The Story of the Big Front Door

The children:

After Constance came Louise, who made a charming Goddess of Liberty, dressed in stars and stripes, with a flag in her hand. She said:

The children:

Thanksgiving Day was represented by Dora, dressed as a Puritan maiden, carrying a basket of apples and a sheaf of wheat. She made a pleasant picture as she recited:

The children:

Last of all came Christmas Day. This was Carl, in white, like New Year's, with trimmings of holly and mistletoe. A brave young Holiday he looked, as he repeated:

As he finished, the children said eagerly:

At this the other Holidays stepped out, and bowing to Christmas, said:

Then New Year's Day placed a crown on his head, May-Day gave him a rose, Fourth of July, a flag, Thanksgiving, an apple, Washington's Birthday offered his hatchet, and St. Valentine gave him a sugar heart; and joining hands the children and the Holidays danced around him, singing:

The curtain fell on a tableau: the Holidays, with their flags and banners, old Father Time, and the happy children.

The applause was so vehement it had to rise again for a moment, and then there was an intermission while some of the actors changed their costumes.

When the curtain went up for the last time the cottage was gone, and in its place appeared a row of high-backed chairs on which were seated five little ladies in the quaintest of short-waisted gowns, each with a reticule on her arm, from which she took her needles and began to knit. Then Bess, who sat at one end of the line, looked up, and said in her own sweet little way:

Dora, who came next, continued:

Here Elsie took it up:

Louise had just made a discovery that surprised her, and with shining eyes she recited:

Constance sat at the end of the row, and looking at the others she said:

Then together they recited:

At the last line they rose, each dropped a profound courtesy and marched from the stage. The enthusiastic audience recalled them half a dozen times, till Mr. Hazeltine was obliged to announce that the entertainment was over.

No one had enjoyed it more than a person who sat in an easy-chair, where without any effort she could see all that went on.

Here the children gathered when it was over, exclaiming, "Why, Miss Brown, we did not know you were coming! How did you get here, and how did you like it?"

It was of no use to try to answer so many questions, so she only laughed and said she had enjoyed herself immensely.

Then they must rush off to see how much money had been taken in.

Mr. Caruth, who had been pressed into service as doorkeeper by Cousin Helen, was in the hall with Aunt Zélie.

"Here are nine dollars and a half for you, Grandma," he said, putting a box into Louise's hands.

"Oh, thank you! Then that will be enough with the basket money. Don't you think our entertainment was pretty good, Mr. Caruth?" she asked.

"Delightful! I was just telling Mrs. Howard that it was a star performance," he answered.

"I don't know what that is, but Aunt Zélie and Cousin Helen made it all up, every bit," Bess said proudly.

The performers were so enchanted with the evening's fun that they refused to take off their gay costumes, and declared one and all that they meant to see the old year out.

The Father of his Country forgot his dignity, and cut up all sorts of antics with April Fool's Day. Even Father Time joined in the fun, and Christmas and New Year bestrewed the floor with cotton batting as they danced with the old ladies.

But they were tired out before midnight, and when the city bells rang in the new year they were all sound asleep and heard not a bit of it.

And this is what came of it:

Of course in the first place the harp was mended and paid for, and its owner was able once more to earn something for his family. With her burden thus made lighter, Marie worked away cheerfully at her embroidery, and Tina went happily to school in the warm dress Mrs. Howard gave her. Many were the blessings invoked on the heads of the young people who had helped them!

"But after all," said Bess, "it was only fun for us."

In the second place Uncle William was so pleased with the five old ladies that a charming idea came into his head. After a consultation with Miss Brown, he sent them one Saturday afternoon a note and a big bundle. Here is the note:

The bundle when it was unrolled was found to contain some of the oddest-looking balls of yarn that ever were seen.

"I think he must have wound them himself," remarked Louise, shaking her head over the lumpy, unsymmetrical ball she held.

However, Miss Brown said the shape did not matter, and work was begun, with great interest. Dora was the first to make a discovery, perhaps because she could knit more rapidly than the others. One of the lumps in her ball proved to be caused by something rolled in tissue paper. Feeling sure that this was the key to one of Uncle William's surprises, they looked on eagerly while she pulled the paper off and found a gold thimble with her name on it. Not long after Elsie found a tiny pair of scissors. Never had any work been so delightful! It usually happened that some one of the gay balls yielded a prize each Saturday afternoon. Sometimes only a big sugar plum, but oftener something pretty and useful. A tiny book of texts, a dainty handkerchief rolled into smallest compass, rings of twisted gold with the letters M.K. on bangles attached to them,—these were some of the things found in the wonder balls, for that is what they are called in Germany, where Mr. Hazeltine first heard of them.

"It is so exactly like him, I thought he must have invented it himself," said Dora.

CHAPTER XIV.ToC

CLOUDS.

The beautiful snow-storm which came two weeks after Christmas seemed to be the cause of all the unhappiness, though the real reason for it was to be found in quite another quarter.

A deep snow followed by a week of clear cold weather seldom came more than once during the winter in this part of the country, and the children were wild with delight. Aunt Zélie was obliged to do a little of the curbing that Aunt Marcia so often advised, and Bess and Louise thought it hard that they were not allowed to hitch their sleds behind wagons as Carl and Ikey did.

The boys first got into trouble. They began at once building forts in their playground at school, and were soon divided into two opposing forces, each with one of the older boys for captain.

For a time things went very well, and Carl and Ikey, though they belonged to different sides, could discuss their battles good-naturedly. But this did not last. One day the cry of "Not fair" arose; someone was hurt and resented it, his friends took it up, and all good feeling went to the winds. When the bell called them in there were some bad bruises, and, worse still, angry looks and accusations.

On the way home the dispute ran high between Carl and Ikey. The first-named in particular was very much excited, and declared he wanted nothing more to do with cheats. Ikey retorted warmly, with natural indignation, and so they parted.

About the same time discord arose among the girls.

Mr. Hazeltine had had a slide made for the children in the back yard. It was built from the top of the stable loft, and was as good a substitute for a hill as such an affair could be. Here they had a grand time till one day when Elsie insisted it was her turn to slide.

"No, it is Dora's," objected Louise. "Isn't it, Constance?"

But Constance, always devoted to Elsie, was not sure. Bess and Helen both agreed with Louise.

"I am sure it is my turn to slide," said Dora, "but if Elsie thinks it is hers, I'd rather have her take it."

Bess had very positive ideas of fairness, however, and would not give up. "No," she declared, "it is her turn, and we must play fair or it isn't any fun."

"But I know it is my turn," said Elsie, equally stubborn; "Connie thinks so too."

"Never mind, Bess," pleaded Dora.

"I shall mind; for when Louise and Helen and I all say it is your turn, and only Constance thinks it is Elsie's, you have a—a majority, and she ought to see it."

"Yes," added Louise, admiring her sister's big word; "I think you ought, Elsie."

"And it is our slide," put in Helen very unwisely.

"That doesn't make any difference," Bess hastened to say; but the mischief was done.

"Then keep your old slide," Elsie cried angrily. "I wouldn't be so selfish. Come, Constance, let's not stay where they don't want us."

"Don't go, Elsie; it is not worth quarrelling about," urged Dora; but she wouldn't listen and walked off with an air of offended dignity, followed rather reluctantly by Constance. Dora wanted to go after her, but Louise held her fast.

"Don't go, Dody; it won't do a bit of good. If she is mad, she can just be mad."

They took a few more slides, finding it not half so much fun as before. Dora looked very sober, for quarrelling was something she was not accustomed to, and after a visit to Carie, who was sick with a cold, she went home feeling exceedingly uncomfortable. Perhaps it would be all right to-morrow, she thought, but that did not prove to be the case.

When they met at school Elsie entirely ignored Bess and Louise, who in their turn treated her with a lofty indifference wonderful to behold.

"I am not at all mad at you, Dora," Elsie said to her; "but I am at Bess and Louise, for they were impolite. I am not going to speak to them till they say they are sorry."

"Oh, dear! I feel as though it were my fault in some way. It will spoil our club and everything," sighed Dora.

How long this unhappy state of affairs might have continued had not the Big Front Door taken matters in hand, it is impossible to say.

On the afternoon of the quarrel Elsie had a story book with her, which in her hasty departure she forgot. She remembered it before she reached home, but did not like to go back. The next day she planned a very cold note which was to be carried by one of the servants. Mrs. Morris, however, saw no reason why her daughter should not do her own errand, and all arguments were in vain. Finding that it was of no use to plead, after some rebellious tears she decided to go for her book herself.

Bess, Louise, and Dora were studying their history lesson together, when Joanna came in to say that Elsie was downstairs and wanted the book she had left.

"I wonder," said Bess, when it had been found and sent down, "if she will come to the club."

After they went back to their lessons Dora's thoughts kept wandering off to that miserable quarrel, and she said, as she put on her hat, "If Elsie were willing to make up, you would be, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, yes," they both answered readily, Louise adding, "but she doesn't want to."

Elsie felt rather uncomfortable as she sat in the library. She hoped that none of the children would come in and find her there. She could not help remembering the pleasant time she had had in that very room a few weeks ago, getting ready for the New Year's eve entertainment, and for a moment she was sorry about the quarrel.

When Joanna brought her the book she hurried away, and, opening the front door for herself, pulled it to behind her with a bang, when to her dismay she found herself held fast. The door had closed on her dress. She pulled and twisted, but it was of no use—she was a prisoner. She could not reach the bell, and only a dead latch-key would open it from the outside. It was late in the afternoon and few people were passing; then too she did not like to call for help. The poor child felt herself to be in a somewhat ridiculous position, and if she dreaded anything it was being made fun of.

Suppose Carl should come in and find her! He was such a tease he would tell the other boys, and they would think it a great joke. The wind was so cold and penetrating that after a little Elsie forgot her fear of being laughed at, and began to long for anybody who would release her. All the passers-by seemed to be on the other side of the street. Once she called to a colored boy, but he only looked at her stupidly and went on.

"Oh, dear! what shall I do!" she cried, sinking down on the cold marble step. "I wish I had never thought of my book."

She wondered what Bess and Louise would think if she were found frozen to death on their doorstep. Her mother would be sorry she had not allowed one of the servants to take her note. There was some comfort in this thought. Then—was that really someone coming down the walk at the side of the house? She held her breath. Yes, it certainly was. She immediately returned to life.

It was Dora on her way home, so busy thinking that she started when Elsie called her.

"Why, Elsie Morris," she exclaimed as she caught sight of the forlorn figure on the doorstep.

"Oh, Dora, please help me. I am caught and can't get out."

"Have you been here all this time?" Dora asked, running up the steps in great surprise. "Shall I ring the bell or go around?" pausing with her hand on the knob.

"You'd better ring. I don't want to see the girls."

Dora's hand still rested on the bell, but she hesitated. "Elsie," she said, "I just believe this has happened so we can make up. Won't you? I know that Bess and Louise will if you will. Think how unhappy we are! We can't have any more good times." Dora felt that she had the advantage.

"No," said Elsie crossly; "and I wish you would ring that bell; I am as cold as I can be. It was my turn, and it was selfish and mean in them not to let me have it."

"Oh, Elsie, they are not selfish; they are always ready to do what we like, but they thought it was my turn. That is why I feel so badly about it; for if it had been her own turn I think Bess would have given up. Please, please promise to make up."

That Dora cared a great deal was plain, for her eyes were full of tears, and those tears did much towards gaining the victory.

"I am not the least bit mad with you, Dora," Elsie hastened to say, "but I am with Bess. Please ring the bell."

"In one minute, if you will only promise to make up."

"Dora Warner, I tell you I can't," stamping her foot. "I can't say it wasn't my turn, for that would be a story."

"That won't make any difference, for you need not say anything about it, only that you are willing to make up. You think you were right, and Bess thinks she was right, so all you have to do is not to say anything about it. Please, Elsie."

Dora's logic may not have been altogether convincing, but her earnestness was not to be resisted.

"Well," began the prisoner, "I suppose I shall freeze to death if I don't, so I will only—"

Dora waited for nothing more, but gave the bell a joyous pull.

Louise, who was on her way upstairs, ran back to see who was at the door.

"Why, it is Dora!" she exclaimed, opening it.

It did not take long to explain, and Elsie was glad to sit down by the register in the hall and make it up in earnest.

Bess, who heard them talking and ran down, was quite ready to meet her more than half way, and no one would have guessed, seeing their friendliness, that an hour ago they were not on speaking terms.

Elsie was pitied and petted to her heart's content, while Dora beamed on them like a genial little sun which had at last made its way through the clouds.

Aunt Zélie heard the whole story that night.

"Wasn't it funny, Elsie's getting caught?" said Louise. "I believe it is really a magic door; Dora thinks so too."

"I don't know. It seems to me if the rest of you had been as anxious for peace as she was, the door need not have come to your relief. If you had each been trying to help," said her aunt.

"I believe I have been forgetting the text," Bess said gravely.

If only the quarrel between Carl and Ikey could have been settled as quickly. A week passed and matters did not mend. The walk to and from school was now taken alone, and neither made any sign of recognition when they met. Ikey was miserable at the sight of Carl's intimacy with Jim, and he imagined, too, that Mrs. Howard took her nephew's part, and this was hardest of all.

The fact was Aunt Zélie knew little or nothing about it. She had a house full of company, and Carie was sick besides.

In spite of appearances to the contrary, Carl was no happier than his friend, and quite as keenly missed the daily companionship in lessons and play. It had its effect in making him overbearing and fault-finding in an unusual degree. The family began to wonder what had happened to merry, good-tempered Carl, when one Saturday morning matters reached a climax. As he came upstairs from the library where he had been copying a composition, his father called to him from the hall below. Running into the girls' room, he laid his paper on the table there, with strict injunctions to them not to touch it.

Some minutes passed before his return, and Helen, who was apt to be attracted by forbidden fruit, could not resist going over to look at it. "I only want to see if I can read it," she said in reply to a warning word from Bess, who passed through the room on her way to the star chamber, where she and Louise were busy.

Helen, left to herself, was seized with a desire to make a capital S like Carl's. Finding a pen and some ink, she set to work, forgetting everything else till Bess, returning for something, exclaimed, "Why, Helen, what are you doing? Here he comes."

Very much startled, she looked around quickly, and the pen fell from her unaccustomed fingers upon the composition, scattering ink in every direction. At this moment her brother entered the room, and at one glance took in Helen's frightened look and the blotted paper.

"Didn't I tell you not to touch that?" he thundered, all the stored-up anger of weeks coming to the surface, and, springing forward, he caught her by the shoulder, gave her a furious shake, and pushed her from him with all his strength. With a frightened scream she fell backwards, striking her head against the edge of the half-open door.

"You wicked boy!" cried Bess, greatly shocked; "perhaps you have killed her."

But Helen's cries told that it was not so bad as this. Everybody came running to see what the matter was, and Joanna picked her up and carried her into Aunt Zélie's room, where it was found that a large lump on her head and a bruise on her arm were the worst of her injuries. Bess told how it happened.

"I can't think what ails Carl lately," said Louise.

"He is a mean, hateful boy," sobbed Helen; "I don't care if I did spoil his composition."

Feeling that it would be of no use to talk to her then, Aunt Zélie left her to the tender ministrations of her sisters and Joanna, and went to seek the chief offender.

He was still in the girls' room, standing his ground defiantly.

The moment's fright lest he had hurt Helen badly had passed, and the sight of his composition stirred his anger afresh.

"Is it true that you threw your sister down?" His aunt stood before him with a look in her dark eyes which it was not pleasant to meet.

Carl glanced down, but answered, "Yes, and here is what she did!" holding up the blotted paper.

"Does that excuse your unmanliness, your—you might have killed her, you know. I can't talk to you now, Carl; you'd better go to your room. I can't tell you how disappointed I am."

He never thought of not following her suggestion; indeed, he was glad to get away from those indignant eyes.

"Of course," he muttered to himself, "I am all to blame and nothing is said to Helen about spoiling my work. Boys are always found fault with, but girls can do anything."

Down in his heart he knew this was not true, but he chose to think it. He flung himself into a chair by the window. It was a gloomy, thawing day; the snow, as if aghast at the trouble it had caused, was melting sadly away. There was nothing in the prospect to make him feel cheerful. After awhile he went to work on his composition again, and as he wrote he felt more and more like a martyr. When it was finished he folded it and put it away, and began to think it must be near lunch-time. With the door closed, there in the third story he could not hear the bell; however, he would not go down; if they wanted him they might send for him. By two o'clock he was feeling deeply injured. Nobody cared whether he starved or not. Then he remembered that Uncle William was to take them to see Hermann that afternoon. By this time they must have gone without him. Carl threw himself on the bed and shed some tears of vexation and disappointment. All the while something was whispering to him that he deserved to be unhappy. The afternoon dragged slowly; he grew very hungry, and at last saying to himself that he would go and get some biscuit, and "Tom Sawyer," one of his favorite books, he went softly downstairs.

The house was so quiet that the sight of Mr. Smith asleep on a hall chair was a positive relief. After visiting the pantry he went to the library for his book. The door was half open, and when he reached it he suddenly stopped, for there was Aunt Zélie by the table with her head bowed on her arms. Evidently she had not heard him, and Carl almost held his breath. He thought she was crying; he was not sure, but certainly she was unhappy. It came to him in that moment, as it never had before, how tender and sweet and helpful she was. She had sorrow of her own, he knew, and who was there to comfort her as she comforted others? And he had disappointed her—had behaved shamefully. As he stood there it seemed to him that he must have been crazy. He could not endure the sight of that sorrowful figure, and turning to go away, instead; the next minute he was kneeling beside her saying, "Aunt Zélie, I am so sorry."

She was startled, for she had not heard him; but she turned and put her arms around him for a moment, without speaking.

"Aunt Zélie, I know how contemptible I am; you ought not to have anything to do with me," Carl exclaimed in a great burst of contrition. She took his hand and held it fast as she answered, "I can't throw stones at you, dear, but perhaps I can help you to learn the lesson I have had to learn many times."

He never forgot that afternoon. How he sat beside her with his head on her shoulder, while she talked to him as she had never talked before. How his face glowed with mingled shame and pride as she said that, of all the children, he was, if possible, the dearest to her.

"But I have more fear for you than for the others. I long to have you grow up a strong, true man—master of yourself in every sense. If you do not, I shall feel that in some way it is my fault."

"I will try to be what you want me to be—like Uncle Carl—if I can; and nobody in the world could help me as you do."

"I shall not leave you till you leave me," Aunt Zélie said, smiling rather wistfully at the tall boy.

"That will be never, and I will always take care of you," answered Carl, laying his cheek against her hand. He told her about the trouble at school too, finding it a relief to confess everything and she listened gravely.

"For a little misunderstanding like this, a little hateful pride, pleasant friendships are given up, and the good times we expected to have in the club this winter! Have my Good Neighbors forgotten their motto already?"

"I'm afraid so," Carl said, thinking how hard it would be to make things right again.

"Have you told Father?" he asked.

"No, he did not come to lunch."

"Then I shall have to tell him," with a sigh.

This was not an easy thing to do. That they were the best of companions and friends made it all the harder, for he felt he had forfeited the right to this good-fellowship.

Carl told his story with such evident shame and repentance that, though he listened with a grave face, Mr. Hazeltine could not find it in his heart to be very severe.

"I did not think," he said, "that my only son could be guilty of such a cruel and ungentlemanly act."

Carl winced at this.

"You see," his father continued, laying his hand on his shoulder, "I always had such a tender feeling for my little sister that it is hard for me to understand how you could be so unkind."

It was Carl's private opinion that Aunt Zélie could never have been so trying as Helen, but he did not say so. They had a serious talk, and for a week after, Carl was seen only at the table, for he and his father decided that as he had sinned against the happiness of the family, he must forfeit the privileges of the family life for a while.

Everybody was glad when the week was over, Carl most of all.

No one else knew how lonely those evenings were, spent in his room, or how he longed to join the group around the library fire.

Helen was deeply impressed by her brother's humble apology, and decided that after all she wasn't glad she had spoiled his composition, but very sorry she had been so meddlesome.

Carl lost no time in starting out to find Ikey and make friends.

It was on Monday morning, and they met just outside the gate.

"Hello!" said Carl.

"Hello!" replied Ikey.

"Know your Latin?"

"Hope so, I have studied it a lot," and they walked down street together as if nothing had happened.

"Where were you going this morning when I met you?" Carl asked when his neighbor came in, in the old way, with his books that afternoon.

"I was coming over for you. I was tired of it."

"Were you? Why, I was going for you!"

CHAPTER XV.ToC

DORA'S BRIGHT IDEA.

One thing troubled Carl. It was that Dora knew all about it. She came to lunch that dreadful Saturday to go with the others to see Hermann, and of course Helen's bruises and his own absence had to be accounted for.

On his way home from school one morning he saw her and her mother coming towards him on the other side of the street. When they were within speaking distance, Mrs. Warner bowed, but Dora looked in another direction as if she wished not to see him.

Carl was hurt and mortified, for he was sure he knew the reason.

"I don't care, it is mean to be so hard on a fellow. Aunt Zélie isn't," he said to himself.

He did care, however, and was silent and gloomy at lunch. As he left the room on his way upstairs to study he heard Bess say, "Dora had such an accident to-day." But he did not wait to hear what it was.

An hour later, having an errand to do up town, he went off alone instead of asking Ikey to go with him as usual.

The clear, cold air was making him cheerful in spite of himself, when, as he drew near home after a long walk, he saw two familiar figures in front of him. His spirits immediately fell, for they were Ikey and Dora chatting together most sociably. Carl suddenly felt jealous.

He knew they were great friends, and he never had dreamed of objecting till now that he was himself out of favor. He began to walk slowly that he might not overtake them, his pride keeping him from turning back and going home some other way.

They paused a moment when they reached the corner; then Ikey, with his politest bow, left her and crossed the street. Dora stood waiting. Carl advanced, trying to look unconscious and indifferent.

Her smile changed to a puzzled look, and then became positive astonishment when he was passing without a word.

Always straightforward, she exclaimed, "Why, Carl! Aren't you going to speak to me? I am on my way to your house."

"I thought you would not care to speak to me, you didn't this morning," he answered somewhat loftily.

"Not speak to you? I don't know what you mean."

"You would not this morning," he persisted.

"Oh, I know now! How absurd! Didn't the girls tell you about my glasses getting broken? It must have been when I was going to have them mended. You know I am so near-sighted I can't see across the street without them."

Carl looked rather foolish. Dora had worn glasses only a short time, and he had not noticed their absence.

"You knew I would not do such a thing; how could you be so silly?" She was decidedly vexed with him.

"I thought perhaps you really did not care to have anything to do with me after—"

"You thought I would stop speaking to you for that!" she exclaimed. "Why Bess told me how sorry you were, and at any rate it would have been acting as if I never did wrong myself."

"You wouldn't do anything so horrid."

"I was a little surprised at you," Dora, acknowledged, "but it is so disagreeable not to be friends with people. I am glad you and Ikey have made up; he was telling me about it."

By this time they had reached the gate, and Carl said, "I don't think the girls are at home; they were going out with Aunt Zélie, but you might come in and wait, if you don't mind talking to me while I look over some books for father."

"I don't mind talking to you," she answered, laughing, "but I can't stay long. I want 'Water Babies.' Louise said I could have it to read."

"Come in, then, and I'll find it for you."

They went up to the star chamber together, and Dora sat down in the west window, where a little wintry sunshine still lingered, while Carl looked for the book.

"I can't see how you could be such a goose as to think I would not speak to you," she said presently.

"I suppose I knew I deserved it." Carl laid "Water Babies" on her lap, and, kneeling on the floor with his elbows on the window-sill and his chin in his hands, looked thoughtfully out at the bare branches of the maples.

"I'll tell you what it is," he said after a minute's silence, "Aunt Zélie is a trump."

"I know that, only I'd call her a prettier name," said Dora, smiling.

"You can't know really till you have been very had. She was so good to me. It makes a fellow feel awfully when somebody like her cares a lot for him and he goes and disappoints her."

"But you won't again, I'm sure."

"You see," Carl went on, "she cares for me particularly because I am named for Uncle Carl. Has Bess or Louise ever told you about him?"

Dora shook her head.

"He was Mamma's brother, you know, and he was splendid. I thought there was nobody like him when I was a little fellow. He used to be here a great deal, and we were glad when he married Aunt Zélie because we were so fond of them both. The only thing we did not like about it was that Aunt Zélie went away to live, but they came to see us very often. Then Uncle Carl died. He was skating with some people, and a friend of his went where the ice wouldn't hold, and broke through. Nobody knew just what to do, it was so hard to get to him on the broken ice, and the man couldn't swim. Uncle Carl saw that he would drown before help came, so he went right into the freezing water and held up his head till they brought ropes."

"He wasn't drowned, was he?" Dora asked in an awestruck voice.

"No, but he was in the water so long that it made him ill. The other man got well. It happened not long before Mamma died. Then, you know, Aunt Zélie came back to us."

"You must be glad you are named for him."

"Yes, I am, only I am not good enough. I am afraid I shall never do anything brave like that."

"I think, perhaps, little things have to come first," said Dora wisely, adding, "He was helping, wasn't he?"

"I had not thought of that," said Carl.

As she walked home an idea came into Dora's head, which interested her so much that "Water Babies" lay unopened on her lap for half an hour that night. Next day she confided it to Bess and Louise, who highly approved.

"Why, Dora, you are very clever. When you are grown up you will be as good at thinking of things as Aunt Zélie," said Bess.

"You think of pretty good things yourself, Bess," added Louise.

"And so do you, for you first thought of trying to help the harp man," said Dora merrily.

"The G.N. Club meets to-night, and we'll ask the boys to let us in. You come over to dinner," Louise suggested.

"They won't do it," said her sister positively.

"Oh, perhaps they will if we are very polite; we will try."

The weekly meetings of the G.N. Club had begun again with great interest. No one enjoyed them more than Aunt Zélie, and nothing was allowed to interfere with this engagement with the boys if she could help it. However, it happened this evening that some old friends of the family who were passing through the city on their way south called, and it was impossible to excuse herself, so the boys were left to their own devices.

Though the star chamber looked as cheerful as usual and Carl did his best as host, it was not quite the same without her.

Jim recalled with wonder that first evening when he hoped she would not come. The rehearsals for the harp man's benefit had made them all feel very well acquainted with her and one another.

They were beginning work on some screens for the Children's Hospital when there came a knock at the door. Ikey opened it and Carie walked in.

"I came to bring you a letter," she announced, handing Carl a folded paper, and shyly surveying the rest of the company from behind him.

He read it aloud.