The Girl Warriors: A Book for Girls

Now that she was working cheerfully, she even found a pleasure in dish-washing, as who should not, given plenty of hot water, clean towels, a pleasant kitchen with the sun shining in, and a little cherub of a brother chattering on with his cunning tongue, which finds so much difficulty in pronouncing the consonants?

So, when Mrs. Burton returned to the kitchen, everything was in fine order, and a bright fire had prepared the oven to do its share in the Saturday baking.

When noon came, Winnie really felt that she had had a pleasant morning, although it had been spent in beating eggs and grating lemons; besides, she had for once had her mother all to herself, and she sat down to the lunch she had prepared feeling quite happy.

She did not get an opportunity to leave the house all that day, except to do two or three errands in the neighborhood. She took Norah's toast and tea up to her, and spent the greater part of the afternoon in her room, trying to make amends for the morning's impatience by bathing the sick girl's head, changing her pillows, and moistening her parched lips.

CHAPTER IX.
RALPH'S BIRTHDAY.

A few days after the events narrated in the last chapter, a bright, sunshiny morning ushered in Ralph's fourth birthday anniversary, and a fine time he had receiving, in the first place, four little love taps and then four kisses from each member of the family in turn.

Norah had entirely recovered from her illness, and had baked a cake especially for him, lighted by four wax candles, which was placed in front of Ralph's plate at breakfast time. His father gave him that toy most delightful to the average boy—a mechanical engine. Jack's gift was a basket of fruit, his mother's a humming top, and Winnie's a little autograph album, in which she had copied the following verse, written by Aunt Kitty:

Ralph was much pleased at having a little book all his own, with a verse in it made on purpose for him, and he had Winnie read it over and over, until presently he could say it himself.

But the crowning gift of all was sent to the house just as they were at dinner, labeled "From Grandma, Aunt Kitty and Uncle Fred." It was a handsome velocipede, just the right height to fit the little short legs. Strange to say, Ralph learned to manage it at once and rode right off on it, and when Aunt Kitty came to take him and Winnie to the park, it was with great difficulty that he could be prevailed upon to leave it behind. Finally they effected a compromise by allowing him to take his humming top, which he insisted on stopping to spin every few rods, much to the amusement of Aunt Kitty and the intense though unexpressed disgust and mortification of Winnie.

When they reached the park they sat down on one of the benches to rest awhile, and watched Ralph feed the swans with some crumbs from the cake which he had brought. After that Aunt Kitty took them to the pretty dock, and, having selected a boat, rowed them around the lake, to the great interest of some boys, who called out to each other, "Come and see a girl row a boat!"

Suddenly Ralph gave one of his tremendous howls, and Winnie grasped him just in time to keep him from pitching headlong into the water. He had dropped his top in the lake, and was trying in vain to seize it before it sank.

It was some time before he could be pacified, and it was not till his aunt had him sit beside her and take hold of one oar and help her row, that he could be comforted. The remainder of the boat ride was very pleasant, and they supposed the child had forgotten all about the loss of his top. When they went home to supper, however, and Mr. Burton asked: "Well, my little man, what have you done with your birthday?"

"I took it to the park and lost it in the lake, papa!" was the unexpected reply.

"Fortunate child!" exclaimed Aunt Kitty, catching Ralph up, and laughing. "How happy the rest of us would be if we could dispose of our yearly reminders of the lapse of time in the same way! We might fancy ourselves blessed with the gift of eternal youth if it were not for our birthdays."

But Ralph was not yet through celebrating. It was very seldom that Mrs. Burton allowed him to go out in the evening, but this was a special occasion, and as there was an opportunity for him to have a treat, she thought it only right for them to take advantage of it. There was to be a stereopticon entertainment at their Sunday-school, and they were all going. Ralph had not been told until supper was over, and even then, short as the time was until they should start out, he could hardly restrain his impatience.

Aunt Kitty took him on her lap and told him the story of Red Riding-Hood and the Fair One with the Golden Locks, and repeated "Mother Goose" jingles to him, and thus managed to keep him somewhat contented until time to start.

The walk through the lighted streets was a great pleasure to the little fellow. They went down Central Avenue, and, all the stores being lighted, it seemed to the child a different and mysterious world, more full of lights and people than the one he had been accustomed to.

"Now, Ralph," said his father, "we are going to see a great many beautiful things to-night. But this is different from most times; for generally, the more light we have, the better we can see; but these pictures can be seen better in the dark, and they put out all the lights. When that happens, some foolish boy or girl may cry, but I want my little man to keep hold of papa's hand and not say one word till he sees the beautiful pictures."

"I doesn't twy, papa!" said Ralph, indignantly. "I'se a big boy now—not a dreat big boy, but a little big boy. And I hasn't twied—oh, not for twenty-ten days, I dess."

"Very well," said papa, "be sure to remember that by and by."

When they reached the church it was still quite early, and the few people already there were laughing and chatting and having a pleasant time. This was very much to Ralph's disapproval. He did not attend church often, but when he did go, he had been talked to so much about keeping still, particularly by Winnie, that he thought it very naughty to make a noise in church, so now he said in a loud whisper:

"Papa, I sink dose people is very naughty, to talk out loud in church."

"But this isn't Sunday, Ralph," his father said; "you may talk, too, if you like."

Ralph was so surprised at this that he had nothing to say for some time.

Presently some of the girls of Winnie's Sunday-school class came and she went away with them, and Miss Benton stepped across the aisle to speak to some friends. This secession grieved Ralph very much. "I sink auntie's weal mean, to go and stay wiz dose ozzer people!" he said.

"Aunt Kitty will come back in a few moments, Ralph," said mamma.

By and by all the people stopped talking and took their seats, and Aunt Kitty came back and sat down beside Ralph. Two men entered and placed a big screen in the front part of the church. The organist began to play something slow and sweet and solemn, which made one think of things sad but not unhappy.

The lights were suddenly turned out, and Ralph had just time to draw his breath quickly, and seize his father's hand and snuggle up close to him, when a picture appeared on the screen, and his father lifted him up that he might see it better.

On the screen they saw a lonely, desolate mountain, which two persons were slowly ascending, one of them bearing an armful of wood. One represented an old man; the other was a young, slender boy. The organ was now giving forth minor strains, in queer, broken time, full of heartache.

The next picture showed Abraham binding Isaac on the altar, and the look of surprise and terror on the face of the boy was equalled only by the intense but submissive expression of sorrow on the face of the old man.

The organ was still sounding its sad tones, when the picture changed again, and this time the angel was staying Abraham's hand. And now the organ pealed forth tones of joy and gladness.

The next views thrown on the screen appeared to be scenes in Switzerland. These Ralph did not seem to be at all interested in, until they saw a representation of Lake Lucerne, showing some children rowing a boat. This reminded Ralph of the loss of his humming-top, and he said, quite loudly, "Do you sink, papa, that little boy lost his birfday, too?"

"If he did," said Aunt Kitty, "he will probably find another one to make up for its loss."

The next picture was that of Jacob's Dream; a tall ladder, reaching to the sky, with the bright-winged "angels ascending and descending on it," as the narrative so simply tells us. Jacob lay with his head on its stony pillow, a wondering but happy look on his face, and his arms outstretched as if he would fain seize the lovely vision.

The dreamy tones of Schumann's "Traumerie" stole upon the air, and changed from that, with skillful modulations, into a grand anthem, and the big chorus choir, which till now had been silent, burst into joyful but majestic strains: "The Lord reigneth; let the people tremble."

Ralph knew this picture quite well. He had seen it many times in the big family Bible, and it was always a favorite with him, and now he clapped his little hands. This was an unintentional signal, and there was such a round of applause that the whole thing was repeated.

The next picture showed Jacob wrestling with the angel; and in the following one, Jacob, kneeling, receives the desired blessing. Then came a series of comic pictures, which made everybody laugh. Then the words "Good-night" were thrown on the screen in immense letters, and it grew light in the church as suddenly as it had before grown dark, making everybody rub his eyes on account of the sudden glare.

The people all began to hurry out as if it were necessary to reach home without a moment's delay. Winnie soon joined her family, and in a short time the "Green Line" had taken them all home.

Ralph rubbed his sleepy eyes as he said his evening prayer, but was not too sleepy to thank God for his nice birthday.

CHAPTER X.
ERNESTINE.

"Mamma," asked Ernestine Alroy, "may I ask the girls to have their next meeting here and take tea with us?"

Mrs. Alroy looked at her daughter with some hesitation as she said: "Ernestine, you know I would like to please you, but have you sufficiently considered the matter? All of your friends are very comfortably situated, and it will be impossible for us to entertain them as they do you. Besides, I cannot be at home until after six, and it will make tea very late."

"I know all that, mamma, but I am sure I can make them have a pleasant time. I do not think we ought to be ashamed of being poor, when we think of the One who 'had not where to lay His head.' For your sake, poor mamma, I wish we had more money; but as for myself, I feel just as happy as if we were worth millions. I don't care a bit whether my friends have money or not, and I don't see why it should make any difference to anybody."

"My poor child!" said her mother, and she sighed as she remembered that at Ernestine's age she had never even seen apartments so poorly furnished as theirs, "you have much to learn; you will find that there are many people in the world to whom it will make a great deal of difference."

"Well, mamma, we don't care for the Madame Mucklegrands of the world, and Winnie Burton and all of her folks are as 'real folks' as any in Mrs. Whitney's book. Do let us have them!"

"Well, dear, I don't exactly like to have you accept hospitalities which we are not willing to return, and if you think you can make it pleasant for your friends, you shall do as you wish."

The next day, therefore, Ernestine told the four girls that her mother sent her compliments and would be much pleased to have them to tea on Friday evening. In the afternoon the girls all accepted, and Fannie said that if agreeable to Mrs. Alroy, her father would call for them at nine o'clock and see them home.

After school that day, as Fannie and Ernestine were walking down Court Street together, they met a little girl, dirty and uncombed, carrying a basket of soiled clothes. Two of the boys of their class, racing wildly down the street, boy-fashion, ran against the child, upset the basket, and the clothes, not being very tightly packed, fell out. There was quite a strong wind, and some of the napkins and handkerchiefs lying loose on top were caught up and sent blowing here, there and everywhere.

The boys ran on, totally indifferent, if not unconscious. The child, commencing to cry, gave chase to the wind-blown articles, and the basket rolled entirely over, and nearly every article fell out.

Fannie stood laughing, her sense of the ridiculous overcoming any pity she might have felt for the girl. Ernestine hesitated a moment. She was daintiness itself, and the sight of the soiled clothes, belonging to no one knew whom, was not an attractive one. But for three years she had been earnestly striving to follow the Golden Rule, so she righted the basket, picked up the soiled clothes, rolled them together more tightly, and replaced them in the basket by the time the child returned with the recaptured napkins. She also helped put these in, and with a few kind words sent the girl on her way far happier than she would have been if obliged to struggle with her burden alone.

Fannie had moved on some distance, much ashamed of being mixed up in such a scene to even so slight a degree, and feeling inclined to leave Ernestine entirely, for she knew that her mother would have characterized the whole affair as "plebeian," and she felt half angry with Ernestine.

When the latter rejoined her, she said with some irritation, "However could you touch those horrid, dirty clothes or go near that dirty child?"

"I didn't like to touch them," said Ernestine simply; "but Christ did a great many things he did not like to do."

"Well, you are a queer girl, Ernestine! I'm sure I can't make up my mind that it is my duty to be pleasant to every dirty little beggar who comes along. There might have been small-pox in those clothes!"

Ernestine smiled at that, but made no reply, and the two walked on in silence till they reached the corner where they separated.

Fannie went on, swinging her books by the strap, and thinking that dirt could not be so repulsive to Ernestine as to her; but if she could have seen Ernestine go straight to the kitchen sink the minute she reached home, before she stopped to touch anything, Fannie might have realized something of the self-restraint her friend had exercised in the matter. But few of us can be brought to believe that things we find unpleasant are often quite as unpleasant to other people.

Friday afternoon came, and five o'clock found the four girls entering a side yard in a pleasant if not an aristocratic neighborhood. They went up the stairs leading from a side hall, and were met at the top by Ernestine, who was holding open the door.

She led them into a tiny bedroom, not much larger than a closet, but scrupulously dainty and clean, from the white spread and pillows on the bed to the fresh towels hanging on the rack above the washstand.

Here she helped the girls remove their wraps, and then they went into the adjoining room, which was a pleasant surprise, particularly to Fannie. So pretty and pleasant and homelike it appeared that, at first, it almost seemed elegant, until one had time to observe that there was not an expensive article in the room. The floor was covered with a blue and white checked matting, the chairs and rockers were simply "cane," and the only piece of upholstered furniture was the lounge. But there were some engravings, plainly framed; hanging baskets at both of the windows; a window-box of lilies-of-the-valley, just beginning to bloom, and in the other window a similar box of mignonette, which filled the whole room with its delicate fragrance.

A bright fire blazed in the grate, and the four girls felt at home more quickly than they had done at either of the two places of their previous meetings, probably because Ernestine was their only hostess, her mother not yet having returned from the store.

A late magazine lay on the table, together with a copy of that charming story, "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and Mrs. Whitney's "We Girls" and "Real Folks." Winnie could not help picking them up to see what they were, and it turned out that all of the girls except Gretta had read them, so they immediately began talking about them.

"Mamma and papa and brother Jack took turns in reading 'Fauntleroy' aloud to us when it came out in the magazine," said Winnie, "and for a day or two in each month we hardly talked of anything else."

"I liked the scene of the dinner party best, when the little lord talked to the guests, but stayed close beside the pretty lady and paid her such cunning compliments," said Fannie.

"I enjoyed reading about him in the grocery store with Mr. Hobbs," said Miriam. "I can see them now; Hobbs was so funny! My sister said he was more of a child than the little hero of the story."

"I think I liked him best when he was with his grandfather," said Ernestine; "it was lovely of him to think that wicked old man was so good."

"My mother says that every child in the land, and particularly every boy, ought to read that story, if for no other reason than to learn what it is to be a real gentleman and a real lady. She says no depths of poverty could ever have made 'Dearest' and her son anything else."

"I was just about frantic," said Fannie, "when I began to be afraid he wasn't the heir after all. It seemed horrid to think that that rough woman's son should own those fine lands and the title, and I felt almost as glad when it turned out all right as if he had been one of my nearest friends."

"I wish I read more," said Gretta. "I do love my music; and if I didn't, I'd have to keep it up all the same. But I would like to read the book you are talking about."

"You may take it," said Ernestine, "and keep it just as long as you wish."

"Speaking of borrowing books," said Miriam, "reminds me that I did the most dreadful thing to-day. Miss Carter had lent me Mrs. Gaskel's 'Life of Charlotte Bronte,' and I had just returned it yesterday, feeling very grateful, for I think it is nice in Miss Carter to take an interest in so many girls. I should think she would just get to hating us, for it is the same thing year in and year out, and most of us are so trying.

"But although I love her dearly, you know how angry she gets, and she was giving Josie Thompson such a lecture about there being no punctuation in her composition, and then she read a paragraph as it was punctuated—just 'like commas and periods shaken out of a pepper-box,' she said. The subject was 'Joan of Arc,' and Josie, as usual, had rather a mixed idea of her character, and what Miss Carter read sounded something like this:

"'Joan of Arc, was a poor, girl who heard a great many, ghost stories and these turned her head and she imagined, that, it would be a great deal more fun to lead soldiers. To battle in the war. With England than to be spending her time tending sheep? on the mountains she thought she would enjoy herself better.'

"That last was so much like Josie—who, as you know, is always talking about enjoying herself—that I could hardly keep in, and when Josie made a mouth at Miss Carter the minute her back was turned, three or four of us giggled out loud, and Miss Carter stopped lecturing Josie and turned her wrath on us.

"That was yesterday, but this morning the whole affair was still fresh in my memory, and three or four of the girls in Miss Brownlow's room happening to come about the same time that I did, I began to tell them about it. I began in a high key, a great deal worse than Miss Carter ever uses, although she does pitch her voice very high when she is vexed. I said:

"'Miss Thompson, I am surprised at you; in fact, I am more than surprised. It almost passes belief that a girl should begin to study punctuation almost as soon as her school life begins, as in our schools, and after six or seven years should not be able even to use a period, to say nothing of the more complicated marks; to know nothing, absolutely nothing, of her own language.'

"Here I interrupted myself to show them the kind of mouth Josie made, and of course they all laughed, for they know how her mouth and nose go up at every little thing. Then I went on.

"Miss Carter didn't see the mouth that Josie made, and she caught us laughing, and said, 'Can it be possible that there are girls in this class, girls of good rank and standing, and of moderately good behavior, who can laugh, yes, actually laugh, at the ignorance of one of their school-mates? Something is wrong, radically wrong,'—and here I made the gesture she always makes when she says 'radically wrong,' and—what do you think? There she stood, right behind me!"

"What did she do?" asked Fannie.

"Do? She didn't do anything, and I half thought she was smiling. But I felt as if I would like to sink through the floor, I was so mortified. And only yesterday I was walking down the street with her, talking to her as if I thought her my best friend! She'll think I'm a perfect hypocrite."

"Why don't you apologize?" asked Gretta.

"I can't go and apologize to someone for making fun of her as soon as her back is turned, can I? And I really didn't intend to make fun of Miss Carter, either; it was only that the whole affair seemed amusing to me."

"She probably understands, and does not think any more about it," said Ernestine. "But now, if you'll excuse me, I'll have to go into the kitchen for a few minutes; or perhaps you'll come, too."

"Oh, we'd like to come, if we won't be in the way," said Fannie. So they all trooped into the kitchen.

What a tiny box of a place it was, to be sure! When all five of the girls were there, there was not room for anybody else. Fannie and Gretta squeezed close to each other on the box beside the window, Miriam sat on a chair in one corner, and Winnie stood in the doorway between the two rooms, watching Ernestine, and thinking how cross she had been only a week or two before because she had to do a little cooking in the morning, while Ernestine had to do it every day and go to school beside.

But Ernestine did everything so easily and pleasantly that it was a pleasure to watch her. She did her cooking on a little oil stove, and there seemed so little to be done—for Mrs. Alroy and Ernestine had prepared things the day before—that her young visitors could not feel as if it were a bit of trouble to entertain them. It was as nice as a play, too, to see her cut the potatoes in delicate, thin slices and drop them into the boiling fat, and see them come out delightfully crisp and brown.

Then the girls all followed her into the sitting-room, laughing and chattering as only girls can, while Ernestine set the table. The table linen was white and fine, and the cups and saucers were real old china, these being about the only things which Mrs. Alroy had saved from her past grandeur.

Everything was ready and on the table, except the food which was to be served hot, when Mrs. Alroy came in, looking tired and reserved. She disappeared for a few moments into the bedroom, and when she came out, seeming somewhat refreshed, they all sat down to the table.

To the surprise of the girls, Ernestine, in her simple, unaffected manner, asked a blessing on what was set before them. It seemed queer to them that if it were to be done at all, it should not be by Mrs. Alroy. But Ernestine's mother was not yet perfectly resigned to what had come upon her, and it was that, perhaps—yes, certainly—which made her burden so hard to bear; but at least she did not interfere with Ernestine in these matters.

The girls were hungry, and everything tasted delicious, from the sliced cold ham and the potatoes which they had seen Ernestine frying, to the dessert of ice-cream and cake.

When supper was over, the girls begged to be allowed to clear off the table, and Ernestine washed the dishes as they brought them out, while Winnie wiped them.

Mrs. Alroy sat down and glanced over the newspaper. Fannie watched her curiously, and privately came to the conclusion that she was the proudest woman she had ever seen. This conviction came to her with something of a shock, for she had heretofore supposed that pride and wealth and fine living belonged together. She furthermore came to the conclusion that while pride might be fine, it was not especially charming, for though Mrs. Alroy had been pleasant when the girls were presented to her, her manner had been only polite, not interested.

When the girls had finished washing and putting away the supper things, she roused herself and talked with them about their school and amusements, but as soon as Ernestine returned, excused herself and went into the little room and closed the door. Ernestine followed her, with a troubled look on her usually calm face. When she returned, she said:

"Mamma has a severe headache, and begs to be excused for awhile, but hopes to feel better before you go home."

"We were all to have a text or a verse to-night, weren't we?" asked Fannie. "The only thing I could find was our Golden Text for last Sunday, 'Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.' I spoke to papa about it, and, although he is not very religious, he said he didn't believe there was any better way of remembering our Creator than by trying to do what was right, and he was glad to see that I was thinking about such things."

"Mamma says there are very few things said in the Bible about the dangers of delay," said Winnie, "but she gave me this one from Proverbs: 'Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.'"

"I couldn't find anything in the Bible," said Miriam, "but I found a poem by Adelaide Procter which I copied, thinking you might like to hear it all, as I scarcely knew which verse to select. I will read it to you:

"How much better we understand things than we did three months ago!" said Winnie. "I used to dream of the grand things I was going to do when I grew up." Then she added, blushing a little as she remembered her cross Saturday morning, "I do yet, sometimes, but I don't think I neglect quite so many things as I used to."

"I never had much chance either to neglect things or to dream," said Gretta, "for papa or mamma or my sister was always reminding me that it was time to do this or that or the other. But I am beginning now to think of some of my faults. I couldn't find anything for this afternoon, except the Memory Gem we learned in the First Reader. You know I don't read a great deal myself, and we all seem to have so much to do at our house; when it isn't something else, it's practice, practice, practice! Even this little verse I don't suppose I should have remembered if I hadn't heard the children reciting it at the 'Colony':

"Why, that's the very thing, Gretta! I'm surprised that none of the rest of us thought of it. How queer that the same piece of advice, in one form or another, has been given to us ever since we were little girls, and that we have just begun to realize what it all means!" said Fannie.

"What have you, Ernestine?" said Miriam.

"I took mine from Ecclesiastes," was the reply. "'When thou vowest a vow unto the Lord, defer not to pay it.'"

"I like that, too," said Gretta; "but I think Miss Benton's pretty card is helping me more than anything else."

"I think that was lovely, too," said Fannie. "I liked the story ever so much, but it will be nice for us to do as she suggested, and take a motto this week. How would it do to take the one Winnie brought? It seems the easiest for us to understand."

So they all learned it, and, at Miriam's suggestion, added the verse that Gretta had recited.

Mrs. Alroy came back into the sitting-room just as the girls had finished reading their mottoes, and, though her eyes looked heavy, as if she were suffering, she joined the little band, and told them that she thought they were adopting a very good plan to help them over the rough places of life, and perhaps also enable them to make fewer mistakes than they might otherwise do.

While she was talking to them, footsteps were heard coming up the stairs.

"That's papa, I think," said Fannie, and she went with Ernestine to the door.

Ernestine had seen Mr. Allen often, for he was one of the trustees of their school, but of course Mrs. Alroy had never met him, so the girls led him through the narrow hall into the room beyond.

Mrs. Alroy met him at the door and extended her hand, as Fannie said, "My papa, Mrs. Alroy."

Mr. Allen seated himself, at Mrs. Alroy's invitation, while the girls went to get on their wraps. As they talked of the weather and the usual subjects discussed by strangers, Mr. Allen looked at the lady in rather a puzzled manner, as if wondering where he had seen her before. Finally he said:

"Excuse me, Mrs. Alroy, but may I ask what was your maiden name?"

She told him, but rather coldly, as if she considered the question impertinent.

He read her thought well enough, but unhesitatingly continued:

"The Van Ortons of New York?"

"Of New York, yes."

"I thought so; it must be one of your brothers whom you so strongly resemble. I could not think whom you were like, the day of the celebration over at the school-house, but that, I see, was what puzzled me. I know your brother and his family quite well. I have had business relations with him for years, which have been very pleasant ones."

"I am glad to meet someone who has seen my brother recently. I have seen no member of my family for years; it has been impossible for me to go home, and my circumstances have been such that I have managed to prevent their visiting me, for I had no desire to have them do so. Should you have any communication with him, I ask as a favor that my name may not be mentioned."

"Your wishes, of course, will be respected, madam," the gentleman replied courteously.

The girls appeared at this moment, ready for the walk home, and Mr. Allen rose, adding:

"Permit me to thank you for the pleasure you have given my daughter, and to express the wish that you will allow her to make a return soon." Then they took their departure.

Ernestine went into the little kitchen to prepare things for breakfast, and when she came back she was shocked to find her mother sobbing violently. It frightened her, too, for though her mother was never very cheerful, the girl seldom saw her shed tears.

"Mother dear, what is it?" she said. "Have I been selfish? Was the evening too much for you?"

"Selfish? No, dear," was the reply. "I am the selfish one, and I am grateful to know that you have such perfect faith and hope that all is well. Otherwise your young life would have been darkened long ago by my constant sorrow and regret. Poor child! It is a hard life for one so young."

"But, mother, some day you will be happy again."

"I hope so, dear," replied Mrs. Alroy. But she thought to herself that there was nothing in this world that could make life endurable to her, unless she could forget. And that, to her proud, sensitive nature, seemed impossible.

CHAPTER XI.
EASTER-TIDE.

"Well," said Mrs. Allen to her husband, after they had gone upstairs, "I hope you're satisfied and have had enough of Fannie's visiting around at tenement houses. Democratic ideas are all right enough, theoretically, but I think it is impossible for people to dwell long in poverty without losing refinement."

"Some kinds of poverty, yes; and some kinds of people, yes. That comfort and luxury are refining in their influence goes without saying; but just as there are some people whom all the wealth in the world could never raise above vulgarity, so there are others whom poverty could never degrade. And the lady and her little girl whom Fannie has visited to-night are of this type. They are the kind of people who will have the refinements of life even at the expense of some of its comforts."

"It seems to me that is queer talk. How can people have refinements without comforts?"

"Had you been at Mrs. Alroy's to-night, I think you would understand how that could be. And as for the rest," Mr. Allen added dryly, "Mrs. Alroy is one of the Van Ortons of New York."

"The Van Ortons of New York!" and Mrs. Allen dropped into her chair in astonishment, for the Van Ortons were people whom she was glad to visit. "How do you know?"

"Her resemblance to her brother puzzled me, and, wondering where I could have met her, I asked her maiden name."

"Why, I must call upon her soon."

"I think you'd better not—"

"Who's the aristocrat now, I wonder!"

"—because," he added, as if he had not heard the interruption, "she would consider it an intrusion. Her pride has been made as hard and cold as ice by her misfortunes, and I'm afraid nothing will ever melt it."

This was another new idea to Mrs. Allen. It seemed as if new things, starting with the little folks, were destined to be contagious. That a woman who lived in three small rooms and who supported herself and her daughter by selling goods across a counter, should resent a visit from a person so well known as herself, was somewhat startling to the lady.

"Well," she said impatiently, "what are you and your philanthropy going to do about it?"

"I think it is a case which my philanthropy, as you choose to call it, cannot reach. I know that her people would gladly have her come home, and there is no reason why they should be ashamed of either her or her daughter; but she manages to keep them in complete ignorance of her circumstances, and also, I strongly suspect, of her whereabouts."

"Why don't you write to them?"

"She has forbidden it, and in such a way as to make me feel that it would be a breach of honor to disregard her wishes. No, nothing can be done at present. But she is as frail as a reed, and her body, in spite of her will power, will break down under the pressure, and then——"

"Well?"

"Then she will die—that is all."

It seems hard, at first thought, to bring the sorrows of older people—and sorrows, too, for which, as the words of Mr. Allen would indicate the above to be, there seems no earthly cure—into a book for girls; but perhaps it is, after all, a truer kindness to let them find out, while there is yet time, that life is a thing of earnest and real import, and that the impossible ideas of a romantic world where a few sorrows come simply as contrast, and then vanish forever, leaving the heroes and heroines surrounded by an everlasting halo of happiness and prosperity—which so many of the lighter novels teach—are more injurious than any statistics will ever show. They give views of life which, if followed out, as in the case of Constance Van Orton, are apt to end in sorrow and despair.

But the saddest life must have some joy in it, and Mrs. Alroy probably had many happy hours, when she enjoyed the sunshine, or, in more sober moods, the gentle patter of the rain on the roof, her books (to which the poorest of those who live in our large cities can have access through the public libraries), and, above all, the companionship of her daughter, who was really that most remarkable of characters, a child good, and even pious, without priggishness or the slightest taint of affectation.

And when all is thought and felt and suffered, above earth's joys and woes and hopes and dark despair is God, the eternal Good, and

And so the days rolled on and brought the anniversary of Christ's suffering and death and resurrection. The Burton family kept Easter with great rejoicing. They exchanged presents of pots of flowers, ferns and Easter lilies, mignonette and roses, which made the house fragrant and beautiful. The children received from their parents and friends at a distance Easter cards; and colored eggs, in which Ralph delighted, were not forgotten.

Mrs. Burton and Winnie, also, on the day previous, did their share toward decorating the church they attended. There was always a big pyramid of bouquets on the pulpit stand, which were taken down after service and distributed to the children of the Sunday-school. It was a great treat to the children to go to church on this day and join in the responsive service and hear the joyful anthems. This Easter Day was no exception to previous ones, in point of joy and thanksgiving.

There were some little extra surprises at the Burton home, among them being a panel of Easter lilies and maidenhair fern, painted in oil for Mrs. Burton by her sister Kitty; and from the same source Winnie received a smaller one of lilies-of-the-valley and wild violets, with the motto below: "Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls." In the afternoon they held a service of their own in the sitting-room. Mrs. Burton and Aunt Kitty sang Abt's duet, "Easter Day," and they had two or three fine quartettes.

Norah had not been forgotten, either, in the distribution of the flowers, or in an invitation to join the family circle in the afternoon. She was anxious to do something in return, and so had prepared another surprise which greeted them at tea-time. On each plate lay an egg, which, when examined, was found to be a wooden candy-box, full of home-made candies. All were pleased, even to grandma and Mr. Burton, and Norah's face shone with delight when she saw that her gifts were appreciated.

It had been a long day for Ralph, however, and Winnie and Jack stayed at home with him while the other members of the family went to evening service. The child was tired and restless, yet too much excited to be sleepy, and was very unwilling to go to bed when the usual hour arrived. Winnie was quite weary, too, but she dared not allow herself to be impatient on a day like this, so she told him Bible stories and sang to him, and at last the heavy eyelids closed, and she was at liberty to go downstairs with her book.

This time it was "Pilgrim's Progress," which she was reading for about the dozenth time. She dropped, with a sense of luxury, into the same big chair in which we have seen her on a former occasion. Jack also had an interesting book, and they read on in perfect silence for half an hour, when suddenly they heard a crash, and then Ralph's voice in a frightened cry.

Dropping their books, they ran upstairs. Jack turned up the gas, and they found that poor little Ralph had rolled out of bed, and was lying stretched on the floor, but far more frightened than hurt. He said he had had bad dreams, and they could not quiet him nor induce him to go back to bed. At last Jack wrapped him up in a shawl, and Winnie sat down in the big chair and took the frightened child in her arms.

Jack settled himself again with his book and forgot all about them both, until his father and mother came home and found them asleep. Mrs. Burton's face showed disapproval until Jack explained the circumstances, and she could then enjoy the pretty picture they made, without feeling a regret that it was the result of disobedience.

Jack took Ralph in his arms and once more carried him, still sleeping soundly, upstairs. They did not waken Winnie until it was time for them all to go to bed, when she was gently roused by her mother. She looked around in bewilderment, and it was some time before she could realize what had happened.

CHAPTER XII.
A VISIT TO THE ZOO.

The days were growing longer and pleasanter. The trees were all dressed in green now, and the maples in front of the Burton home bent their green boughs and shook their leaves at the invitation of every little zephyr.

The evening star shone over the western hills, followed closely by the slender new moon. The sun sank to rest behind those same hills, some nights gorgeously attended by crimson and gold and purple clouds; on other evenings, dropping out of sight suddenly, as if in a hurry to get to China, as Winnie was fond of telling Ralph.

Winnie often sat with Ralph on the front steps these days, and showed him the bright star and tried to explain to him that it was a big world, perhaps full of people; or she would put on her roller skates and skate up and down the flagged pavement, while he rode his velocipede.

Winnie thought she had never known a spring so beautiful as this one. She felt as if she could stay out of doors forever, and found it even harder to keep her resolution of conquering self-indulgence and sticking to her duties now than when she liked so much to sit by a bright fire and read.

She had her pretty card and her motto in the looking-glass in her room, but she found it so hard to remember—or to want to remember, perhaps, which every one knows is quite a different thing—that she pinned a little piece of stiff paper with the word "Now" written on it, inside her dress. On the whole, however, she kept pretty well to her resolution of having a time for everything and doing everything in its time.

But she had never before felt such a desire to be out of doors, and she imagined she heard fairies beckoning to her from the woods and hills. So one day, when Aunt Kitty came over and invited Ralph and herself and the other four girls of her little band to go to the Zoological Garden the next Saturday, the girl's delight was unbounded, and she was in a fever lest something should happen to prevent their going.

She delivered her message to the other girls. Miriam and Fannie at once said they thought they could go, but Ernestine did not feel sure she could arrange her Saturday duties so that no extra burden would fall on her mother, while Gretta told them she would have to ask her father to excuse her from the extra practice on Saturday, as they were to take their lunches and stay all day.

Fortunately Gretta found her father in very good humor. She had been making excellent progress with her music, and he was very willing she should have a holiday. Ernestine, also, had arranged with one of the neighbors in the building to take care of her little children on the succeeding Saturday, in return for her help in doing some extra household work.

Saturday turned out to be a warm, pleasant day, and in their eagerness the girls arrived at the Burtons' a little ahead of time, and had to wait till Miss Benton came, which she did soon, looking very happy. As for Ralph, his eyes were as bright as stars, and he was the very picture of joy and good humor.

They walked up to Elm Street, and from there took the car to the Mt. Bellevue inclined railway. When they entered the car of the latter, all stood at the front end of it and looked out of the window, and had the strange sensation, which no familiarity therewith seems quite to deaden, of being lifted suddenly into another region, and of seeing the great city sinking down, down, until one wonders where it is going. Then, all at once, the car stopped with its usual jerk, and there they were, at the top of the hill.

There were very few people about the Bellevue House. They took a walk around the grounds and through the building, and stood looking at the city, covered with its workaday smoke from the many manufactories, till it almost seemed as if it were seen through a cloud.

"How strange it is," said Miriam, as they entered the street-car at the top of the hill, "to see the houses just as close together here, and to have it seem like a city of itself, and yet so different from the business part of Cincinnati below that it is hard to imagine the two are any part of each other!"

"There is something strange about such things," said Miss Benton. "It is just like people's lives. Their daily business, which brings them bread and butter, and which is really the largest and most important part of existence, seems to sink into insignificance or to be forgotten altogether when social relations are taken up. But, after all, I like to live in the city itself, where there is something of the past lingering about. Everything seems so new here."

"I don't know," said Ernestine. "I think I would like to live up here; the air seems so much purer. But I would want a bigger yard than these, where I might have a garden."

"It's cleaner, too, up here," said practical Gretta, who was neatness itself. "I visit my aunt on Vine Street Hill, and things always looks so much nicer and newer at her house than the same ones at ours. And it isn't because we don't try, for we do twice the amount of work; my mother and sister are always going about with a duster." And Gretta, who had made a long speech for her, finished with a sigh, at which they all laughed.

"Gretta would like a house where everything had a glass cover," said Miriam. "As for me, I like things jolly and comfortable, and if they get grimy and sooty, and nobody's to blame, what's the use of making one's self unhappy about it? I'm afraid I'm a good deal like Josie Thompson, for I do like to enjoy myself."

"Well, no two of us are alike, and I don't think it was intended that we should be," said Miss Benton. "That is what makes the charm of people's houses—that they should all partake of the individuality of their owners. When I enter even a little girl's room, I like to see some signs of her ownership there, and not have it all as her mother or older sister or the maid arranged it. I like to see something that looks as if she had an object in life, if it is nothing more than a charm string of buttons, (which, by the way, has gone out of fashion, I believe,) or a scrapbook."

"Well, then, Aunt Kitty," said Winnifred, smiling at her own thought, "it must be a treat for you to go into Uncle Fred's room; for, if I were to see such a room at the North Pole, I would think of him."

"Well," said Miss Benton, with a smile, "I might enjoy it better if it were in some other house. I think, in this case, it must be that familiarity breeds contempt. The fact is, girls, my brother's room is more of an old curiosity shop than a modern sleeping-room. He has always had a sort of magpie-habit of storing things away, and is continually having some new hobby; and as his hobbies are often changed, and each hobby is apt to take the form of making some sort of collection, he has queer things lying about. But from the time he was quite a little boy, mother always said, 'Oh, let him have that,' or 'do the other, and he'll be satisfied at home.'"

"How many canes and walking-sticks has he, Aunt Kitty?"

"Eight, I think, and each one has a history; and two or three of them a mystery, which he refuses to divulge. But here we are at the end of our journey, and Fannie hasn't had an opportunity to open her mouth."

"It's probably very good for my tongue to get a rest; it works quite steadily as a usual thing—at least so my father says. But if Ralph hadn't been all eyes, this would have been dull for him."

"I isn't all eyes!" said Ralph, indignantly.

They now approached the entrance to the Zoological Garden, and the girls once more took out their pocket books; but Miss Benton was ahead of them again, and had settled for the party before there was time to demur.

The first thing they spied were the mounds of the prairie dogs, and they stood watching these a long time. It was such fun to see the little animals running in and out of their holes and to hear their funny bark, which Miriam said was "the best part of them, and probably very much better than their bite."

Our little party was fortunate enough to be at the cages of the carnivora just at feeding time. The great lions lay basking in the sun and looking so innocent and amiable that it was almost impossible to imagine they could be at all dangerous, when suddenly the man who fed them appeared with the raw meat. Then their roars were fairly appalling, and made the whole crowd jump, while Ralph clung tight to the hand of Aunt Kitty, who said:

"I was just thinking how nice it would be to pat that quiet, majestic fellow on the head, as I would my Angora cat; but I think I'll wait till he's had his dinner."

"Oh, Aunt Kitty," said Ralph, "I 'ouldn't let you; he'd eat you up!"

It was an exciting but rather terrible pleasure to see the wild creatures quarreling and growling and fighting over their dinners, and was also a most effective object lesson on greediness.

Like other visitors, although Miss Kitty laughed at them for it, our little party followed the keeper around from one cage to another as he fed the various animals.

"I like the bears best," said Fannie. "They look like Eskimos when they stand on their hind legs, and they stare up at us and the other people as if we were here just for them to look at."

"There is a something within me that, in spite of bears and all their attractions, tells me it must be dinner time," said Miss Benton, taking out her watch. "Yes, it is one o'clock; suppose we get our baskets."

Ralph, in particular, manifested great approval of this part of the programme, and, having selected a nice grassy spot, they disposed of themselves as comfortably as possible, each with her basket at her side.

As they opened the baskets, passing the thin sandwiches and pickles, Winnie made a suggestion.

"Aunt Kitty, let's play 'I have a thought.'"

"Very well," replied the lady; and, after a short explanation of the game, and a little time to think, she announced the fact that she had a thought.

"Why is it like the sky?" asked Winnie.

"Because it is round."

"Why is it like a bear?" asked Miriam, her thoughts still on the bear pit.

"Because—oh, Miriam, that is a hard one!—because it is sometimes white."

"Why is it like me?" said Ralph.

"Because everybody likes it when it is good." And Ralph wondered why they all laughed.

"Why is it like the grass?" asked Ernestine.

"Because it is greenest in the spring."

Then the questions poured upon Miss Benton rapidly, as the girls began to see how the game was played.

"Why is it like music?" asked Gretta.

"Because it suggests pleasant thoughts."

"Why is it like a novel?"

"It is often highly flavored."

"Why is it like an egg?"

"Because it is an article of food."

"Why is it like a cream-puff?"

"Because the best part is inside."

"Why is it like cheese?" said Fannie, putting a piece in her mouth.

"Because it comes on with the dessert."

"Why is it like a book?"

"Because the best part is usually between the covers."

"Why is it like a ring?"

"Because people like to have a finger in it."

At which there was a general shout, and they all said: "A pie, of course!"

"But what kind of a pie, Miss Benton?" asked Miriam.

"That you must find out, too," was the laughing answer; and the questions went on.

"It can't be lemon or custard or pumpkin," said Fannie, "because we know it has two covers."

"Why is it like a flower?"

"Because it has various colors."

"And is greenest in the spring," said Winnie, musingly. "Oh, it is an apple pie! And Miss Benton acknowledged that she had guessed correctly.

Then Ernestine and Gretta consulted, and took a thought together. Their thought was a geography lesson, and of course the resemblances were most absurd, and it required all the ingenuity the two girls possessed to answer the questions.

They were all so occupied with the game and their dinner that no one noticed Miss Benton had not yet opened her basket, and great was their surprise and delight when she passed around to each of them a grocer's thin platter filled with strawberries, for they were still very scarce, as it was early in the season.

After dinner, Miss Benton took out a book and said she was going to read for a while, so the girls walked around, taking Ralph with them, and greatly enjoying the admiration he excited by his pretty dress, his beauty and his cunning speeches. They too, however, soon found themselves somewhat tired, so they went back to Miss Benton, and, sitting down for a rest, amused themselves by hunting for four-leaved clovers. In this Winnie and Miriam proved themselves the lucky ones. Fannie had not the slightest success, till finally she gave a little cry and held up a clover.

But Miss Benton's quick eyes noticed a twinkle in Fannie's, and saying, "Oh, Fannie, I'm afraid you're a little cheat!" she reached over and adroitly separated one of the leaves from another, leaving only a common clover leaf.

"Well," said Fannie, laughing at being discovered so soon, "if I don't have good luck, I'm not going to let everyone know it. My father tells me to make up my mind that lots of things will happen to me in this world which I'll best conquer by grinning and bearing them. And that's what I'm going to do."

"A very good plan, my dear," said Miss Benton, "for even if the grin is a sickly one, it's better than a frown or a whine."

"I guess I don't do that way," said Gretta, whose tongue and conscience both seemed to be awaking. "I'm afraid I go away and pout."

"The worst of habits," said Miss Benton, with intentional decision. "That is the habit which is most disagreeable to everyone around, most full of unhappiness to the one who indulges in it, and the most difficult to break. I am afraid that ill-temper is as powerful a giant as procrastination, because it, too, assumes so many forms; there are pouting and whining, storming and scolding, and the various other manifestations which we all, more or less, indulge in. I do not think many people cling to the powerful Giant Hate, but it is 'the little foxes that spoil the vines,' and little fits of temper, long indulged in, might at last lead even to that. But, girls, I didn't inveigle you out here this lovely day to lecture you. So come, let's be moving on."

They next went to the aviary. Here, although they enjoyed looking at the birds, they became more interested in a party of children, boys and girls, each one looking like the others, so far as clothes were concerned. Of course they must be from some charitable institution, but the girls did not know which one. Afterward, when our little company had gone to the monkey house and found a number of the same uniformed children, Miss Benton said to one of them, "What school is this, my dear?"

The child looked at her a moment in surprise, and then replied: "Why, this is the monkey school, I think."

"Where is the teacher?" asked Ralph, who mistook both question and answer, as the child herself had done.

Miriam and Fannie were delighted at this, and, going up pretty close to one of the cages, Fannie, who had yellow bangs, said, pointing to a great monkey which was watching them in a very observant manner:

"I think this must be the teacher."

Just as she made the remark, the monkey stretched out his long arms, grabbed her bangs, and pulled out several hairs, which he smelled, and then threw down with an air of disgust.

Fannie was somewhat startled at first, but, recovering herself, she said the monkey must have thought her hair was wisps of hay.

Miss Benton did not seem very fond of the "monkey school," as they dubbed it for the remainder of the afternoon, and she proposed going to the pony track. This gave general satisfaction. Here, too, they found the uniformed children, all of them having a lovely time. Miss Benton found out, by conversing with one of the attendants, that they were from one of the city orphan asylums, and that the whole lovely day was a gift to them from one of its patrons—admission into the garden and a ride for each child on one of the ponies.