Polly in New York

CHAPTER XIII—BACK AGAIN AT PEBBLY PIT

“But no one told you how John and Tom came here as soon as college closed, and brought a railroad man with them to see about building a spur from Bear Forks to the valley at the foot of Grizzly Slide. It’s twenty miles nearer Denver than Oak Creek, so the company agreed to risk the work if Pebbly Pit would guarantee a certain amount of travel and freight over the road.”

“Well—did you, Daddy?” asked Polly, eagerly.

“Tom Latimer did. Agreed to put up bonds for same.”

“Tom? Why Tom Latimer?” asked Eleanor.

“Oh, Tom is mighty ambitious, you know, and seems as if he liked this section better than the East. However, it is Tom we-all can thank for that new railroad. When you-all come home next year, you-all will be riding over your own tracks.” Mr. Brewster chuckled.

“Is Tom going to join that crew of engineers that John and he were with last year?” now asked Eleanor.

“No, indeed! Tom and John will be right here with us this summer. We-all need their help in working out the problems of the mine and Rainbow Cliffs,” responded Sam Brewster.

“I don’t suppose we’ll see a bit of John as long as Anne and her mother remain in Denver, visiting their old friends,” pouted Polly, jealously.

Her father glanced slyly at her, and smiled. He felt sorry for his little girl who had always felt that her brother John was her own personal property. Now that someone claimed first love and attention from him it was mighty hard for her, as well as for Mrs. Brewster.

“Ah should wonder at John if he failed in gallantry to his sweetheart,” was all Sam Brewster said aloud.

“Oh! Everyone makes me tired! Anyone’d think Anne Stewart was a saint. She’s only a girl the same as Nolla, or me. And no one is found going mad over either one of us!” cried Polly, pettishly.

Eleanor laughed. “Give us a few years and then see!”

Polly curled her lip impatiently. “A few years from now and I’ll be in Europe with dear old Fabian, studying art. I won’t want attention from anyone, then.”

“Seems to me,” ventured Mr. Brewster, gently, “my little girl is hankering for homage or a beau—which is it?”

Polly stared aghast. “Neither one! How dare you say so.”

“You-all were speaking of attention.”

“But I was only thinking of John. He’ll have Anne for a wife all his life long—after next year. But he won’t have me after I finish school.”

In spite of the tearful tone, Mr. Brewster had to laugh. “Don’t waste your time on John, Polly girl. Let me make up for him and be your devoted attendant. Ah’ll always be at your beck and call!”

“Oh, Dad! That reminds me!” exclaimed Polly, turning square around to face her father, and forgetting her recent misery over John. “How did you ever manage about that rose valentine you sent me?”

Sam Brewster let the reins dangle recklessly as he, in turn, stared at his daughter. “What valentine?”

Polly winked roguishly and laughed. “You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, Daddy. I’ve spent a whole year in New York to some advantage, you see. I have seen lots of such feigned innocence as yours.”

“But honest, Poll, Ah don’t even know what you-all are talking about; Ah got your sweet valentine, and so did maw.”

Polly frowned at her father. “Didn’t you wire to a florist in New York and order a dozen great roses for my valentine? And tie the two hearts pierced by a golden arrow, about the center of the flower-stems?”

“Positively, this is the first word Ah’ve heard of it!” declared Sam Brewster so emphatically, that the girls believed him.

“Now, Polly, the hunt is narrowing down,” laughed Eleanor. “We know it was no one in New York, and it wasn’t Jim or Ken. Your father says he didn’t do it, so it leaves only a few more to ask.”

Suddenly Polly clasped her hands. Her face was radiant. “Why, of course! How could I forget? It was dear old John! He, too, always remembered me on Valentine Day.” Then turning to her father, and shaking a finger at him, she added: “But you didn’t remember me, this year, bad man.”

“Tell truth, Polly, there was so much to think about and so much to do, over the buildings and mines, that Ah clean forgot there ever was such a day, until I got your card. Then I felt sorry.”

“Well, thank goodness, John remembered!” sighed Polly. And Eleanor noticed that she smiled again in forgiveness of her brother’s shortcomings.

When the wagon stopped at the porch of the ranch-house, Eleanor laughed: “Just as we drove up last year—but oh, how different this year!”

Mrs. Brewster hurried out to welcome her dear girls, and laughed at Eleanor’s remark. “Still making Irish bulls, Nolla!”

They all laughed merrily, and then Sary rushed from her kitchen, and clasped Polly to her ample bosom. Eleanor came in for her share of the maid’s embrace before she had to hurry back to the dinner.

“Ah’se cookin’ cabbige soup, Miss Nolla,” she explained.

“Why, Sary, that first night we were here last summer, you had ‘cabbidge’ soup, too!”

“We-all has to hev it once a week reg’ler now, ’cause Jeb loves it, an’ he is a foreman, you know.” Sary’s pride in her spouse’s promotion was most evident.

While Polly and her mother cozily sat together on the porch and smiled happily to be in each other’s company, once more, Eleanor walked to the barns with Mr. Brewster. She had an object in view, and she never delayed in finding out what she wanted to know, should the opportunity come and offer itself to her.

“Mr. Brewster, do tell me honestly—did you send the roses, or do you know who did send them to Polly?”

“Nolla, Ah never heard of them until to-day. Ah’m as curious as you, to know who sent them. What were they like, anyway?”

“Well, you must know, Mr. Brewster, that American Beauty roses like they were, cost a small fortune in New York, at that time of the year. Each one of those roses cost not less than five or six dollars. And the trinket that was bound to the stems was not a cheap thing, either. In fact, the chain was of fine, gold-plated links, and the arrows were gold-plated, too. It was an imported curio.”

“By the Great Horned Spoon! Roses that cost like that! Why, they wilted, didn’t they?” gasped Sam Brewster.

Eleanor laughed merrily. “Sure thing! But we kept them as long as possible. That is just where the joy comes in of getting costly roses—they wilt. And anyone, who will spend that much money on one, must think a heap of her first—see?”

Mr. Brewster stood stock-still. He caught at Eleanor’s arm. “Ah’ve got it!”

“What—who?” Eleanor was breathless in her eagerness.

“Find the silly swain that’s making eyes at my Polly, and you’ve caught the rascal who sent the roses.”

Eleanor screamed with laughter. “Oh, you’re funny! But isn’t that exactly what everyone’s been doing?”

“Oh—have they?”

“Sure! I learned that Mr. Fabian tried to find out who the fellow was. And then Mr. Dalken wanted to know. The Latimers and Evans put Jim and Ken through the third degree, but no one confessed to it. Now do you believe John sent them?”

“I do not!” was the positive reply.

“Neither do I! Because John sent Anne a bunch of roses for her valentine but they were only seven dollars. She got a dozen, the usual short-stemmed Bride Roses. He wouldn’t dare send his sister such gorgeous ones and only give his fiancée cheaper ones.”

Sam Brewster smiled at his companion. “Nolla, you’re a wise little owl.”

“Anyone would be, after having had the social training that was fed to me from the bottle up!”

Mr. Brewster laughed at this, and Eleanor then said: “Guess I’ll be going back, now, Mr. Brewster. I wanted to know your opinion about John and the roses.”

“Wait, Nolla. Have you any answer to it yourself?”

“U—m, yes—I have a sort of a suspicion. But it isn’t fair to anyone to even hint at it. So don’t ask me.”

“This much you might answer, however, seeing that Ah’m Polly’s father and the most concerned in the beaux she has. Do you fancy it might have been your brother Pete?”

“Pete!” The very tone made Mr. Brewster smile as he saw that Eleanor had never thought of him. “Anyway, Pete and Poll hardly know each other.”

“Ah wonder if it could have been Paul Stewart—he seemed dreadfully attentive to her that time when we-all were visiting you-all in New York.” Mr. Brewster watched Eleanor shrewdly.

“I just guess it wasn’t Paul! He sent me a lovely card for a valentine; and while we were home in Chicago, I asked him about flowers. He never thought to wire a florist about sending me any flowers, he said. So I know Paul hadn’t anything to do with it.”

“Ah! Well, Nolla, now we know who he was, eh?” laughed Sam Brewster, tweaking Eleanor’s ear and hastening away to the barns.

Eleanor stood watching him. Then she laughed softly: “He sure did put one over on me, that time!”

As she walked slowly back to the ranch-house she soliloquized to herself. “That’s just who it was. Gee! It’s almost as fine as having a romance of my very own. But Polly doesn’t want it so.

“All the same, when John and Tom come down here, I’m going to tease Tom about the wonderful roses Polly’s brother sent her. Then we’ll see what we’ll see!”

Eleanor could keep her own counsel as well as Sam Brewster, but the two exchanged wise looks, now and then, when no one was watching. Still, never a word was said again on the rose subject.

A week after the two girls got home, the others in the party came down from Denver. Mrs. Stewart was to be Mrs. Brewster’s guest that Summer, Eleanor was Polly’s, and Anne said she was John’s visitor. Then Tom Latimer laughed and said: “I’ll have to be Mr. Brewster’s pal.”

“I can promise you that you won’t have your head turned by any pretty school-girl, Tom, if you are my guest,” chuckled Sam Brewster.

Eleanor tittered, Tom flushed, but the others laughed at such a speech.

Plans had been made to take a three-day trip up over Top Notch Trail, and inspect the progress on the mine, but Mrs. Brewster and her guest would remain at home, by preference.

The merry cavalcade started out, Polly on her beloved Noddy as usual, and Eleanor on Choko. The others rode their horses, and Jeb led an extra horse with the packs.

There was no planned order in riding; first one girl would have one of the escort, and then another would ride up and “cut in” to urge the other onward. Thus everyone was laughing and teasing and talking merrily until they reached the falls on top of the mountains. Here, where Polly had caught the trout, the year before, they all had dinner.

“My goodness! Folks in New York never know what they miss by never coming to the Rockies,” declared Polly, her eyes wandering to the far-off line of mountain-ranges.

“And folks who live near these mountains are never happy until they get to New York,” remarked Mr. Brewster.

Polly laughed. “Oh, that is when one needs education. I have always had too much mountain and not enough of other good things. But now that I am tasting a little of everything, I like my mountains as well as anything I’ve seen.”

“D’ye think you-all will stay at home after this?” eagerly asked her father.

“Double no!” affirmed Polly, emphatically.

Everyone laughed at the expressive slang, and Polly added: “At least, not until I have seen Europe, year after next, and tried a hand in my profession. Maybe—if I fall in love, some day—I’ll come back to Pebbly Pit to raise my family.”

John Brewster thought this so funny that he ha-ha-haed loudly, but the others smiled doubtfully. Eleanor could not help sending a swift look at Tom Latimer to see how he received the information. But Tom was scrambling to his feet, so his face could not be observed. Eleanor glanced away from him to Sam Brewster, and saw the latter with a twinkle cornering his eyes as he noticed Tom’s awkward movement.

“U—m!” muttered Eleanor. “I’ve got your number, Tom Latimer!” But no one overheard her whispered thought.

As the riders proceeded on their way, Paul Stewart said: “I don’t see why you folks should think this such a tough trail. I consider it rather broad and good.”

“Humph! It’s a highway these days, what with all the riding up and down. But last year you wouldn’t have been able to see any thing but trees and rocks,” Polly returned.

It was as Polly said: almost as clear a trail as any woodland road. At Four-Mile-Blaze where the girls were well-nigh lost on their first ride over the trail, there now was a good but narrow bridle-path. Thence it was easy going up the steep side to Grizzly Slide.

“W-ell! See the crowd of men working up there? And hear the sound of tools and machinery!” exclaimed Polly, as she rode out of the screening forest, and came to a man-made clearing.

“Of all things! Trees chopped down and turned into huts; an army of workmen living here as if they belonged,” added Eleanor.

“We are blasting and clearing away the rubble that hides your mine. We had both ends working a few weeks ago, but now we are trying to drop a shaft from the top,” said Mr. Brewster.

The visitors camped at the miners’ settlement, that night, and the next day the girls were taken about to see the great progress made according to the plans to mine the ore.

A cable-road was being built from Choko’s Cave down the steep mountain-side, to the valley, and this was to be used to carry the ore-cars up and down. As the girls stood on top of the ledge that overhung the cave, they could look straight down the awesome mountain-side, where the forest had been cleared for the cable-line.

“It looks as if it all cost a heap of money,” said Polly.

She had been so engaged in looking at the change wrought in her beloved mountain, that she failed to see that the others had wandered away. But someone stood behind her. She felt it. As no reply came to her statement, she turned and found Tom Latimer waiting for her.

“Oh, where are the others?”

“Gone over to the other side where the underground river comes out, you know.”

“I was saying, Tom, that this must have taken a lot of money.”

“More than we figured on, but once we begin to get out the ore, it will roll back four-fold.”

Polly was impressed, but still wondered “Where did all the money come from, Tom?”

“Stocks. We wanted to keep most of the Capital for you and the first owners, you know; but investors wouldn’t put up so much money without a vote. So we had to sell out some of the voting shares. That’s where Mr. Dalken came in—he bought a big block of your stock, and it is his money that’s doing this.”

“I think he is the nicest man! I used to think he sent me a wonderful bunch of American Beauty roses for a valentine, but I only learned the other day that it was John! Wasn’t it funny?”

Tom laughed with Polly, and said: “What made you think Mr. Dalken sent them?”

“Oh, something happened once to Nolla and me, in New York that nobody knows—so don’t you go and tell on us, Tom!” Polly waited anxiously to get Tom’s promise, then she proceeded.

“And Mr. Dalken happened along in time to save us from the beasts. After that he made us use his small automobile when we went to night-school. We were awfully grateful to him for it.

“Then when Valentine Day came along, I suggested to Nolla that we send him a lovely card telling him how good he was to us. I sent it, and late that night the roses came. I felt sure, all the time, that he sent them; I thought he had forgotten it was Valentine Day until after my card reached him. I always wondered why he didn’t put Nolla’s name on the card, too, as well as mine. But now I know he never sent them.”

“Does John know you’ve found him out?” asked Tom.

“No, not yet; but some day I’ll tease him about it.”

“Don’t! let him think you are still trying to guess who sent the roses. It will tickle him to pieces to believe you think it is an ardent admirer of yours.” Tom laughed merrily with Polly at the very idea.

“That’s just what I will! And you and I will sometimes pretend you sent the roses to me, and then we will watch John’s face. Maybe he will up and tell the truth!” added Polly.

“No, I doubt it. You see, Polly, John is a wonderful actor, and one never knows just what he thinks. If he managed to keep a close mouth to me, his best friend, all this time, it must be because he didn’t want Anne to find out he sent you such roses.”

Then the two conspirators walked back to join the others, but Polly and Tom felt that they had a good joke between them, thereafter.

CHAPTER XIV—ANOTHER YEAR AT SCHOOL

“Yes, we rested, all right, Nolla; but it seems we might have done some of the work we planned to do, before we left New York. There is that chest with our colors, paper and other things—we never as much as unlocked it.”

“Polly, I can paint any sort of drapery you want, and in any light or shadow. I can paint a vase, a chair or a lamp; I can draw a hall, or a room, or a window. What more do you want? Why should we sit down and make loads of these things all summer, when we know how to do the work, already?”

“I don’t know, Nolla, except that we ought to practise!”

“Pooh! I’m ready for all the work they want to pile up on me, now and I’m glad I’ve been so lazy all summer.”

“To tell the truth, Nolla, I am more than ready to work with all my heart. I feel as if I would dry up if I played any more,” admitted Polly, laughingly.

With this desire to again take up their studies in New York, the girls left Pebbly Pit the second week in September. By the last of the month, they were eagerly planning with Mr. Fabian for the new year’s school work in art and decoration.

“I have a pleasant surprise for you, girls,” announced Mr. Fabian, after greetings were exchanged. They all sat under the locust tree in the little yard of the Studio.

“‘On with the dance,’” laughed Eleanor.

“As you know, I landed in New York the first week of September, and found most of my friends still away in the country. But Mr. Dalken was in evidence, as ever, eager to offer me his hospitality, until I located for the Winter.

“We sat in the medieval library of his apartment, and I remarked, casually, at the unusual size of his rooms.

“‘Yes,’ replied he. ‘That’s the advantage of leasing one of the old-fashioned apartments not so far uptown. One gets the benefit of being near the center of activities in the city, and at the same time one can have the great rooms once occupied by the old gentry of the town.’

“‘What a splendid room for gatherings,’ I said, never dreaming of his inspiration.

“‘Seeing that you are looking for a suitable room in which to conduct your little private class of art decorators, why not use this library? I have all kinds of reference books in the cases and I am so seldom at home in the early part of the evening that you will be undisturbed.’

“I was astonished, as you may imagine, and I said, ‘But, Mr. Dalken, we couldn’t think of using this room and the apartment, without some return for your kindness.’

“He laughed. ‘What do I want of rent or its equivalent? I am only too glad to do you and those charming students of yours a good turn. You see, I still owe Polly and Eleanor a great balance which can never be paid. Were it not for those two girls I would not have a child—even though I seldom see my little one.’

“I felt that he was so earnest about the offer that I said we would talk it over with Mr. Ashby and let him judge. Not that I did not see the advantage of using the rooms, but I wanted an impartial friend of Mr. Dalken’s to decide whether or no he might regret the generous offer, later; and then not care to tell us that we bothered him with our regular classes three nights a week.

“So we visited the Ashbys the following evening, and to my amazement, Mr. Ashby was enthusiastic over the plan. He said: ‘Now you’ve started out right, Dalk, and to prove how much I think of your offer, I am going to have Ruth join the class this year—if Mr. Fabian will take her. It might be rather nice to have Elizabeth join the class, also, even though she may not show any talent for the work.’

“‘Now, Ashby, you must pardon me if I speak frankly,’ Mr. Dalken then said. ‘One of the main reasons for Mr. Fabian’s resignation from Cooper, and giving all his valuable time to a small class, is to urge those talented ones forward. If my little girl, who detests application to study of any sort, were to join this class, the basic idea would be ruined. The class would be held back by one delinquent. But I appreciate your motive in suggesting a way that I might enjoy the companionship of Elizabeth so often, without the tyranny and incompatibility of her mother’s temper.’

“Mr. Ashby colored, as he thought he had been diplomatic in his hint,” concluded Mr. Fabian. “So now it is settled that Ruth Ashby joins our art class, this year, and we will meet at Mr. Dalken’s rooms for our work. That is nice for you girls, as it is only a short walk of a few blocks from the Studio.”

“Nice for us—why, it is just scrumptious!” exclaimed Eleanor.

“And such a wonderful environment as that library, will give us inspiration, too,” added Polly. “I never did see such a kind man as Mr. Dalken! If I had my way to accomplish it, I’d shower all the joys and successes in heaven or earth upon his generous heart.”

“He is great and good, and it seems as if justice must be sleeping, when such a man must suffer alone because of a silly moth of a wife. If he would only hearken to his friends and seek freedom from such galling bonds! but he doesn’t think divorce ever righted a wrong, and he still hopes he can bring Mrs. Dalken to a sense of her family-obligations and gratitude, for all she has been so unselfishly given. Poor fellow!” Mr. Fabian shook his head despondently over their benefactor’s future.

“Polly and I never knew what was the trouble in the Dalken family, Mr. Fabian, but what we have seen and known of our dear friend, I’m sure that he was never to blame for it,” said Eleanor, defensively.

“I never care to gossip or to repeat a story, children, but now I think you ought to know why Mr. Dalken lives alone so much as he does. If we are to use his rooms, you must know what a magnificent character he is, and then should you hear any disagreeable gossip that can be traced to his wife, you will understand the situation.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Fabian, will never be repeated by either Nolla or me,” promised Polly, solemnly.

“I know it, that is why I feel I ought to tell you.

“Mr. Dalken, as you know, is a descendant of one of the oldest Dutch Settlers in America. His family, from olden times down to the present day, were patriotic and loyal Americans. He is as staunch an American as you will find, anywhere.

“Mrs. Dalken was a poor girl, and not over-brilliant. But Mr. Dalken admired her prettiness when she was a young miss, and when he was but a slip of a youth. They went to entertainments together in the small town where they both lived, and enjoyed each other’s company for two or three years.

“Then the young man went to college and saw the world. He realized how superficial Amy Lathrop was, and as time went by, he would have forgotten her completely, had she not kept up her side of the correspondence. And gradually a suggestive note crept into her letters.

“When his college days were over, young Dalken returned to his birth-place to settle the country estate that was his. Then he met Amy again, and she found him so chivalrous that it was an easy matter to give him to understand that she had waited for him these five years—that she had been the soul of faithfulness.

“Without consulting his friends, or mentioning the matter to others in the town, he became engaged to her on the claim from her, that it had so been understood before he went to college.

“Well, they were married, one day, and then our poor friend’s martyrdom began. Amy Dalken was of no use in anything or in any way. True, she had two children, but it may have been much better had she never become a mother. She had no affection for them or the father, and only thought of spending money and enjoying herself to the utmost.

“Dalken was wealthy before he married Amy, and his alert mind coupled with his unusual foresightedness in finance soon rolled up fortunes for him. His wife spent money like water, and was sought after by the vultures of society—those who fawn and fondle as long as they can get something out of the victim.

“Mrs. Dalken’s balls and bridge-parties were famous—I might say, notorious—for at the former the extravagance was a matter of newspaper comment, and at the latter, the stakes were so high that others lifted their eyebrows at the losses and gains.

“Little Billie Dalken was eighteen months old, and the joy of our good friend’s life, when a dreadful thing happened. Billie was a chubby, handsome little chap exactly like his father—the same intelligent brown eyes, the same fine features, and he was unusually clever and large for his age.

“Mr. Dalken had been called to Washington on business one day, and that same day his wife was about to give a grand dinner and bridge, later. There were plenty of servants in the household, but on such an occasion everyone was busy with the extra work. Billie’s own nurse gave him his supper and was about to put him to bed when she discovered a wheezing sound in his throat. She feared another attack of croup. She was about to apply the remedies she knew of, when Mrs. Dalken’s maid came to the nursery.

“‘The mistress says you are to go to her at once and I am to sit with the baby for a while. She wants her head massaged because it aches so!’

“And the nurse answered as she thought proper, ‘Go and tell your mistress that Billie has a bad cold and I must remain to take care of him.’

“The maid tossed her head and left the room. She hadn’t any desire to remain with a baby, especially if it was wheezing and beginning to cough. So she may have exaggerated the reply somewhat. However, that did not excuse Mrs. Dalken from her next act. She was furious and sent the butler to the nursery to pay off the nurse and see that she left the house at once!

“Then she sent the parlor-maid to sit in the nursery with the child. That dinner was a great success, but just before the card-party began, the maid sent down word that Mrs. Dalken was to come up to the nursery at once, and see what ailed the baby—he was so red in the face and had a fever, she said.

“Mrs. Dalken whispered a reply: ‘I’ll be up as soon as I can get the tables started.’ Then she never gave it another thought.

“Three times during that evening the frightened parlor-maid sent down for the mother to come up. And three times the hostess smiled and nodded and then forgot all about the call. Before midnight, the boy began choking and gagging and the hysterical maid ran back and forth hoping to find the butler, or someone, who would help in this extremity.

“Every servant in the house was busy serving drinks, cards, or cigarettes, and none had time to call up a doctor. Then the daring maid telephoned for a doctor she knew. But he lived so far uptown that it took half an hour to arrive at the house.

“Before he got there, little Billie Dalken was sleeping in the last long rest. No one was with him but the parlor-maid when he strangled to death; but the awful contortions of his face and body showed the suffering he endured during the convulsions.

“Mr. Dalken came home early in the morning, the Washington business having been successfully consummated without any loss of time. It was not yet seven o’clock, but everyone in the house seemed astir. The heavy fumes of smoke and the aftermath of a riotous night’s play were evident throughout the first floor rooms. He smiled sardonically at it all, then rushed upstairs two steps at a time to peep at his beloved children.

“Elizabeth was weeping fearfully in her little crib that stood in the room connecting with the nursery. The moment she saw her father she screamed with relief.

“‘Oh, Daddy! Billie’s so twisted and queer—and he won’t answer when I call him.’

“Poor Dalken had a sudden premonition of catastrophe and rushed into the nursery. He almost collapsed at what he saw there. A strange woman was about to take up the stiff little form and do for it what a loving mother should reverently insist upon doing.

“The father, with a broken heart, took his beloved boy and prepared him for his last resting-place. All through the three days elapsing after the night of Billie’s death, Mrs. Dalken remained locked in her boudoir, her maid seeing that the smelling salts were handy whenever her lady called for them. Between the visits of condolence from her intimates, and the fittings of the deep mourning, the mother was kept too busy to meet her husband, or watch with the remains of her baby.

“But after the funeral (that also buried most of Dalken’s joy in living) he insisted upon a serious talk with his butterfly wife. She promised everything, even to giving up her gambling games, if he would but refrain from the publicity of the cause of Billie’s death and the subsequent separation. She used her sharpest weapon to gain her point—Elizabeth.

“So several more months went by, but the poor man was a mere money-machine in his own home. Even his little daughter began to believe that society was everything, and love or home-ties only a necessity that interfered with one’s pet pleasures and freedom.

“Without consulting her husband, Mrs. Dalken planned to visit Europe with a party of friends. To keep her grasp on her money-supplier she took Elizabeth with her. A nurse looked after the girl. She remained abroad for more than a year, and when she returned she went directly to a fashionable hotel instead of seeing that her home was reopened in New York.

“She had ordered everything swathed and packed for the time she was abroad, and had left but two rooms livable for the owner and master of the magnificent dwelling.

“Dalken lived there in gloomy sorrow for a few months and finally his friends insisted upon his going to the Club where he could meet cheerful companions and stop brooding over his irreparable loss.

“Mrs. Dalken was in no hurry to reopen her home, and all that Winter she remained at the hotel, while her husband stopped at his club. She allowed him to call upon her two or three times a week, when others were present, and she not only accepted all the checks he offered her, but ran up fearful debts everywhere. He was permitted to take Elizabeth out at certain times, but Mrs. Dalken was clever enough to keep hold on the girl, as she knew it was her only hope of keeping her clutch on her provider.

“Just after the Holidays, that season, she went to Palm Beach, but she entered Elizabeth in a boarding school out of the city. Dalken tried, in many ways, to learn where his child was, but he had no success in his search.

“Then he wired his wife that she must turn over the girl to him while she was running around, or he would instantly stop her income and sue her for desertion. Then she came back to New York and took Elizabeth out of school again, but matters got worse and worse for poor Dalken. Finally his dear friends, who loved him for what he was and is, persuaded him to sue for a legal separation. They hoped Mrs. Dalken would turn over the girl whom she had no natural love for, to the father, as a hostage.

“But she was a wise woman, by this time. She accepted the separation without demur, but refused to give up Elizabeth. It was then agreed that the girl might choose which one of the parents she preferred to live with. Having had so many years of life with her mother, the girl became like her—selfish, vain, and arrogant. No love or gratitude was found in her character.

“Just at this time, Mr. Dalken was taken very ill, and his mother (who is a dear, you will find, when you meet her) came from England to nurse him. He was ill for more than a year, so Elizabeth chose to remain with her mother for the time being.

“Mrs. Dalken, Senior, took her only child back to England with her, as soon as he could travel, and there she kept him well-nursed and cared for, in her cousin’s English country-house, until he had regained his strength and fairly good health. Then mother and son went to the Continent to visit the scenes of the famous battle-fields, and then on to the Riviera for a month.

“The wise mother knew that taking Mr. Dalken’s thoughts from his own miserable state, and making him think of other’s woes, would the sooner brace him up to face his life-problem. And so it was.

“Elizabeth elected to remain with her frivolous mother but Mr. Dalken supports her handsomely, and often bribes her to spend an afternoon or evening with him, by having a valuable gift awaiting her coming. Mr. Ashby, and other friends, have advised Dalken against this pernicious way of baiting the inclinations of the girl, but he says they do not know his heart-hunger, and so cannot judge his actions.”

“Oh, Mr. Fabian! Our poor, dear Mr. Dalken!” sobbed Polly, when the speaker had ended his story.

“If I ever meet that horrid woman I shall tear her hair out, I know I shall!” wept Eleanor, vehemently.

“If only we could do something, Nolla, to make up to our dear Dalk, for all his sorrow,” sighed Polly, drying her eyes.

“You can love him the more for this story, girls, but do not refer to it, as he is still tender over his loss.”

CHAPTER XV—THE FOUNDLING

“Yes; but it seems to me he should have been able to see through such a shallow thing as that woman must have been, when he returned from college and found her apparently waiting for him,” Polly replied.

“But he’s so tender-hearted, you see, he couldn’t bear to give her any pain or trouble. That must have been the only reason why he allowed her to get him.”

“I suppose so. Why, even now, he is an easy prey to the scheming people who know he has barrels of money, and who simply pretend to be friendly for what they can get out of him.”

“It’s too bad he can’t be satisfied with just Mr. Ashby and Mr. Fabian for man friends, and we few women for his women friends,” mused Eleanor. “We’d love him for himself.”

Polly smiled. “Wouldn’t you and I give him a gay time—with high-school keeping us employed every week-day, and art class every other night in the week, to say nothing of lectures, exhibitions, and other things that Mr. Fabian has us do, in line with our work.”

The two girls had crossed Madison and Fourth avenues by this time, and were slowly walking down the street towards the Studio. It was a beautiful Fall night, and the moon was almost full, hence they were in no hurry to reach home and go indoors.

“I hear Anne singing—she must have company,” said Polly as they neared the house.

“Yes; the windows are open in the living-room, and I can peep under the shades and see Anne at the piano,” whispered Eleanor.

Just then the breeze wafted one of the shades back from the window, and the girls recognised Mrs. Evans and Mrs. Latimer as the guests of Anne.

“Let’s hurry in!” exclaimed Eleanor, suddenly turning from the front window and darting into the vestibule.

The outside door was open wide, and as Eleanor ran up the one step that raised the tiled entrance from the sidewalk, she stumbled over a soft bundle that seemed pushed against the wall.

By this time, Polly also reached the vestibule, but the inside door being closed and locked for protection, it was too dark in the vestibule for either of the girls to see what the huge bundle contained.

“It feels like a bundle of old clothes. Maybe some servant hid it here for a time—she may be going to come back for it,” observed Eleanor, prodding the bundle with her foot.

But to the surprise of both girls, a little squeal issued from the roll. In the semi-darkness, they stood spell-bound and gazed at each other.

“It’s a baby—of all things!” cried Polly, hastily trying the handle of the door.

“Ring—ring the bell like mad. I’ll pick it up!” Eleanor exclaimed, excitably.

“Open the door—Anne—hurry up! We’ve found a baby!” called Polly, leaning over the iron rail that projected over the area door, in front of the windows.

Both girls forgot that they had latch keys, but Mrs. Evans sat nearest the window where Polly stood, and quickly answered her call. Eleanor, meanwhile, had carefully picked up the rolled-up baby and, the moment the door was flung open, carried it indoors.

“Where did you find it?” exclaimed four amazed women.

“Right at our door—in the vestibule,” said Eleanor, placing her bundle on the divan and proceeding to open it.

“Wasn’t anyone in sight?” asked Mrs. Latimer, cautiously.

“Not that we noticed; but, of course, we never thought to look, when we found what was in the bundle,” explained Polly, nervously eager to assist Eleanor in what she was doing.

Before the swaddling blankets were released from the baby, it began to utter baby-talk. The females, grouped closely in front of the divan, smiled appreciatively.

Finally the last wrapper, which was of mosquito netting, came off, and there lay a chubby little fellow of about fifteen months. He had a fist in his mouth, and with the other dimpled hand he clutched at Polly’s hair as she leaned over him.

“Oh! Isn’t he a darling! He must belong to a neighbor!” exclaimed Mrs. Stewart.

“He certainly is not starved or poorly cared for,” added Mrs. Evans, with experienced voice.

“But he only has on his nightie! Not another stitch to be found,” said Anne, carefully rolling the baby over to see if he had any clothes under him.

“There’s a note—pinned on the blanket!” cried Polly, anxiously removing the pin and taking the paper over to the light.

“It says—just one word—‘Billy.’ Did you ever!” exclaimed Polly, glancing from one to the other of the friends who were waiting expectantly to hear about the boy.

“Let’s see!” demanded Eleanor, frowning at such a short explanation.

Polly handed the slip of paper to her friend and joined Anne at the divan where she was divesting the boy of his nightie to see if further clues might be found. About his fat neck was a very fine gold chain, and suspended from that was a tiny flat heart-shaped locket. It did not open, but on the plain gold face was a monogram of three letters: B— D— W—.

“Now we’ve got something to work on! ‘B’ stands for Billy, of course, but what can ‘D’ and ‘W’ mean?” Eleanor said excitedly.

“No child is christened ‘Billy,’” Anne contradicted. “He would be ‘William’—and that is what the ‘W’ is for. Children are nicknamed ‘Billy’ or ‘Willy’ later. Now his middle and last name must begin with the ‘B’ and ‘D’—or vice versa.”

“Shake out the blankets carefully—perhaps another paper is pinned to one of them,” said Polly, eagerly.

But there was no other message in the blankets.

“Let’s take off his flannel shirt! There may be something there,” ventured Mrs. Stewart.

In less than a minute, the pins were out and the woven shirt of Merino was removed, but no further information rewarded the anxious seekers. So the shirt was carefully replaced and the boy’s nightie slipped over his head again.

“It’s all hand-made of fine linen,” remarked Mrs. Latimer, as she felt of the hem at the bottom.

“And one can see that he is no slum child,” added Mrs. Evans.

“Who can he be? and why should anyone want to leave him?” were the perplexing questions Polly asked of the others.

They all shook their heads and wondered. But the boy had no use for such condolences; he crawled over the divan and when he found not what he was in search of, he screwed up his dimpled face and began a lusty call.

Anne instantly took him up and began to chirp to him. He smiled a cheerful thanks and showed eight little front teeth. That brought all his new friends to his feet—metaphorically speaking.

“Isn’t he a dear!” declared Mrs. Stewart to no one in particular.

“Yes, but we have to advertise him at once. It may be that a villain kidnapped him and ran away with him just to get a reward. He may have been seen, or chased by the police, and then dropped the baby in our vestibule,” said Mrs. Latimer.

Anne laughed. “Which analysis shows that one of us married a lawyer—Mrs. Latimer gives us good advice.”

“Or he may belong to a young mother who cannot longer earn a living for him,” added Mrs. Stewart.

“That’s not likely, mother,” returned Anne. “As the child would look thin and sickly if a mother found it hard to support it. I rather think it is a babe that belongs to some distracted mother in the neighborhood. He has evidently been put to bed for the night. Possibly a vindictive nurse-girl took him from his home to make his parents seek for him and then left him at the most convenient door.”

“Anne’s reason sounds the most plausible, and we’d better ’phone the police-stations at once. Billy’s parents may even now be wild with despair, for we do not know how long he was in the vestibule. All we know is, he was not there when we came in, about eight o’clock,” said Mrs. Evans.

So she telephoned the police-stations, near by, and also asked the morning papers to run a short notice under a suitable caption. Before she had finished this work, however, Master Billy began his complaints again, and now he was beginning to look as impatient as such a good-natured baby could.

“Maybe he’s hungry?” suddenly suggested Mrs. Stewart.

“That’s just what ails him—but we haven’t any bottle!” exclaimed Mrs. Evans.

“Perhaps he drinks from a cup—he is old enough to have been weaned, you know,” ventured Mrs. Latimer.

A cup of warmed milk was brought in short order, and Mrs. Stewart held it out to Anne, as she was still holding the baby. The moment Billy saw the cup, he almost leaped from Anne’s arms, and immediately began gurgling for very glee.

Everyone laughed at his antics, and Anne was about to hold the cup to his lips, when two fat hands clutched at it in a hungry endeavor to reach the contents. Of course, part of the milk spilled on his nightie but the remainder he drank greedily.

“He’s well-trained—whoever he is. I should say that he has had every attention in the past, to have him act like this at his age,” said Mrs. Latimer.

“But we don’t know how old he is. He may be months older than we thought for,” argued Mrs. Evans.

“Well, he isn’t more than eighteen months at the most,” declared Mrs. Stewart.

Polly and Eleanor stood silently by listening to these experienced mothers, but Anne smiled indulgently at them, and kept her opinions to herself.

Dr. Evans and Mr. Latimer stopped for their wives, and when they had heard and been shown the fine boy, they gave their masculine opinions.

“A baby who was boarded out, and the parents hadn’t paid up recently. So the woman left him on the first door-step to get rid of him,” was the doctor’s verdict.

“There spoke the doctor who knows of such cases,” said Anne.

“That isn’t it, however,” remarked Mr. Latimer. “I am of the opinion that this child is of wealthy parentage. He likely is a stumbling-block for some heirs, who wish him safely out of the way so they may claim the estate.”

Anne laughed again. “There speaks the attorney. But you should have had the jealous heirs remove this monogramed locket before they tried to get rid of all evidence of a barrier to their inheritance.”

“Reckon we’d better stop romancing and put Billy to bed,” said Polly, in a matter-of-fact voice.

Her common sense caused a general laugh, and Dr. Evans added: “Well, ladies! Come on, if we are to get home to-night.”

With a last look at the sleepy cherub, and a good-night to the friends living in the Studio, the four New Yorkers went out.

“Where shall he sleep to-night?” asked Anne.

“Let me have him?” cried Polly.

“Oh—I found him first—let me have him,” begged Eleanor.

“No, girls; babies should sleep absolutely alone. I will get a drawer from the high-boy and rig him up a nice little bed therein. To-morrow night he will be in his own home, most likely,” explained Mrs. Stewart.

So saying, she hurried upstairs, and in a short time returned, carrying the drawer. Anne and the two girls helped cushion it softly, and then they placed Billy in it.

He was asleep almost before the bed was ready, and the moment his head sank into the soft pillow, he closed his eyes.

“He seems unusually good, Anne,” ventured Mrs. Stewart, as the four foster mothers stood gazing down at the flushed little baby-face.

“And very pretty for a young child,” added Anne.

“Well,” sighed Polly, “I suppose we’ll have to hand him back in the morning.”

“Some time during the night, most likely,” grumbled Eleanor. “The police will tell his folks where he is, and they will be at our door ten minutes later.”

But no one called for Billy, that night, and in the morning the papers told the story of the foundling. A minute description of his appearance and clothing was given, and the telephone number of the family where he was to be found. Mrs. Evans had wisely refrained from giving any names of the tenants of the Studio.

Before seven o’clock that morning, the telephone began ringing. Anne answered it, but described the baby left on their door-step differently from what the anxious mother on the other end of the wire had expected.

By eight-thirty, the telephone had called Anne or Polly five times. At last Polly said: “My goodness! how can five mothers lose boys like ours in one evening? Can’t they take care of them?”

Eleanor then said, “Why, in Chicago, there are records of more than a score of babies lost every day. Most of them find their parents again, but lots of them don’t.”

“What happens to the poor tots who can’t find their folks again?” asked Polly, horrified.

“They go to the orphan asylum—or the Children’s Home.”

With a gasp, Polly glanced at their laughing little Billy. Then she looked anxiously at her three companions. They had all thought of the same thing, it seems.

“I just couldn’t let him go to a foundling home,” Polly whimpered.

“We can afford to keep him, Polly. You and I can adopt him,” declared Eleanor.

But Anne did not seem to approve of the plan. She shook her head as she gazed at the curly-haired boy who was banging the breakfast table with a teaspoon. “That would never do for you, girls.”

But another ring on the telephone interrupted further argument on that subject. Anne described Billy all over again—“Large brown eyes, very soft silky hair—yellow and curly. About thirty pounds weight, eight front teeth, aged about sixteen months.”

Before she had completed her description of the foundling, the distracted mother at the other end of the wire sighed: “He’s not mine—thank you.”

“Polly and I are not going to school this morning, Anne,” Eleanor now informed the young teacher.

“I don’t see why not?” demanded she.

“First, your mother can’t be chasing back and forth to the ’phone all day; and secondly, we do not propose having a stranger calling and stealing our baby. Unless the parents present perfectly satisfactory evidence that Billy is theirs, no one shall get him.”

Anne smiled, but seeing that it was almost nine o’clock, she consented to the two girls remaining home that session; furthermore, she promised to explain to Mrs. Wellington about the magnet that had kept them at home.

Later in the morning, Dr. Evans stopped in to see if any one had called for the baby. Polly and Eleanor were in the midst of giving Billy his bath in the large tub. Such laughing and shouting had never been heard in that bathroom before. Even Mrs. Stewart laughed in sympathy, as she told the doctor what a fine well-behaved child Billy was.

“I’ll call again this evening, Mrs. Stewart. If he has not been claimed by that time, I will see what I can do to relieve you of his care.”

“Oh—he is no care whatever, doctor; and I doubt whether the girls will consent to your taking him to a home—for a few days, at any rate. They think someone will call for him.”

“But you haven’t any clothes or other necessities for him, have you?” asked the doctor.

“We didn’t have at first, but Nolla and Polly ran to a department store on Fifth avenue—it’s only a few blocks over, you know,—and bought him everything he needs. When he had his shoes on he stood up and began walking about while he held fast to the chairs. He certainly is a bright child.”

“Well, the girls ought not to go silly over him. Buying clothes and shoes and everything—until they know who he is.”

“If no one ever calls, Billy has to have clothes; anyway, we thought we ought to get them, now, instead of later.”

“I can see, Mrs. Stewart, that you are as foolish about the baby, as the two girls are themselves,” laughed Dr. Evans, as he took up his hat to depart.

Mrs. Stewart laughed, but the moment the doctor was out of the front door, she hurried upstairs to help dress the boy after his bath.

Once he was dressed in his new clothing, and had had a full cup of warm milk and gruel, he cuddled down for his nap.

“Now, no use talking! he is a wonder!” declared Eleanor.

“We can keep him, as well as not. He isn’t one mite of trouble,” added Polly.

Having waited until Billy was fast asleep, Mrs. Stewart tip-toed from the bedroom, beckoning the girls to follow her out.

The police-department had sent their detective to get all the facts from Eleanor and Polly, and the press had sent to find out if there was any other clue or information about the boy; then, no further interruptions took place that day.

The two girls sat out under the locust tree in the yard, because there they could hear the first whimper from Billy, when he awoke from his nap. As they sat there, they discussed his future.

“If no one ever calls for him, what shall we do with him?’ asked Polly, giving Eleanor a penetrating look.

“You’ve got something on your mind—what is it?” countered Eleanor.

“Yes, I have, but I want to hear what you have to say.”

“I’d love to keep him, Polly—at least as long as we are in New York. I suppose it would be impossible to take him abroad with us, next summer,” returned Eleanor.

“Yes—impossible. And if we keep him with us, we will have to hire a nurse-maid, as poor Mrs. Stewart can’t look after a lively youngster all day, while we are at school.”

“What was your idea, then?” wondered Eleanor.

“Can’t you guess, Nolla? And his name is Billy, too!”

For an instant Eleanor’s face looked too surprised to allow her to speak. Then she stammered: “Well—of all things!”

“What do you make of it?” laughed Polly.

“Wonderful—but what is your plan?”

“Seeing his name is Billy, and his eyes are dark brown and his hair golden curls, and he is about sixteen months old—all of which are in his favor to advance my little scheme, I should say that we try to keep him a few weeks, right now, and see if we can add to Billy’s winsome ways. Meanwhile, we will use every effort to find if he has any relatives; then should he be a veritable foundling, we will present him to dear Mr. Dalken for his very own.”

“Splendiferous! Perfectly great!” cried Eleanor, slapping her friend on the back in her delight.

“We will quietly advertise for and select a fine elderly nurse for Billy, right off, and when we have him all ready to be given away, he will be a little wonder that no one can refuse.”

“Oh, Mr. Dalken won’t think of refusing him, I know! He will be so happy to have a boy again,” Eleanor said, enthusiastically.

Several times during the day, the telephone rang and someone asked for a description of the baby. Also a number of wild looking people called at the address to have a look at the child, but all departed with forlorn hopes.

As that night was not a class-evening, the girls were free to do as they liked with their time. Anne and her mother were amusing themselves, as much as the baby, by teaching him to say ‘Billy.’ Polly and Eleanor were eagerly watching results. But harshly upon this sweet scene, the door-bell jangled.

“I’ll go!” called Eleanor, and in another minute she had opened the door.

“Oh, Mr. Fabian. Do come in and see our baby!”

Then another admirer joined the circle of worshippers around Billy’s feet. Mr. Fabian had heard the story from Dr. Evans and dropped in to see if the boy was still with his friends.

“He is a dear little shaver, isn’t he?” laughed Mr. Fabian. “But what will you do with him if no one claims him?”

“We really haven’t thought of that,” said Anne.

“I’m afraid, if we keep him here with us a week, or more, we won’t want to give him up again,” added Mrs. Stewart.

Mr. Fabian saw, from the corner of his eye, that Polly was behind him trying to draw his attention. So he managed to turn his head without attracting Anne’s or Mrs. Stewart’s attention, and saw the two girls shake their heads wisely, meantime their fingers rested upon their lips in sign of keeping silence.

Consequently no more was said, that evening, about Billy, and when Mr. Fabian was ready to leave, Polly and Eleanor said they believed they would walk to the corner with their old friend. The baby had been in bed for some time, and Anne was busy writing manuscript, so no one objected to the proposal. Mrs. Stewart merely remarked: “Don’t go any farther than the corner, dearies. And hurry right back home.”