Charlotte was sitting in the easy chair which she had imported to her new lodging with the rest of her belongings, munching peanuts. Her bushy brown hair was pinned up into a droll little "nubbin" on top of her head, her goggles had slipped down almost to the tip of her nose, and altogether her attitude, when Nancy burst in upon her late on Sunday afternoon, gave evidence that she was in a thoughtful mood. She had often said that peanuts always disposed her to meditation. With her feet on the window-seat she gazed out upon a rather dreary scene of fog and rain, hardly blinking her big, heavy-lidded eyes, and devouring peanuts like an automaton. But the unchanging gravity of her face, as she turned around to greet her prodigal roommate, told Nancy that there was really some serious matter on her friend's mind.
"Hello! Have a good time?" was her only greeting.
"Very. Did you like the play yesterday? I—I hope you understood why I—I mean after I had told you that I had to stay here——"
"Nancy, you know you don't have to explain anything to me. If you couldn't go with me, don't you suppose that I knew that you had your own reasons for not going?" interrupted Charlotte warmly. "My idea of real 'bosom friends,' as they call 'em, is of two people who know when not to bother each other with questions.
"The reason why most of these ardent school-girl friendships come to violent deaths is because they will insist on telling each other everything, and demanding an explanation for every why and wherefore. And that's that. Take off your things and have a peanut—or even two, if you like."
Nancy tossed her hat on the bed and began to take off her heavy clothes.
"You seemed sort of grave, Charlotte, when I came in. Has anything happened?" she asked, as she slipped into her dressing-gown and shook down her hair.
"Well, in a way, yes," replied Charlotte. "Nothing to worry you really, and it's really not my affair, except that it concerns you and Alma. It's only that I'm afraid that that donkey Mildred Lloyd got Alma into rather a scrape yesterday. Oh, don't look so scared—it's all fixed up. Only, if I were you, I'd have a good talk with Alma about Mildred."
"But what happened?" cried Nancy, who had turned quite pale, in spite of Charlotte's hasty reassurances.
"Well, the chief trouble was that they overstayed their time in town yesterday. Ten o'clock is the very latest that any of us can come in on a holiday, As you know, and as they knew, and as that little pinhead, Mademoiselle, knew. It seems that one of the boys persuaded them to stay in for dinner and to go to the theatre again afterwards. So they didn't get in until after twelve. Well, as you can imagine, Amelia went on a regular rampage. And I've a notion that she was a good deal harder on poor Alma than she was on Mildred. Amelia is more afraid of angering Mildred than Mildred is of angering her. Mildred always takes Mademoiselle as her chaperone because she is quite sure of being able to make that little poodle do anything she wants. And Mildred, being the daughter of Marshall Lloyd, is persona grata here, and can wriggle out of any scrape. I know Mildred down to the ground. I've roomed with her for a year. For some reason or other she never tried to coax me into any rule breaking—probably because we were never intimate at all, and because she knew that I don't think there's any fun or sense in that sort of thing. It doesn't take any great cleverness to break a rule, and you don't get anything much by doing so. If you want my opinion, I think that Mildred is a very unsafe sort of friend for a girl like Alma. I don't believe that Alma honestly likes her—Mildred is more than inclined to be a bully, and extremely capricious—but somehow a lot of girls feel flattered when Mildred 'takes them up,' and will do anything she tells them to, without using their own common sense for a minute. I'm saying all this to you, Nancy, when I wouldn't say it to anyone else. I don't like the idea of picking to pieces a girl whom you roomed with for a year, but I think that both of us ought to try to make Alma open her eyes before Mildred gets her into any more mischief."
Nancy sat silent for a time, staring out of the window, and biting her finger thoughtfully. She longed to ask Charlotte's advice, but she hesitated to discuss her own sister even with this very close and sincere friend. She hated to admit Alma's weaknesses even to herself, and she could not bring herself to speak of them to anyone else. But she felt very uncertain as to how she was going to approach Alma on the subject of her friendship with Mildred; for in spite of their reconciliation, she knew that Alma was not ready to take any warnings, without flying up with a lot of notions about the nobility of friendship and so on; true and idealistic notions in themselves, but so unwisely applied that she stood in danger of losing them altogether through disillusionment.
"I think Alma's alone now. Have you seen her?" said Charlotte. "The poor little creature has been awfully unhappy about the scolding Miss Leland gave her—Mildred wasn't at all cast down and goes around looking as if she had done something very smart. The very fact that Alma is feeling so blue about it all, while Mildred is perfectly unconcerned, shows the difference in the sort of stuff they are made of. And we must take care that Alma doesn't change under Mildred's influence so that she, too, will think it very smart to get into silly scrapes just for the fun of getting out of them."
Nancy sprang up, and without a word left the room.
There was no light in her sister's room, but in the gray twilight that shone in forlornly she made out a pathetic little heap on the bed. She felt a lump of pity and motherly tenderness rise in her throat; not a particle of blame was in her heart—only a desire to cuddle and comfort her thoughtless little sister.
"Alma," she called softly. A tousled head was lifted from the pillow, and even in the dim light she could see how Alma's rosy, childlike face was stained and swollen with tears.
"Oh, Nancy! I am so glad you're back! Oh, don't be angry with me. You aren't angry, are you?" sobbed Alma.
"Angry!" echoed Nancy, laughing tremulously. "Oh, you poor little darling—don't be so unhappy about it all." She hugged Alma tightly and kissed her hot cheek, feeling the tears on it.
"Then you do know about it. It wasn't my fault, Nancy—that is, it wasn't Milly's, either. Don't think I'm trying to shift the blame. Oh, I have been so miserable."
"Why, dearest, it wasn't anything very bad—it was only foolish. Cheer up!"
"You see,—you see—Frank was there, and another boy—and they hated to go back to Cambridge—and it all seemed perfectly harmless—and Milly said it was perfectly all right, and that Miss Leland wouldn't care a bit—and that she had often done it. I hadn't any idea—until I thought about you, and I knew you wouldn't like it. But I didn't think about that until we were coming home. But Milly just laughed."
"What did Miss Leland say to you?"
"She—she was furious. She said that she was ashamed of me, and that she was going to write to Mother—and that it was a cheap, common thing to do."
Nancy's eyes blazed. For a moment she sat perfectly still, breathing sharply, evidently trying to conquer her temper. Then she said in a quiet tone:
"She had no business to say that to you. I'm going to speak to her after dinner."
"Oh, don't, Nancy," implored Alma, timidly. "It's all right now. I—I don't want you to say anything to Miss Leland."
"Well, she should have been ashamed of herself to say that to you. She is nothing but a horrid old snob—I'll wager she thought twice over everything she said to Mildred." Nancy's eyes were still fiery. She was beginning to taste the humiliation of having to submit to the tyranny of snobs. If she went to Miss Leland it would end most likely by their having, for the sake of their pride, to pack up and go home. And she felt that she had no right to do anything that would so wound her mother.
"Alma, dearest, I want to say something to you—please don't you be angry with me now. Please, dearest. You know that I haven't a single thought that isn't for your interest—and that I wouldn't for anything on earth try to take away from you anything that was really for your good." She paused, waiting for Alma to say something, but her sister was silent, and the room was too dim now for her to read the expression on Alma's face.
"I think that you have already seen for yourself that there is danger in a friendship where one person lacks a—well, a very keen sense of honor, and the other lacks judgment. I know you don't want to make any more mistakes—you have been very unhappy over a small one, and unless you are wise, big ones may follow."
"You mean—you want me to—to not be friends with Mildred?"
"I want you only to be independent, dear, so that you won't be afraid to do what you know is right and wise, even if she laughs at you and coaxes you. I don't like to criticize Mildred to you if you are very fond of her; but you know that I have never trusted her, and this affair ought to show you, too, that she isn't to be trusted. She has always had her own way, and she isn't a wise girl. She hasn't been a very good influence for you, as you must have seen. Partly because of her influence we quarrelled, you know. She has laughed you out of doing many things that you know well you should have done. I am not blaming you, Alma. It is only because I know that in time Mildred would make you very, very unhappy that I'm telling you not to make her your closest friend."
"She—she—I mean that in many ways she should be a very good friend to have," began Alma, in a low voice.
"Oh, Alma darling, you mustn't think that simply because a girl has money and position and influence that she is, on the face of that, a valuable friend. A girl like Mildred is very fickle, anyway. To-day she may want to do everything in the world for you, and to-morrow she may hardly speak to you. So long as you follow her blindly, she may show a great fancy for you, but if you were to follow your own ideas, contrary to her, she would quarrel with you in a minute."
"I don't believe that of Mildred," exclaimed Alma, with sudden defiance. "You have no idea how generous she is, and—and how broad-minded. I'm sure that you are prejudiced against her, Nancy. I know that she often appears to be rather a snob, but in reality she isn't one at all. Yesterday was no more her fault than it was mine. I was just as wrong as she was."
"Yes, but you were unhappy because you had done it, and Mildred isn't unhappy about it at all—as a matter of fact, she thinks that it was quite a clever thing to do."
Alma was silent. Then she said, presently:
"I can't quarrel with her."
"You don't have to quarrel with her. I never asked you to do that. I said only to think and act as you know to be right. Certainly, then, if she grows cool with you, she will respect you more. I—I hate to see my sister so absolutely a—a—I mean I hate to see you doing blindly everything Mildred does. Because she thinks it silly and 'high-brow' to study hard, you don't study. I hate to see you so afraid to lose a friend that you will go against your own conscience and judgment just to keep her good-will. It's just—snobbery, Alma—and it's worse than even Mildred's snobbery, because it's cowardly, while hers is just—impudent."
"I won't let you say such things, Nancy," cried Alma, shaking off her sister's hand. "I—I couldn't go on rooming with Mildred if I believed what you say of her, and I won't listen to you."
"Oh, Alma—don't, don't let us quarrel again," pleaded Nancy. "Why can't you believe that it's almost unbearably hard for me to say these things to you? I am a coward, too, because I'm so afraid of losing one little jot of your affection, that I would rather a thousand times hold my tongue than say anything to make you angry. But I can't be silent."
"You've made me more unhappy now than I was before," said Alma, sullenly. "Do you want me to be a hypocrite, and pretend to be fond of Mildred still, while I'm believing what you want me to believe of her?"
Nancy got up, feeling quite desperate about the failure of her attempts to show Alma her danger. While she was thinking of something to say she walked over to the door and switched on the light. Just as she turned, she saw Alma make a quick movement—but Alma was not quick enough to grasp a handsome fur neck-piece off the chair and whisk it behind the pillow before Nancy saw her. Alma blushed crimson. If it had not been for that swift action and the guilty blush, Nancy would not even have noticed the scarf—or, if she had, she would simply have thought that it was one of Mildred's. For some reason she flushed herself, and Stood staring blankly at Alma, curiously ashamed of Alma's own guilty expression. Then Alma slowly drew the scarf from its hiding-place, and tried to laugh.
"You're going to scold me for my extravagance now, Nancy. I—I got this to-day. I was hiding it, because I didn't—I mean I was afraid you might read me a lecture." She attempted an air of playful penitence, but it was rather a failure. It was a very expensive fur, long and fluffy, and beautifully lined with frilled chiffon.
"But—Alma," remonstrated Nancy, weakly, "how did you get it? It must have cost at least a hundred dollars. Why——" She broke off quite dazed and frightened at the thought of such a sum, and stared at her sister as if she thought that Alma had taken leave of her senses.
"Well, you see—don't worry, Nancy," stammered Alma, evidently finding the greatest difficulty in explaining. "You see—it was this way. Milly—oh, Nancy,"—she stopped and looked at her sister beseechingly,—"Milly wanted me to get it. And she offered to lend me the money—she begged me to let her lend it to me, and I can pay her back whenever I please; she said she didn't care whether I paid her back at all. And I felt so shabby in that old suit of mine, and I hated to look badly when Frank was going to be there—he knows ever so much about girls' clothes, and I did look positively poor beside Mildred. I knew Mother wouldn't mind—in fact, I knew that it would hurt her pride dreadfully if I didn't look respectable with those sort of people—and the fur made everything else look just right. Oh, Nancy, if you only knew how it hurts me to be with girls who have everything, who look so much nicer than I do just because they have prettier clothes. I know it was wrong of me, but I couldn't resist it! I just simply couldn't."
Nancy bit her lip. It seemed as if she were always being thrust into a position where she must needs be forever preaching to Alma. It made her feel old, and uncomfortably burdened. With Alma she always felt somewhat as a staid and wise old duenna must feel with a pretty and charmingly unpractical and mischievous charge. For a moment she was on the point of shrugging her shoulders and determining to let Alma go ahead as she pleased. She had no desire to blame Alma; she understood too well the force of the temptations that surrounded a girl like Alma in such an environment as Miss Leland's school; and she was touched by Alma's, "If you knew how it hurts me!" She had foreseen just that when she had urged her mother not to send them to Miss Leland's. She herself had felt that very same sharp flick of wounded feminine pride when she compared her own small possessions with those of the other girls and realized that in spite of the neatness of her clothes they must often appear plain to the point of poorness in comparison with Mildred's or Kay's. Somehow with Charlotte, in spite of Charlotte's pretty things, she had not been so conscious of the contrast.
"I—I wish you hadn't tried to hide it from me, Alma," she said gently. "Are you afraid of me? Am I always scolding you?"
"Nancy! Of course not," cried Alma, in distress. "I didn't mean to hide it—that was horribly cowardly—I knew that it was weak of me to get it, and that I had no right to borrow the money from Mildred; and you have a perfect right to blame me awfully."
"But, dear, however are we going to manage to pay her back? How much was it?"
Alma looked uncomfortable.
"It really was a bargain, Nancy. A—a hundred and ten, marked down from a hundred and forty. It'll last me forever."
"A hundred and ten!" Nancy gasped, and then tried to compose her features so as not to scare Alma with her own breathless dismay.
"I—I don't have to pay her until I get ready," murmured Alma. "I know Milly won't even think of it again."
"You can't possibly accept it as a present, Alma," said Nancy sternly. "We must manage to pay Mildred back somehow—soon. She is the last person in the world whom I'd want to owe anything to. I mean to say, that people in our position can't put themselves under obligations to a girl like Mildred Lloyd. It's different if you can return it in some other way. For instance, it would be all right for Kay Leonard to accept an expensive present from Mildred, because she could so easily return it, but for one of us to is like accepting a charity."
Alma looked at her repentantly out of two large, grave blue eyes.
"I—I'm afraid I rather made a mess of everything yesterday, Nancy," she said, hanging her head and picking at the soft fur, which somehow had lost a good deal of its charm for her; then, all at once, evidently touched by the droll naïveté of the sad remark, Nancy burst out laughing.
"You poor, funny lamb! I'm always worrying you to death," she said. "Don't bother any more, Alma. I'm sick of bothering, myself. We'll manage to solve the problem somehow. Only, dearest," she grew sober again, "please—please don't—I don't want to say it again,—but think over what I said to you. I'm sure that you will see that I'm very nearly right. Come, now—you'd better tidy yourself. I'm going to dress." She bent over Alma and kissed her lightly. As she went toward the door Mildred met her. They looked at each other coolly, Mildred barely giving her a nonchalant nod, and then ignoring her altogether.
"Hello, honey-pie. Don't tell me you've been weeping briny tears all afternoon over what Leland said to you," she cried gaily to Alma. "Goodness, what a penitent! What's the point in having a good time if you're going to regret it like that? I have the right idea—I make it a point never to regret anything."
Nancy walked slowly back to her own room, and dressed for dinner in silence. It seemed to her that she might indeed be "sick of bothering," but that did not prevent there being a good deal for her to bother about.
It was the custom of Miss Leland's school to hold the mid-year examinations before the Christmas holidays, early in December, so that the teachers and the girls might enjoy their holidays without the shadow of that depressing necessity hanging over them, and so that they might apply themselves to the preparation for them while they were still in the habit of studying. Miss Leland held the opinion that after the gay indolence of the holiday season, and when the girls were still in the state of homesickness and lassitude following their return to school, they were much less interested in making good marks, and much less capable of applying themselves.
Thus, the first week of a snowy December found the entire school in that state of tension which seizes any body of young people when a hostile body of older people is bent upon finding out how much they know.
"History from nine to twelve to-morrow," groaned Charlotte. "I've reread the whole volume. I've crammed dates until I don't know whether Columbus discovered America in 1492 or 1776. I've 'rastled' with Free Silver, and I haven't the faintest notion what the trouble was about. A long, long time ago I knew whether Maryland was a Charter colony or not, but now I never expect to know again. I could write everything I know about this great and glorious country in two minutes, and it would be quite wrong at that, and the thought that we are expected to know enough to require three solid hours for writing it out is driving me rapidly into a state of chronic melancholia."
"What happened in 1812, Charlotte?" demanded Nancy in a dazed voice. "Something happened then, but I don't know what."
"Why, that was the year that Washington said 'Beyond the Alps lies Italy.' Which was quite true. And even if he didn't say it then, it would have been true, so you can't go far wrong there," replied Charlotte. "Nancy, kindly fold up your book. I am going to flunk, and I won't have you pass. If you try to study any more I'm going to sing the Marseillaise at the top of my voice."
"I think I will stop. I really do know my history, but I'm forgetting it the more I try to study."
After dinner that night, the living-room was empty during the usual hour for recreation, nearly all the girls having gone to their room either to study, or simply as a matter of form, since it was considered highly undiplomatic, to say the least, to appear as if you were so sure of the outcome of your examinations that you felt privileged to take life easily.
What they did, once they were in the privacy of their own rooms, was, of course, strictly their own business. Two or three, who believed that rest was essential, had solemnly gone to bed. A dozen or even more of the seriously inclined had hung "Busy" signs on the panel of their doors, through the transoms of which the greenish illumination of the students' lamps burning within told their own story. The others, philosophically believing that if they were going to pass they would, and if they were destined to flunk they would do so in spite of the best-intentioned efforts at study, were cheerfully whiling away the two hours of grace in subdued revelry.
Alma, who had every reason to doubt that she would shine in her examinations unless she made a superhuman effort at cramming, and who, at the same time, was unable to comfort herself with Mildred's philosophical indifference, was curled up on her bed, her fingers in her ears, struggling to make the lines she read convey some sense to her weary brain.
"I say, Milly, will you ask me some questions?" she suggested at length, lifting a weary face from her book. "I don't know what I know."
"Oh, bother! Don't study any more. What does it matter even if you don't pass?" said Mildred. "For goodness' sake don't you turn into a grind like Nancy. One thing I refuse to do is to room with anyone who's studious."
"But I'll flunk, as sure as fate," objected Alma, "and—and I don't want to, Milly."
"You're a bit late finding that out. It's not going to do you a bit of good to stuff now."
"Don't your father and mother mind if you don't pass?"
"Oh, Mother doesn't care a bit. She is always worrying herself to death for fear I'm overstudying. Dad sometimes rows at me about my bad marks, but Mother always takes my part. Besides this is my last year of school, and what earthly good will Latin or Algebra do me when I come out?"
"I suppose they really aren't much use," agreed Alma, finding this a very comforting notion. "Of course, it's different with Nancy; she wants to go to college."
"Well, of course if one wants to be a school teacher," said Mildred with a very faint sneer. "But that's a ridiculous idea for anyone who's as pretty as you are."
Alma hesitated; she felt the slight cast on Nancy in Mildred's remark, but she was afraid to resent it, and told herself that she would not be justified in doing so. She was silent for a moment, wondering why she liked Mildred, when Mildred did not like Nancy. Perhaps,—she was unwilling to admit this supposition, but it formed itself hazily in her mind—perhaps she herself did not really like Mildred. Perhaps way down inside of her she shared her sister's distrust of the girl. But why didn't she admit it? Because she was flattered with being the chosen friend of the most important girl in the school? Because she had accepted favors from Mildred? She blushed involuntarily as these thoughts glided through her mind.
She did not want to quarrel with Mildred, even when she knew that she was right and her roommate in the wrong, because she hoped that Mildred would invite her to visit her, and that through Mildred she might have some good times. She wished that Mildred wouldn't make mean little remarks about Nancy, because she felt ashamed of herself for not openly resenting them.
At length, however, she threw aside her book, and lent her rapt attention to Mildred's chatter about the coming holidays. In a little while other girls joined them, and the next hour of gossip drove away her uneasiness for the coming day, and her uncomfortable reflections.
The last examination which was in Latin ended on Friday at noon. On the Wednesday of the following week the reports had been posted on the bulletin-board, and at the eleven o'clock recess some twenty girls were clustered around them struggling to get near enough to read their marks. Those who were closest called out the percentages to the others who pelted them with agitated questions.
"You got seventy-six in French, Denise. Good enough. Good heavens, Nancy Prescott, you made ninety-two in history, and Charlotte Spencer ninety-four. Ye gods and little fishes, I passed my Algebra—sixty-eight! Catch me, somebody; I'm going to faint."
"Kay Leonard flunked everything but her French," whispered another. "Well, it won't disturb her at all. What did I make in Latin?"
"Eighty-eight. Good for you. Drinkwater doesn't make anyone a present of her marks. I just scraped through. I say, Alma! Alma Prescott, what happened to you on your Latin?"
"Why?" asked Alma, peering over Allison's shoulder, and turning a little pale. "Did—did I flunk very badly?"
"Why, it just says 'Cancelled' after your name. Didn't you take your exam?"
"Of course I took it!"
"Well, there—you can see for yourself. It just has 'Cancelled.'"
A queer silence fell upon the chattering group of girls and for several dreadful moments every eye was turned on Alma, who, white as a sheet, was staring blankly at the uncompromising word written after her name.
"I—I can't understand," she said presently, in a scared, voice. "I did take the examination—and I thought I really got through. I can't understand. Why should it be cancelled?" She turned her big, frightened eyes to Nancy, who, as pale as she was, only stared back at her.
"Why should my examination be cancelled?" repeated Alma, dazedly. "Was anyone else's cancelled too?"
"No. One, two, six girls flunked—and—for goodness' sake—Mildred Lloyd made the highest mark, Ninety-three! Mildred Lloyd, come here, and get your medal! Congratulations!"
Mildred strolled up nonchalantly, glanced at the board and turned away; only Nancy followed her curiously with her eyes. Then she turned to Alma.
"Haven't you any idea why your examination was cancelled?" she asked, in an odd voice that sounded as if her throat was dry. Alma shook her head.
"It's very strange. Come and let's ask Miss Drinkwater. Maybe it's only that your paper was lost or something like that." She tried to sound comforting, but she had no faith in her suggestion. Just then, however, the bell rang, and the girls had to go to their desks. Miss Leland took her place at one end of the room and stood waiting for silence. Everyone felt that she was there to make some important announcement and her grave, cold expression led all of them to suspect that it was not an entirely pleasant one.
She waited a moment after the room was silent. Alma looked piteously at Nancy, with a glance that said, "She's going to say something about me." Nancy kept her eyes fixedly on Miss Leland. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and her hands had grown as cold and damp as though she had just taken them out of ice-water. Her heart was beating so heavily that the frill on her shirt-waist trembled.
Miss Leland took a step forward, straightened a book on the big desk, and then looked up.
"Girls, for the first time in the history of this school, I am compelled to make an announcement that is as great a humiliation to me as it must be to you," she said, in a quiet, even voice.
"Ever since this school was founded there has never until now been any occasion when I have been forced to doubt the honor of one of my pupils." She made another pause, and in that silence an electric thrill seemed to pass through each one of the girls; some of them flushed scarlet and others went white, as though each one felt in a hazy way some share in the guilt of the unnamed culprit.
"For the first time in eighteen years one of my teachers has had to bring to my attention the fact that a pupil of this school attempted to cheat in an examination. That examination has, of course, been cancelled, so that that girl's attempt to win a high mark, dishonestly, availed her nothing.
"I do not need, I am sure, to incite in you feelings of disgust and shame for that girl's action. Your own sense of honor makes any warnings on my part superfluous and insulting to you.
"Fortunately, the imposition was discovered, because that girl most unwisely left the interlinear translation of Virgil's Æneid, which she had used to assist her in the examination, on her desk, where it was found, and brought to me.
"I do not choose to announce the name of that girl, much as she merits the public disgrace. I shall speak to her privately, and if she can offer, which is not likely, any defense of her action, I may soften her punishment. Otherwise, I have no choice left to me than to expel her from a school which she has disgraced. Now, you may go to your class-rooms."
The girls rose in silence, and hardly knowing what they were doing, began feverishly to collect their books and papers. But neither Alma nor Nancy moved. In a few moments the assembly hall was empty, save for the two sisters, neither of whom seemed to have been conscious of the curious glances cast at them by the other girls as they went out.
When they were alone, Nancy got up and went over to Alma, who sat as if she had been turned to stone, with a face as white as chalk.
"Alma, of course I know you didn't do it," said Nancy, laying her hand on her sister's, and speaking in a gentle, trembling voice.
"Oh, Nancy, it's so horrible—it's so horrible," moaned Alma. "I don't know how all this could have happened. What shall I do, Nancy? What in the world shall I do?"
"Come, dearest, let's go up-stairs," coaxed Nancy. "It'll come out all right. Come, dear."
"Of course, now everyone knows that Miss Leland meant me," said Alma, dully. "Am I going to be expelled; Nancy? I can't stand it—I won't stand it. Come on, Nancy, let's get our things and go home."
"Alma, darling, you didn't do it?" cried Nancy, the very shadow of such a doubt making her feel faint and ill. Alma lifted a wan face and smiled.
"I don't know that I didn't do it," she said, drearily. "If they found a trot on my desk—and it must have been my desk, because mine was the only examination that was cancelled—why, how can I prove that I wasn't using it?"
"But you don't even own such a thing! You wouldn't dream of having one. In some schools girls are allowed to use interlinear translations for their daily work, but it's not permitted here, and it wouldn't have entered your mind to get one. Come, we'll go to Miss Leland at once. She's alone in her office now."
Alma let herself be guided up to the principal's cosy little sanctum, where Miss Leland was seated at her desk writing. A wood-fire smoldered with friendly warmth on the brightly burnished andirons, and a clear, wintry sunlight fell in through the curtained windows, where a perfect garden of indoor plants bloomed gaily. But all these pleasant, homelike things seemed to share the chill hostility of Miss Leland's level glance, as the two sisters stood looking at her timidly from the threshold of the open door.
"You may come in," she said, with a curt nod. "No doubt, Alma, you wish to offer some explanation. Be seated."
"My sister wanted to say that there was a mistake. The book you referred to was never in her possession, and she did not use it at her examination," said Nancy, speaking rapidly, and almost harshly, in her endeavor to keep from breaking into a fit of hysterical tears. Alma was quite incapable of saying a word for herself.
"Then I am sorry that it happened to be found on her desk just after she had left the examination-room," replied Miss Leland dryly, her tone expressing her complete lack of belief in Nancy's words.
"Alma, did you have that book?" asked Nancy, turning sharply to her sister. Miss Leland opened a drawer of her writing-table and took out a small volume, bound in green cloth, which she handed over to Alma. Alma had already opened her lips to utter a frantic denial to Nancy's question, when her eyes fell upon the book. She shut her mouth with a sudden gasp, and without taking it, simply stared at the inoffensive little volume with a fixed, horrified gaze.
"Is that an interlinear?" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Is that the book that was found on my desk?"
"So you have seen it before," remarked Miss Leland. "Alma, this is a very serious matter. There can be no excuse for a girl's making use of any text-book whatever at an examination. A failure is to be deplored, but it is not a disgrace—and it is to be very much regretted that you did not choose rather to run the risk of an honorable failure than to attempt to steal a good mark, I have no choice in the matter. I am very sorry that I had to speak of it before the school, but I had to make a public example of the girl who could stoop to such an act. You understand, of course, that it will be impossible for you to continue as a pupil in this school."
For some reason Alma had grown quite calm, and when Miss Leland had finished speaking, instead of appearing to be overcome by the grim meaning in the last words, she rose quietly.
"Of course, if you cannot take my word for it that I never looked inside that book or anything like it in my whole life, why there is no use in my saying anything more," she said, with the utmost self-possession. "I don't know how it came to be on my desk——"
"Alma, I am anxious to believe a girl is innocent until she is proved guilty," said Miss Leland, impressed by Alma's coolness, "only—you have seen this volume before?" She looked at the girl with a still doubtful and puzzled expression.
Alma hesitated a moment before she admitted slowly:
"Yes, I have seen it, Miss Leland. But I never knew what it was."
"You have seen it in the possession of some girl in this school?"
"That I can't answer," replied Alma, with a firmness that Nancy had never seen in her before. "I—I don't think you have a right to ask me any more questions, Miss Leland. If—if you just let the whole business go, I'm perfectly willing to—to bear the blame. Please don't ask me any more questions. Let it be as it is. Just as long as Nancy is satisfied that I never did that hateful thing, why, I don't mind, you know."
The two sisters looked at each other happily, each of them sincerely indifferent as to whether anyone else in the school believed Alma innocent or guilty.
"Come on, Nancy," said Alma, almost gaily. They had started to leave the room, when Miss Leland called them back.
"I am very anxious to believe in you, Alma. If there has been a mistake, be assured that it will be set right. I will tell the other girls at luncheon that—well, I must see. I am in a difficult position. You may both go now. I would advise you to go directly to your classes."
Nancy was curiously absent-minded as they made their way down-stairs, hand in hand. Then all at once she drew in her breath sharply, catching her under lip between her teeth. On the bottom step she stopped short and, putting her hands on Alma's shoulder, swung her about so that she could look into her eyes. Her own were very bright.
"What is it?" asked Alma; then, for some reason, she colored and turned her eyes away.
"I know now where I saw that book myself, Alma," said Nancy.
"Nancy!" Alma's blue eyes now suddenly filled with tears. "Oh, Nancy—you won't say anything. No, no, you didn't see it. Please don't believe that of her."
"Two Sundays ago when I was talking to you—I noticed it in the bookcase in your room. I kept reading the titles on the books when I—you know the way you do when you're worried. It stood between a copy of 'Bryce's Commonwealth' and a French grammar——"
"Nancy, you mustn't say anything, do you hear?" insisted Alma, beseechingly.
"I won't say anything. But—but I'm going to—you go on to class. I tell you, I won't say anything. Oh, Alma, you darling! Go on to class, I say."
"Nancy, what are you going to do?" demanded Alma, as Nancy broke away from her and ran up the stairs again. "You aren't going to Miss Leland?"
"No, I'm not. There, isn't that the postman? You might as well see if there's anything for us before you go to French."
Alma walked down the hall toward the front door, where the maid was taking the noon mail from the postman. Nancy stood waiting, half-way up the stairs, evidently lost in thoughts which were not very pleasant, for her brown eyes sparkled with suppressed indignation and contempt, and once or twice she pressed her lips together tightly, as she always did when she was trying to make herself look calmer than she felt.
"Here's a letter from Mother," said Alma, coming back with an envelope in her hand. "I can't read it now, so you take it and save it for me." Nancy leaned over and took it from her.
"I—I may not see you until to-night," she said, slipping the letter into the pocket of her skirt. "You know you can trust me to hold my tongue, well—quite as well as she can, and she holds hers very well indeed. Do you mind being stared at and whispered about?"
Alma only smiled, then, with a little toss of her head, made a right about face, marched off, chin up, to brave the battery of glancing eyes and whispering tongues alone.
There was no doubt whatever in Nancy's mind that it was Mildred who had cheated in the examination. But whether Mildred had deliberately left the book on Alma's desk, or whether she had simply forgotten it, she did not know. The fact remained, however, that so far Mildred had made no effort to clear Alma of the suspicion, and knowing Mildred's nature as she did, Nancy was not inclined to think that Mildred would ever do so of her own accord. Nancy was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt so far as believing that she had not intentionally thrown Alma into such a damaging position. In the first place, she had no motive for injuring Alma, and in the second place, she ran a very great risk of discovery herself. Leaving the whys and wherefores, Nancy regarded the simple fact; that having thus injured Alma, Mildred was not going to try to clear her, and pay the penalty herself. The thought that most wounded Nancy was that Alma was under obligations to the girl who had treated her so badly. The handsome fur neck-piece Mildred had "lent" her, was not yet paid for, and Nancy shrank from the idea of her sister's owing money to her. She had, of course, not mentioned this to Alma, although it had been the first thought that sprang into her own head, when she first became certain that Mildred was the culprit. It would have troubled Alma, who was already troubled enough, and she could have done nothing about it.
"I've got to get that money somehow," Nancy said to herself grimly. "I can write to Mother for part of it—about half, perhaps, but the other half I've got to get myself." Naturally, her first idea was to pocket her pride, and to ask her Uncle Thomas for the money. Not even that would hurt her so much as the thought of owing it to Mildred; but then she dismissed this plan from her mind. It was impossible; it would be a breach of their terms of friendship, for one thing, and for another, she felt that to explain to him her reasons for wanting it would be unjust to Alma.
While she was turning one plan after another over in her mind, she absently took her mother's letter from her pocket, and slit the envelope open with a hairpin. She glanced almost carelessly at the lines, written in Mrs. Prescott's pointed, flourishing hand, then all at once the meaning of the first sentence fixed her wandering attention.
"MY DARLING, DARLING LITTLE DAUGHTERS:
"I can hardly bring myself to write this letter. You don't know how hard it is for me—but I deserve the pain and humiliation. I am a very foolish woman, but, oh, my dears, I have made my mistakes only in trying to help you both. And now, what have I done to you? There was no one to advise me, and I know nothing whatever about business, but it seemed so perfectly practical, so absolutely sure."
All this was perfect Greek to Nancy, and she saw that her poor mother had evidently written the letter in an almost desperate state of mind. After two pages of self-reproach, it was gradually made clear to Nancy that Mrs. Prescott had made an unfortunate investment of her little capital, though the extent of the loss Mrs. Prescott did not explain. In an effort to increase their meagre income, she had taken all her money, or part of it, and bought stock in some oil interest in Texas. A Western promoter had assured her that it was the opportunity of a lifetime, he himself being either an unconscionable fraud or a self-deceiving optimist. Nancy had not the remotest idea when her mother had made the investment, but evidently the news of its complete failure had just reached her, and it was equally evident that it had been a total loss.
Utter bewilderment confused Nancy's thoughts, so that at first she could hardly realize all that the misfortune might mean; she felt no terror; only a wave of pity and tenderness for her mother, whose misery was so pitifully expressed in the letter. Then she thought of Alma. Misfortune of that kind would hit both of them harder than herself, because they had a greater need for luxury and pleasure than she. There was nothing terrible to her in the thought of work, and of difficulties to be overcome, because, in her quiet way, she had a great wealth of self-confidence, the ardent ambition of youth, and that zest for struggle which is characteristic of strong natures. Alma and her mother, on the other hand, saw nothing but the wretchedness of thwarted hopes in such an existence of poverty and work. They were created for ease and luxury, just as the hollyhock is made to bloom against the sunny garden wall. Poor Mrs. Prescott, who had dreamed such happy fairy tales for her daughters, and who, with her own hands, as it were, had so innocently destroyed the little they possessed; and Alma, so thirsty for pleasure and beauty,—it was only on their account that Nancy suffered. She understood that it would be impossible for herself and Alma to come back to school for the next term; but that would have been impossible anyway, Nancy thought, even with Alma cleared of the dreadful suspicion that rested on her; for Nancy's stiff pride could not brook the thought of living among people who had doubted her sister, even though the circumstantial evidence against Alma had been very strong.
"However shall I get all the money to pay Alma's debt now?" she thought, dazedly. "I can't get even half of it from Mother, because she would certainly deny herself the very necessities of life to send it. I cannot ask Uncle Thomas for it." She knew that in all probability she could influence Mr. Prescott, through his increasing affection for her, to help her mother out of their present difficulty, but the thought of doing so was utterly repugnant to her, and, it seemed to her, intolerably humiliating both for Mrs. Prescott and Alma. She was afraid that Mrs. Prescott, learning that Uncle Thomas had shown a favoritism for her, might urge her to this course, and she could not decide whether she should swallow her pride for her mother's sake and for Alma's, or whether she should insist that they fight their way courageously out of the difficulty. So far as she herself was concerned, there would have been no question; there was nothing that she would not endure rather than ask her uncle for a cent.
Her hands were trembling as she folded the letter up, and put it in her bureau drawer under her handkerchief case.
"How am I going to tell Alma?" Well, she would break the news to-night. First of all, she must solve the problem of the debt to Mildred, Only one course was possible. There was her father's ring, which she always kept, and which was her very dearest, possession. It was of the heaviest gold, and set with a large seal stone of lapiz-lazuli. She might raise perhaps thirty-five or forty dollars on it—which left about seventy still to be found by hook or crook. Never had any sum appeared so gigantic to Nancy. She could see no other possible means of getting it than by borrowing it temporarily from Charlotte, and paying it back by one way or another during the holidays. She knew that Charlotte would be glad to lend it to her, but she shrank from the thought of putting their friendship to such a use. However, there was no help for it. In Alma's pocketbook she found enough money to pay her way into the city. Her mother would certainly be sending them a little more in a day or two for their return home. She took the money—two or three dollars, left from the ten which Alma had borrowed from her,—and began to change into her suit, thinking, meanwhile, with a smile of incredulity, of the imprudence of sending herself and Alma to one of the very schools where their poverty would be contrasted with the abundance of Mildred Lloyds and Katherine Leonards.
When she was ready for town, she went to Miss Leland's office, and told her simply that she had just received a letter from her mother which made it necessary to go to the city without delay. Miss Leland gave the consent, which Nancy, in her excited state of mind, was ready to go with or without. She caught the next train to New York, and by one-thirty was in the Grand Central Station, wondering where on earth, now that she was there, she would be able to get the money on the ring. She had a vague idea that the only possible place would be some pawn-shop, and she had read in Nicholas Nickleby that one can tell a pawn-shop by three golden balls hanging in front of it, and also that one would be likely to find it only in a squalid section of the business district. The dealer would certainly be Jewish, and he would in all probability not give her a tenth of what the ring was worth. None of these thoughts were likely to raise her spirits at all, and, when at length she found herself outside a dirty little shop on lower Sixth Avenue, gazing in upon a window display of dusty violins and guitars, travelling bags and tawdry jewelry, while above her the traditional golden balls creaked in a sharp wind, her courage all but failed her. She was frankly terrified by the sordid strangeness of her environment, by the dirty, sodden loafers that shuffled past her, and by the thought of haggling for money over the counter of that dingy and even sinister-looking little shop. At length, however, she plucked up courage and, with her heart in her throat, entered.
The front part of the shop was empty and very dark. At the back was a swinging door, leading into another room, from which issued the sound of voices of two men. The little bell over the front door had rung as Nancy entered, to apprise the shopkeeper of a customer, and under the swinging door she saw a pair of shuffling feet moving toward it. The shopkeeper emerged, followed by the other man, who was evidently a customer come to make a purchase of some antique piece; for the pawnbroker seemed to deal in old bric-à-brac and what not, besides his regular historic business of money-lending.
"I vill gif you dat box for vun hundert dollars,—mit dat it iss a gift," the shopkeeper was saying doggedly, as he came toward Nancy, and the other man, following him, laughed.
"Well, you certainly give awfully expensive presents," he remarked. "A hundred dollars, you old rascal—no one on earth would give that for a little box."
"Vell, only try to duplicate it—you vill not find such a handsome piece dis side de ocean," returned the shopkeeper with a shrug. "Vot can I do for you, young lady?"
But Nancy had temporarily lost all power of speech. She was not sure, indeed, that she wasn't dreaming—it was all so utterly strange, and whimsical, and impossible, that surely it could be so only in a dream. For the young man who had followed the pawnbroker out of the inner room was George Arnold! She was standing with her back to the door, but the light that came through the dirty glass shone squarely on his face, so that if she had not already recognized his voice she would have recognized his features beyond the shadow of a doubt. Her first impulse was to turn and fly, or to conceal herself hastily in one of the odd little sentry boxes, which were evidently designed to preserve the incognito of the pawnbroker's indigent customers. But already Mr. Arnold had cast a second curious glance at the unusual sight of a well-dressed, well-bred young girl in such surroundings, and with that second glance he had recognized her. His mouth opened slightly in a repressed gasp of astonishment. Probably, with a moment's thought, he might have pretended that he had not recognized her, in order to spare her any embarrassment, but he had already exclaimed, involuntarily:
"Why, Miss Prescott!" and had taken a step toward her. Nancy turned scarlet, and could only gaze at him helplessly.
"How can I serve you, young lady?" repeated the shopkeeper. Nancy hesitated, in a perfect agony of embarrassment, while Mr. Arnold continued to look at her, evidently very much at a loss. On the one hand, he disliked to discomfit her by being present while she transacted her business with old Zeigler, the pawnbroker, and on the other, he was equally unwilling to leave her to be swindled, as she very probably would be. Furthermore, while he realized that he had no business to inquire into her affairs, and that, to say the least, it would be the height of bad taste to do so, nevertheless he felt that she was in some difficulty and needed advice. The squalid little shop was an odd place in which to find the niece of old Thomas Prescott; for it was not likely that she had come there as he had, to browse around in a dilettante search for curios.
Nancy read the question, "What are you here for?" in his face, and guessed his indecision. On her part she wished fervently that he would go, and was racking her brains for some excuse to leave the shop and to come back later. But her frantic efforts at evolving some plan of escape within the space of fifteen seconds were fruitless. Zeigler for the third time repeated his question to her with a touch of impatience. Then Mr. Arnold desperately took the bull by the horns, and with a touch of pretended gaiety asked with a laugh:
"Are you in search of adventure? You aren't running away from school, are you?"
"No—that is——" stammered Nancy; then, driven to take him into her confidence to some extent, and trying to put her situation in the light of a prank, she laughed mischievously, and added with an air of candor, "You've caught me."
"What are you up to, young lady? Selling the family plate?" inquired Mr. Arnold boldly, and speaking to her as if she were a mischievous youngster, though his eyes were grave and puzzled. Nancy put up her chin, as if she were being scolded, and answered with a touch of childish defiance: "Don't tell on me."
"Well, I won't—though you deserve it, ma'am," replied Mr. Arnold. "I won't—on one condition,—that you come with me, and 'fess up to all your misdemeanors, and let me give you the sage advice of a hardened sinner before you do anything rash. I realize that I'm taking a liberty, Miss Prescott, in concerning myself in what is strictly your own affair," he added seriously, "but isn't our friendship firmly enough established to allow me that privilege? What time is it?" He glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes past two, and I've had no luncheon. Have you?" Nancy admitted that she hadn't.
"Good. I can't begin to tell you how awfully lucky I consider myself in having met you, Miss Prescott. I wish you would come with me to some nice little restaurant where we can decide the affairs of the nations. Are you in a great hurry?"
Nancy said that she wasn't. To tell the truth she was very glad that Mr. Arnold had concerned himself in her affairs, which she had begun to believe she was not managing any too well. They had talked in low voices so that the shopkeeper could only have heard fragments of their conversation, and then left the shop, without even a word of explanation to the irritated old money-lender.
Mr. Arnold hailed a taxi-cab, and they rolled off in state. Mr. Arnold had given the driver the address of a little French restaurant on West Forty-fifth Street.
"It'll be fairly empty now, and we can find just the table we want. I shall order your luncheon for you, because I know just exactly what things are peculiar to this place—their special tid-bits, and I feel like ordering a regular knock-out of a feast as a sort of celebration. Really, you've no idea how delighted I am to have discovered you." His frank, boyish pleasure in this freak of chance was so plainly written on his beaming face, that Nancy colored with a schoolgirl's naïve delight in such sincere flattery. The dreaded undertaking of her trip to the city was turning into a very charming little surprise party. In some way, she felt that she had known Mr. Arnold for a very long time, and that really there was not the slightest need for concealing anything from him. His odd, attractive face was so friendly, his bright brown eyes so full of eager sympathetic interest, that almost before she had given a second thought as to whether she should or she shouldn't, she had begun to tell him the reason for her appearance at the pawnbroker's.
They had found a little table in a corner of the restaurant, and Mr. Arnold had insisted upon ordering almost everything on the menu that attracted his fancy.
"And above all things, you must try the hot chocolate, Miss Prescott. I suppose it's not manly, but I have the most juvenile fondness for hot chocolate, with great big blobs of whipped cream."
So hot chocolate they had, and innumerable rolls, hot and fresh from the oven, and various and sundry other delicacies, calculated to cripple a weak digestion for a month at the very least.
Drawn out by her growing confidence in him, and by her craving to talk out her troubles to some one whose advice would be sound and based on genuine sympathy, Nancy told him about her necessity for getting some money. The explanation involved a good many complications, and Nancy was as a rule unusually reserved. But Mr. Arnold was one of those rather rare people who can understand a great deal more than is said in just so many words, and she did not have to go into details as to why, for example, she hesitated to ask her uncle for the money, or why it was impossible to write to her mother for it. She told him simply that there was a girl at school to whom her sister was indebted, and who had played Alma a very shabby trick; and that, therefore, she felt that it was absolutely imperative to clear Alma of the obligation to her. He listened attentively, interposing occasionally in the friendly tone such as an older man might use to a young one, so that she felt no embarrassment in making the whole affair clear to him. Nor did he seem to think that there was anything very awful in her trying to raise the money for herself with the ring as a security.
"Only you should have gotten someone's advice, Miss Prescott. A man like Zeigler would swindle you outrageously, and there are plenty of reputable places which make loans on jewelry as a security. How large is the debt?" Nancy told him.
"A hundred and ten dollars? You are unwilling to ask your uncle?" Then seeing a look of distress in her face, he went on hastily: "Well, I think I can understand. I admire your independence, Miss Prescott. I say," he asked suddenly, with a touch of shyness, "would you mind if I should call you Nancy? It sounds so much more friendly."
"I—-I'd like you to," replied Nancy, simply. "It makes me feel sort of old to be called Miss Prescott."
"Very well, and it makes me feel quite antique to be called Mr. Arnold. I wish you'd flatter me into believing myself young once more by calling me George."
"Oh, goodness, I don't believe I could! I—I mean that sounds so dreadfully cheeky!" exclaimed Nancy.
"I suppose I must seem actually prehistoric to you," he said with a laugh that sounded just a little bit forced. "But if you practised a bit, you'd probably find that it would get easier for you, and it would please me very much. To return to business—I think that if you will let me have the ring, I can get the money on it for you this afternoon. I know the best place to go, where you will get something really proportionate to its value, and on the best terms."
Nancy could have hugged him in her relief and gratitude. She protested a little feebly against his putting himself to any trouble, but he waved her words aside, and she took the ring from her bag, and gave it to him. He looked at it curiously; inside the broad finger band was inscribed in characters almost obliterated by wear, the words, "To George, on his 21st birthday, 1891."'
"It was Father's. Uncle Thomas gave it to him," explained Nancy, simply, and at the same moment both of them were thinking of the eccentric old gentleman, whose gift to a beloved nephew was now being used to assist that nephew's daughter in a difficulty in which his help was denied her.
"Now, how would you like to spend your time for three-quarters of an hour or so?" asked Mr. Arnold, as they walked out of the restaurant. "I am going off with this ring and I'll be back with the money as soon as I possibly can. You pick some place for me to meet you."
Nancy glanced up and down the street, trying to find some spot where she could amuse herself.
"I think I'd like to look around some book-shop—is there one near here?"
"I'm an authority on the subject. I know every book-shop in New York, and if you'll follow me I'll show you my favorite haunt. Then I can be sure that you won't wander away—my only trouble will be in getting you out of the place, and if I were wise I wouldn't let you go there under any circumstances. But my generosity was always very much greater than my wisdom."
He conducted Nancy, accordingly, to this paradise, and rather lingeringly withdrew on his errand, leaving her in the quaint little shop, where perfect tidal waves of books rose on all sides of her, distracting her with alluring, familiar titles, with the sight of hundreds upon hundreds of rare old volumes, and with that peculiar smell of leather and paper and ink and mustiness which is to the nostrils of the book-lover as the scent of earth and trees is to the wanderer.
On one of the shelves her eyes caught a glimpse of a name on the back of three or four delicately bound volumes, and she quickly took one of them down to inspect it, suddenly remembering her uncle's remark about that "author-person." The name on the back of the book was "George Arnold." It was a volume of stories, finely bound, and illustrated with pen drawings by a very famous artist and designer; and was prefaced by a foreword from the pen of one of the most celebrated of the present-day English critics.
Nancy promptly climbed up on a high stool that stood near the shelf, and with her heels hooked on the second rung and the book spread open on her lap began to read. She had time to glance only here and there; and it was with surprise and pleasure that she saw a sentence in the preface which spoke of the "writings of Mr. Arnold" as being "an example of the most delicate artistry. A talent so rare, so peculiarly sensitive, so rich in a wholly inimitable poetry, and waywardness of fancy, that one hardly hesitates to pronounce it actual genius." And it was this "genius," this "prophet in his own country," who at the present moment was hurrying off in her service. Nancy felt a positive thrill of dismay, mingled with something else that was wholly pleasant and exciting. But how in the world could she ever call him "George." Imagine calling a famous writer by his first name—it seemed impertinent, to say the least.
To tell the truth, she spent a good deal more of her time thinking about this simple, friendly gentleman than in browsing over the book-shelves which, under ordinary circumstance, would have been so fascinating to her. Why was he so very nice to her—insignificant her? How could she possibly be interesting to a man who had probably been intimate with many of the most celebrated men and women of the day? But, of course, it was very likely that he wasn't particularly interested in her, and was only that he had a generous disposition. He was ever so much older than she was—thirty-four anyway—and probably he thought she was a nice child.
She was pondering thus, the book still open on her lap, and her back to the door, when he returned, flushed with satisfaction, and also with haste.
"I say, I've done a marvellous stroke of business," he announced, as he came up behind her. "You seem to have found a very absorbing book, Nancy—aren't you at all interested in learning what my amazing talent for high finance has accomplished?"
"I can't tell you how good you have been to me," began Nancy, gratefully and shyly.
"I haven't been good to you a bit. It's you who have been good to let me help you," he said, smiling down into her eyes. "I take it as a very high compliment that you were frank enough with me to tell me how I could serve you; because there is nothing, you know, that I would rather do. That sounds rather flowery, doesn't it? But it's quite true. Now listen—I have brought you the sum of one hundred and fifty American dollars. That's more than you expected to get on the ring, isn't it?"
"A hundred and fifty!"
"Here it is, in beautiful clean notes. I'll explain it all to you presently. Did you find anything nice? What book have you got there?" He glanced at the volume she held, and seeing what it was, laughed, and took it away from her.
"How did you ever find that?" he asked, in a deprecating voice, though, at that, genuinely modest as he was, he was not ill-pleased. "I thought you would have found something better. I'm not posing as the modest author, and all that sort of thing, but there are some wonderful books in here that you shouldn't have missed."
"I—I didn't know you were—I mean——"
"You mean you didn't know that I was all that that critic chap says I am? Well, I'm not. He's just gotten into the amiable habit of saying kind things in his old age—so that he can get into Heaven when he dies, in spite of all the damage he did in his youth. Come along—unless you want to look about you some more."
"I'll be ready in a moment," said Nancy, slipping off the stool. "I—there's something being wrapped for me that I want to get." With that she went off to the back of the store and had the little volume tied up, and paid for it with the last cent in her pocketbook. Then she returned.
"All right now? Here is your money." He took a fat envelope out of his pocket and gave it to her, and they left the shop.
As they walked across to Fifth Avenue, he explained to her rather vaguely the proceeding by which he had raised the money for her; but while she quite failed to understand it all she rested upon her faith in his superior intelligence in business matters.
"When I want to get the ring back again, what do I do? and don't I have to pay interest?"
"Oh, no, you don't have to pay interest, that's the wonderful part of it. And when you want it back, you just tell me. I'll have to get it for you, but you won't mind that, will you?"
"Oh, no—oh, you have been so kind, Mr. Arnold, I mean, G-George. Only you won't say anything to Uncle Thomas—of course you won't, but I'm just mentioning that."
"I won't breathe a word to any living thing on land or sea. This is our own private conspiracy, and no one shall have any part in it," he assured her, gaily. "Only please promise me that, if you should need any help again, you'll ask me. I—it disturbed me very much to find you at old Zeigler's, though of course it was my good fortune."
There was an abundance of time before Nancy's train left, so they strolled at an easy pace down Fifth Avenue, stopping to look in at the shop windows whenever they saw anything that caught their fancy, and chatting together as if they had known each other all their lives. At the corner of Forty-fourth Street, Mr. Arnold suddenly dove into a huge florist's shop on the corner, and in a moment returned bearing a bunch of Parma violets, tied with a silken cord and tassel.
"I say, will you wear these?" he asked, bluntly. "You know, I always wanted to give a bouquet to a young lady, but I never could find the young lady to whom I wanted to give them. The flowers were plentiful, but I began to think that the lady didn't exist." Nancy colored at the compliment with which he proffered her the flowers, and dimpled as only a rosy girl can dimple. His attentions were very flattering, and his half-shy, boyish manner made them doubly so.
"Now do tell me what book you have there?" he asked, as they turned east on Forty-second Street. "Is it something very learned or very frivolous?"
With a little laugh, Nancy handed him the package.
"You can open it, if you promise to tie it up again," she said, watching his face out of the corners of her eyes, as he untied the string. He glanced from the book to her face, trying to look disapproving, though he could not quite conceal his look of naïve pleasure.
"Very frivolous. I see that I shall have to direct your book-buying as well as your business. Why didn't you let me get it for you if you wanted it?"
"Because I wanted to get it for myself—you probably wouldn't have let me get it."
"Well, if I had given it to you, I could have written something in it, and that's something I always wanted to do, you know, something about 'the compliments of the author' in a flowing script."
"Well, why don't you write something in it anyway?"
"May I?"
"Only not 'the compliments of the author.'"
He took her to the train, and then standing beside her seat, took out his fountain pen, and scribbled on the fly-leaf of the little volume.
"There," he said, handing it back to her. "Now, good-bye. I am going to see you again in the holidays, am I not? I have enjoyed two or three hours to-day more than I have enjoyed anything in years." He took her hand and shook it warmly, and then as the train gave a warning jerk, he hurried off.
With the great fragrant bunch of violets at her waist, with money in her pocket to set her mind at rest, and with the memory of a singularly pleasant episode, Nancy saw the wintry landscape, over which a fresh snow was beginning to fall, through rosy spectacles. Somehow, not even the thought of the latest and greatest trouble loomed so very black and terrifying in her mind. She glanced down at the little book in her lap, and then opened it at the fly-leaf. He had written, "To commemorate To-day," and had signed it simply, "George." It had been a day of unusual unhappiness and unusual pleasure—not even he had understood what the mingling had been for Nancy, but the memory of the pleasure outweighed the memory of trouble; as if ashamed of herself she tried to fix her thoughts on plans for helping and advising her mother and Alma; but at length she gave it up, to review the little, delightful trivial memories of "To-day," putting off the recollection of trouble until To-morrow.