CHAPTER VI
THE LITTLE OLD LADY
Lured by the lovely, hand-embroidered centerpieces and doilies in the window, the girls entered the Woman’s Exchange.
“I’m going to see those stunning things close to,” declared Betty.
“I wonder if they are really hand-made,” said Amy, and Mollie sniffed.
“If they’re not, then I never saw a hand-made article in my life,” she said, positively.
“But that drawn-work!” marveled Grace. “I don’t see how it could be done by hand.”
“It looks to me like Danish embroidery,” said the Little Captain, thoughtfully. “Mother had a Danish maid once and she used to do the most exquisite embroidery I’ve ever seen.”
Upon inquiry they found that the embroideries were on the second floor of the building.
Dainty things of all sorts and descriptions lined the glass-fronted shelves—exquisite baby clothes and filmy dresses for older children, to say nothing of lovely things that would have fitted well in the wardrobes of the Outdoor Girls themselves.
“Oh, for a million dollars!” sighed Mollie, her eyes as wistful as a starving puppy when he sees a bone. “I believe I could spend it all without moving from this spot.”
“What good would those pretty things do us now?” Betty argued, reasonably. “We couldn’t possibly wear them on a camping trip. Come on, I see those embroideries over there.”
She half-dragged, half-led the reluctant girls over to the counter where reposed such exquisite creations of the embroiderers’ art that the girls fairly caught their breath.
A young woman hovered suggestively close to them, hoping, no doubt, to make a sale, but it was a long time before they realized her presence.
They handled the lovely things lovingly, exclaiming over them in awed tones.
“Wouldn’t mother like to have this centerpiece!” said Grace, softly. “I wish now I hadn’t spent so much of my allowance.”
“And this luncheon set,” sighed Betty, ecstatically, holding up a doily of such rare design and exquisite workmanship that it seemed more the fabric of a dream than anything else. “My birthday is coming pretty soon. I wonder if anybody here is bright enough to take a hint.”
“Rather give it to you for a wedding present,” suggested Mollie, wickedly.
Betty said nothing, merely bending closer over the lovely thing she held in her hand.
“I do believe it’s Danish work,” she said, and at that moment the alert young saleswoman spoke up.
“You’re right, Miss,” she said, looking as proud as though she herself were the maker of the luncheon set. “It is Danish embroidery of the finest sort—and hand work, every stitch of it. I’ve seen fine work in my day, but nothing that could equal that.”
“I believe you,” murmured Betty, adding, with a quick, upward look: “Do you happen to know the person who does this work?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the young woman briskly. It had been a slow morning and she was glad of the chance to talk to sympathetic listeners. “An old lady she was—as quaint an old soul as I ever saw. We were quite fond of her around here. Every Saturday morning she used to come in, often with some new piece, prettier than the last, to sell.”
“Why do you say she ‘used to come?’” asked Amy, gently. “Doesn’t she come any more?”
The young woman shook her head and a frown puckered her forehead.
“No, Miss, she doesn’t. And the worst of it is we don’t know what has become of her.”
“Didn’t you know where she lived?” asked Betty, with interest.
Again the young woman shook her head.
“Nor yet can we find anybody who does,” she said. “She was a queer old soul and she came and went as quietly as a mouse.”
“And you don’t even know her name?” asked Mollie, idly.
“No, Miss. You see,” the girl went on, warming to her subject, “she had been coming here so long with her beautiful work that we’d come to think of her as part of the Exchange—like a door, or something—somebody who would always be here. And we none of us knew how fond we were of the gentle old soul until she failed to show up. Even then we thought she’d turn up in a week or two, but she didn’t. We think now that maybe she’s dead. She was very old and feeble.”
“Too bad,” said Betty, her warm heart instantly touched. “Do you sell many of these?” she added, touching a piece of embroidery.
“Not so many,” returned the clerk. “You see the work is so rare that we have to charge a pretty good price for it. People come here and say how beautiful it is—and go away. And yet we can’t honestly sell it for any less. We promised the old lady a pretty good price for it, you see. It’s worth it.”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Grace, petulantly. “How unfortunate.”
“What’s the matter, now?” asked the Little Captain, politely.
“Oh,” said Grace, replacing the centerpiece she had been studying upon a little pile of pieces, “I had my mind set on buying that for mother’s birthday, but if it’s so very expensive I guess I can’t.”
“We might make a special price for you,” said the young saleswoman obligingly, and straightway they fell to bartering while the other girls moved away to study other articles of interest on the floor.
“I feel sorry for that old woman,” said Amy, absently staring at some filmy embroidered handkerchiefs. “It must be pretty bad to be old and friendless——”
“Well, I don’t see much use in our worrying about it,” said Mollie, briskly.
“There’s Grace with the centerpiece under her arm,” chuckled Betty. “Wonder how she did it.”
“By pretty near breaking herself I suppose,” said Mollie, adding ruefully: “What do you bet we have to treat her to lunch?”
But both Amy and Betty were too wise to bet on anything so sure to go against them, and in this way they proved their shrewdness. Once outside the store Grace confessed, not at all shamefacedly, that after buying the centerpiece the entire extent of her resources was twenty-five cents.
“That,” said Betty, with a twinkle, “will just about buy you one sandwich.”
“Have a heart,” protested Grace. “The way I feel one sandwich would just about whet my appetite.”
“Well, girls, I suppose we can’t see her starve,” sighed Betty, as they entered the tempting little tea shop, all white tables and blue walls.
“A blight on our soft hearts,” murmured Mollie, at which Betty and Amy giggled and Grace smiled sweetly. And the way she ordered from the delectable dishes on the menu, one might have been excused for thinking that Grace herself was treating to the luncheon.
“All right,” grumbled Mollie, as she prepared to cut into her chicken patty. “You just wait, Grace Ford. Next time we come here all of us girls are accidentally going to forget our pocketbooks. That ought to fix you.”
“Let the future take care of itself,” said Grace, airily. “Just at present I’m having a lovely time!”
After lunch they thought of some more shopping they had to do—mostly for things which they needed on their trip—so that it was late afternoon before they reached Deepdale once more.
As Mollie stopped the car before Grace’s door to let her get out, she handed her a paper parcel containing the precious centerpiece which Grace had overlooked.
“Don’t forget anything,” said Mollie, with elaborate politeness. “And don’t forget—next time is your treat!”
“I envy your mother, Gracie,” Betty called after her, as Mollie started the motor. “I reckon she has a happy birthday.”
Amy’s house was the next stop and on the way Betty remarked how quiet the girl was.
“What’s the matter, Amy dear?” she asked, curiously. “You act as if you had lost your last friend.”
Amy shook off her thoughtful mood and smiled.
“I suppose you’ll think I’m foolish,” she said, a bit shyly. “But I just can’t get that old lady out of my mind—the one who does the embroidery.”
“Listen, Amy,” remarked Mollie, screwing around in her seat until the girl came within her range of vision, “if we should feel bad about every poor unfortunate person in this world, we would all be joy killers. So stop worrying.”
“I suppose so,” sighed Amy, but the troubled look did not leave her eyes.
“I’d hate to have Amy’s conscience,” chuckled Mollie to Betty, after they had left Amy at her door. “She’s a darling, of course, but she makes herself no end of trouble worrying about other people. If she could help any by worrying, it would be different.”
Betty nodded, but her eyes also were thoughtful.
In a few minutes she was standing on her porch waving good-by to Mollie as the big car sped up the block and turned the corner.
“What a perfect day it’s been,” she sighed, as she turned to enter the house. “I do wish everybody could be as happy as we girls are.” By this it may be seen that the Little Captain, like Amy, was still thinking of the little old lady who sold embroideries through the Woman’s Exchange.