh at in that bead cape," she said, with a toss of her head.

Mrs. Hennesy passed out through the kitchen door, but returned again. She drew off her black silk mitts, stepped to the stairs to see if by any chance Marie Jean was listening, and tiptoed back to the kitchen cupboard. She looked uncertainly into the coffee can which was quite full, then into the tea caddie which was half full, and finally shook the sugar box, which responded roundly. "Well, I'll borry some tea, annyway," she whispered, and taking a cup, secreted it carefully under the bead cape. Thus fortified, she passed around to the front gate, and, thankful that Marie Jean's point of vision could no longer command her actions, hurried around by way of the pansy bed to her neighbour's side entrance and rapped at the door.

Mrs. Lee responded to the summons. "Why, it is Mrs. Hennesy," she said cordially, extending a hand to welcome her neighbour. "Do come in. It is cooler here in the dining room than in any other place in the house at this time of the day, so we'll sit right here. Beatrice, won't you take Mrs. Hennesy's cape and bonnet?"

"Well, now, I can't stay a minute," protested Mrs. Hennesy, in her soft Irish brogue. "I must be goin' back to start supper fer Mr. Hennesy, fer he gets no dinner these days but the bite he takes wid him in a pail. An' I only stepped over to see if I c'ud borry a drawin' of tea fer his supper. Me an' Mary Jane has been that busy all day we c'udn't get to the store."

The cup was filled with the desired "drawing of tea," and stood in readiness on the table, but as the minutes sped, Mrs. Hennesy, warm and perspiring, but loyal for Marie Jean's sake to the bead cape, began to feel more at ease. Mrs. Lee was not like Mrs. Casey, it was true, and could never fill her place,—but she would make a good neighbour,—and the girls were as pretty as pictures with their contrasting styles of beauty and pretty dresses.

Of course, they were not to be compared with Mary Jane. Mary Jane was—well, more dressed-up like and stylish, than these Lee girls. But they were nice and kind, and treated their mother like a queen. Mrs. Hennesy wished Mary Jane might be there to see it.

"Sure an' Mary Jane will be in to see you wan of these days, soon," said Mrs. Hennesy as she rose to terminate her call. "It's bashful she is, or else jealous, wid John Thomas soundin' Miss Billy's praises all day long. It's 'Miss Billy says this,' an' 'Miss Billy does that,' an' he thinks Mary Jane can't hould a candle to Miss Billy,—an' that's the thruth of it."

"And I think John Thomas is a jewel," declared Miss Billy warmly. "I wouldn't have a flower now if it wasn't for him. Do come out and look at them, Mrs. Hennesy,—and carry a bouquet to your daughter from me."

"Well now,—if them ain't lovely," declared Mrs. Hennesy, as Miss Billy began culling with a generous hand. "An' thim ould fashioned hollyhocks, as sassy as you plaze. Another summer an' I'll be havin' some fer mesilf."

"You may have slips and seeds from all my plants," responded Miss Billy generously, "and John Thomas could easily bring the dirt."

Mrs. Hennesy shook her head doubtfully. "It's wades I'd be after raisin'," she protested. "Sure an' flowers don't be growin' fer ivery wan loike they do fer you."

"Weeds!" Miss Billy took up the words dolefully. "Mrs. Hennesy, weeds are making my existence miserable. Look at my hands from keeping the weeds down. But it's no use,—look there!" She pointed as she spoke, up and down Cherry Street, and Mrs. Hennesy's following glance took in a long vista of rank vegetation flanking every sidewalk and dooryard, weeds great and small, broad and feathery, tall and diminutive, flaunting their rank growth in the hot sunshine.

"Well, thim's not all yours," said Mrs. Hennesy consolingly. "There's none in your yard, so ye needn't care."

"Oh, but I see them, and I hate them so!" said Miss Billy despairingly. "And the seeds are beginning to blow over here. The plantain and dandelions are killing my new grass already."

"Well, wheriver there's good, there's bad," said Mrs. Hennesy philosophically: "An' if the good stopped tryin' an' quit what w'ud become of the world, I'd loike to know? Hould fast to yer flowers, Miss Billy, an' remimber whereiver wan of thim grows a weed can't," with which comforting advice the kind-hearted Mrs. Hennesy, holding fast to Marie Jean's bouquet and the borrowed cup of tea, took her departure.

The setting of the sun brought relief to Cherry Street. Every tiny porch held its household group, and the clear moonlight and cool breeze brought recompense for the glare and toil of the day. By degrees the noisy laughter and outcries of children waned and ceased, the murmured talk of their elders died away, and the street was wrapped in slumber.

It was then Miss Billy came softly from her room, clad in a flowing wrapper. She listened longest at Theodore's door, till, satisfied by his heavy breathing that he slept, she descended the stairs and stepped out into the moonlight.

Mingled with the perfume of her roses came the rank breath of the weeds, bringing malarial poisons to the sleepers of Cherry Street. Mrs. Hennesy's words came uppermost in her mind. "Wherever there's good, there's bad,—and if the good stopped trying, what would become of the world?" "Well, I'm going to help all I can, and I'm going to commence on Mr. Schultzsky's premises." She caught up a sickle, crossed the sidewalk jubilantly, and bumped into another pale wraith, sickle in hand, who straightened himself suddenly from the O'Brien weeds.

"John Thomas Hennesy!" she exclaimed. "How you frightened me! What are you doing out here at this time of night?"

John Thomas wiped the honest drops of toil from his brow and regarded her sickle suspiciously. "I'm cutting weeds. I've cut our own and now I'm cutting Canary's. What are you going to do, I'd like to know?"

"I'm going to cut Mr. Schultzsky's," said Miss Billy, in a gay stage whisper. "No,—not a word, John Thomas,—I want the satisfaction of laying those weeds low myself."

"Well if she ain't a reg'lar brick!" said John Thomas admiringly, as the swish of her sickle came across the street to his ears. "Catch Mary Jane taking a sickle in her lily white hand to——"

The rest of his sentence was lost in the sound of his own sickle as it played dexterously among the O'Brien weeds.

There were other ears than John Thomas's on which fell the swish of Miss Billy's keen blade that night. Two eyes peered down from an open window of the Schultzsky house on a girl kneeling in the very dooryard. A girl who might have been mistaken for a saving angel with the moonlight on her wavy hair and flowing gown. A girl who attacked the weeds in a very fury of resentment, and scattered their rank growth in every direction. The eyes peered and peered, and then withdrew,—but gave no sign.

It was ten o'clock the next morning when Miss Billy came sleepily down to her breakfast. Theodore met her with suspicion lurking in his eye, but sang carelessly:

"Say Sis, who cut all those weeds last night?"

"Theodore," said Miss Billy pathetically, with a nervous sense of aching muscles, and a weariness on which his raillery grated, "is there any breakfast?"

"There is," said Theodore; "I couldn't half eat mine, I was so excited. I've been bursting to tell you the news for two hours. Guess, Sis, what's happened?"

"What?" said Miss Billy, looking apprehensive. That it was something portentous she knew from Theodore's manner.

"Mr. Schultzskyczarovitch fell through the rotten planks of our sidewalk this morning at eight o'clock, and broke his leg, even as you wished."

"Oh," said Miss Billy faintly, and then for no reason at all collapsed in a little heap to the carpet.

CHAPTER XII

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

MRS. CANARY was, literally speaking, behind the times. The weekly edition of that romantic sheet, the Household Times, had just arrived, and the mistress of the house had been unable to resist the temptation to "lose herself" in its crackling folds for a few minutes. It was Sunday morning, and the Sabbath to the Canary family meant the dressing of five children for attendance at a house of worship. There was a strong odour of soap and sanctity about the little home, but the mother was reading aloud, totally oblivious to the noise and confusion surrounding her:

"Si-lunce reigned in the great hall as the Duke faced his quack-ing vik-tum. The res-o-lute blood of his dough-ty ancest-ers shone in his deep eyes. 'I little expect-ed this of you, Phil-lup,' he said at last. The cring-ing slave fell abjeck-ly at his feet, without a word. The calm un-im-passioned voice per-ceeded. 'Fate has played you a sorry trick,' it said.

"The man gru-vel-ing at his feet made no reply, but the Duke's keen eye caught the gleam of a shining blade. 'Traitor, Mis-cre-ant,' he hissed, 'would you play me false in my own hall?' and he fell upon the fiendish form."

From the Duke's hall to the Canary kitchen was only a step. In the latter place the long-suffering Holly Belle was having a discussion with Fridoline as to the merits of church-going for the rising generation. Fridoline was determined of chin, and fiery of disposition, and at the early age of seven had conceived a violent aversion to the ritual of faith, and the proper observance of the Sabbath. The following patient monologue floated through the half-closed door:

"Oh, yes you will, Fridoline. Every one goes to Sunday School.... Here's the blacking all ready for you.... No, you can't wash first. What's the use of getting clean and then gauming yourself all up agin?... Black the heels of the shoes. Yes, they do show, too.... No, Friddie dear, please don't put on that clean collar until you wash your neck. Let me help you wash.... Well, I won't, if you don't want me to, but you are never pertic'ler about the edges, you know you ain't.... Stop brushing Mike's hair with that blacking brush!... Friddie, I'll tell Ma!... No, your neck ain't clean, an' your ears are a sight. Let me take that rag a minute. No, I won't get your coat collar wet.... Don't work your face that way, Friddie; it can't be as stiff as that.... Well, don't open your mouth, then you won't taste it.... Stop hitting my elbow.... Fridoline Canary!... I hate to tell on you, but if you don't stop I will.... Ma, make Friddie stop!"

Mrs. Canary, putting her forefinger between the pages of the Duke's history, came to the doorway and looked in,—the picture of grieved amazement.

"Why, Fridoline," she exclaimed. "Why do you hurt that loving sister of yours? Elbows is tender in ladies. Holly Belle, I wouldn't be too pertic'ler about the edges. He was washed good last Wednesday."

"Sh'd say I was," growled Fridoline, looking vengefully at his sister. "They's no need of making me as wet as wash-day agin. Holly Belle's too doggoned clean."

"Ye look as shiny as a new mirror," said his mother proudly. "There's nothing like Ivory soap for bringing out all there is in a man. You look every inch a policeman's son. Now your uncle Weatherby, who holds a government position at Washington, D.C.——"

"Do I have to go to Sunday School, ma?" whined Fridoline.

"Don't interrupt, Friddie dear," said his mother mildly. "You put me all out of mind of what I was goin' to say. Certainly you do have to go to Sabbath School. I ain't goin' to have it said that I ever let circumstances interfere with religion."

"I hate Sunday School," complained Fridoline; "I don't get no good going."

"Oh, yes you do, son," encouraged his mother. "You learn lots. Didn't you get promoted from primary to secondary less'n a month ago?"

"Yes," growled the boy, "en the only difference is that ye put a nickel in the collection instead of a cent. I'm goin' to be changed back agin."

"No, ye ain't," said his mother decidedly. "You get that church down on ye, and ye'll miss the Sunday School picnic. But I'll tell ye what ye can do, Friddie. After the picnic ye can all make a change and go to Mr. Lee's church. The Weatherbys have always been Baptists, but out of compliment to Mr. Lee I'm willin' to let you change. He's been so nice and neighbourly that I think he's deserved it. We won't say nothing about it, and some fine day we'll surprise him by five shinin' faces increasing his aujence."

The idea of a picnic and a surprise facilitated the dressing, and a half hour more saw the departure of the five Canarys in all the splendour of cleanliness and handed-down clothes. Mrs. Canary, standing in the doorway, viewed them with pride.

"Now mind yerselves," was her parting instruction. "Ye look like a little herd of white doves, and see that ye act so. Holly Belle, don't forget to lend Mikey your handkerchief when necessary. And conduct yerselves right during divine services."

"There goes Miss Billy," she added to herself, as her own little brood rounded the corner. "As chipper as a sparrer, an' a-carryin' something to the needy, I should judge by that Haverland chiny dish in her hand. Land o' love! She's turnin' into old man's Schultzsky's!"

A pudgy little maiden in a large rocking chair sat swinging back and forth upon Mr. Schultzsky's dilapidated porch as Miss Billy approached. The stolid Bohemian face was neutralised by the effect of two blonde pig-tails, which were braided so tightly as to give her a scared and hunted expression. She looked more frightened than ever as the visitor ascended the rickety steps.

"Good-morning!" said Miss Billy.

The little girl stopped the motion of the chair and stared at the newcomer.

"This is a nice place to sit."

The little girl's eyes grew rounder, but she made no reply.

"Does Mr. Schultzsky live here?" went on Miss Billy.

The child caught the familiar name, and nodded.

"Is he in bed?"

"Ja ne rozumim," said the little maid.

"Do you suppose he would see me?"

"Ja ne rozumim."

"Goodness!" said Miss Billy to herself. "This is worse than taking the census. I wonder what language the child is talking. I'm sure it's not German or French or Latin or Greek. I might try her on hog-latin. I never saw a child who couldn't understand that. May—I—see—Mr.—Schultzsky?" she persisted in the loud and emphatic way that one always uses with a foreigner.

The little girl stared at her in a frightened way.

"Mr. Schultzsky? In?" asked Miss Billy desperately.

The child looked about her with a hunted and terrified expression. Then she rose from her rocking chair, and backed hastily down the steps, keeping a safe distance between herself and the caller. "Ja ne rozumim," she gasped, and disappeared around the house. Miss Billy turned to the door. She looked about for a bell, but finding none, rapped upon the unpainted panel. There was no answer. A second knock only brought an echo which reverberated through the shell of the house.

She hesitated a moment, and then stepping timidly inside, found herself in a tiny box of a hallway which seemed to extend from the front door to the back. Two doors opened into the hall and Miss Billy paused irresolutely at one. A sound of heavy breathing came from within, and she knocked lightly.

"Come in," growled the voice of Mr. Schultzsky, and Miss Billy entered. The inside of the house proved even more uninviting than the outside. The room was small and low, with broken plastering, and soiled hemp carpet on the floor. The only window was closed, and the ragged green shade drawn tightly down. A musty odour, as of ancient food and air, pervaded everything.

On a narrow bed in the corner lay Mr. Schultzsky with a ragged blanket drawn up over his head to exclude even the faint light. Over the foot board dangled three flat irons at the end of a rope—an improvised weight for the injured leg. Miss Billy caught her breath at the sight.

Mr. Schultzsky evidently heard the sigh. He threw his arms out uneasily, but his head remained in eclipse. His muffled voice came from beneath the blanket:

"Chvatej, Johanna, Ja mam hlat."

Miss Billy started to speak, but Mr. Schultzsky interrupted.

"Get me something to eat. Quick," he ordered.

The first sentence was unintelligible to Miss Billy, but the command was clear. A wild plan of propitiating the old man seized her. She turned to the hall without a word.

The small room adjoining was evidently the kitchen, for a rusty stove stood at one side, and a few shabby dishes were ranged in a cupboard on the other. A half loaf of bread, a piece of salt pork, and a cup partially filled with tea stood on a shelf. There was no other food in sight. The fire had burned low, but Miss Billy poked the coals together and added some fuel.

"Ne davej vec nes jeden," called a muffled voice from the next room.

"He's probably advising me to save on fuel," thought Miss Billy, little guessing how nearly she had arrived at the truth.

She filled the tea-kettle, set it over the blaze, cut a slice of bread, and found a fork. The soup, which she had brought with her, she poured into a tin pan and set on the stove to re-heat. Then she looked about for serving utensils. There was no tray or napkin to be seen, but she covered the bread board with the fringed doily that had accompanied the soup.

As she stepped lightly about her work her spirits rose higher than they had since the news of the landlord's accident. She hugged to herself the grim retribution she was receiving as she scorched her face, as well as the bread, over the coals.

"I can forgive myself, if he forgives me," she thought.

There was no butter or milk in the cupboard, and the tableware seemed to be in all stages of decrepitude. The Haviland bowl looked most incongruous in company with the cracked cups and plates on the tray, but Miss Billy was forced to be content. She covered the stove, and turned the drafts in a way she felt sure Mr. Schultzsky would approve, and then, leaving the improvised tray on the shelf, with fear and trembling approached the door of the bedroom. The old man seemed to be asleep. Fearful of disturbing him, Miss Billy stood hesitating in the doorway. Then she cautiously opened the window, and pulled up the shade a few inches. The light showed a dirty room in a great state of disorder. On a chair beside the bed was an array of bottles, dishes, and the remains of a meal. Old clothes were strewn about the floor, dust lay in great rolls everywhere, and the cobwebs under the bed had only been disturbed by the motley pile of shoes and clothing which was thrust underneath. A broken harness was suspended from a hook on one side of the room, and on the opposite wall, crooked and high, hung the picture of a beautiful woman.

Miss Billy went quietly to work to remedy things. She hung up the clothes that littered the place, and arranged the medicine bottles. Just as she was debating with herself as to the advisability of rousing the invalid, the old man moved painfully. "Are you coming, Johanna? Hurry up," he called from beneath the bed clothes. Miss Billy made haste to obey. She brought the tray from the kitchen, and quietly approached the bedside. Mr. Schultzsky lifted the blanket from his face. He looked greyer and older than ever, his hair was matted and towsled, and in the dim light he was a ghostly and forbidding object. Even bold Miss Billy's hands shook as she helped to raise him, and prop him a few inches higher with a pillow. As she took up the tray again the old man glanced at her for the first time. Instead of the stolid Bohemian face he had been expecting to see, Miss Billy's sunny grey eyes, more tender and earnest than usual, looked down into his stony grey ones.

There was a moment's silence in the room. Then Mr. Schultzsky spoke:

"Who are you?" he said.

“Who are you?” he said.

"Don't you know?" answered the girl. "I'm Miss Billy—Wilhelmina Lee—the girl at No. 12. I came to see if there was anything I could do for you."

"Huh," growled the man. The syllable seemed to be forced through his set teeth.

Miss Billy, trembling inwardly, went on bravely with her recital:—"Don't you remember? You fell on our sidewalk. It was that day when you wouldn't do anything about the repairs, and I went out to try to mend it myself. And oh, Mr. Schultzsky, I said I hoped you'd fall through the rotten planks! I was only half in earnest, you know, but you did come along and fall. And I feel as though it were my fault. I'm so sorry—so very sorry." Her voice faltered. The old man looked at her unwinkingly.

"Go away," he said.

"But you'll let me help you," entreated the girl, bringing the chair nearer to the side of the bed.

"Go away," repeated the old man.

"I can't go away and leave you in this condition," pleaded Miss Billy, bent on restitution.

Mr. Schultzsky tried to raise himself from the pillow, but fell back with a groan. He regarded her vindictively, and his face was more sinister than ever as he repeated savagely—"Go away! Go away!"

Miss Billy set down the tray on the chair and withdrew quickly. The burning tears filled her eyes as she felt her way along to the gate. "He was cruel," she said bitterly to herself. "I didn't deserve it." A calmer mood took possession of her before she reached the door of her home. "Well, he didn't strike me," she said stoutly. "And I know I did my duty. But I shan't try to make friends with him again, and I shall never never let Ted hear of this."

But her brother's quick wits had already anticipated and made ready for her home coming. As she flung off her hat, and threw herself into the big chair in the study, the sermon board thrust a black and white message before her eyes. It had been empty when she left the house. Now it bore a rude sketch of a nondescript animal, a cross between a bear and a wolf, arrayed in a huge night cap. An unmistakable Little Red Riding Hood stood at the side of the beast. And below was scrawled in Theodore's hand: