When she had the papers safely in her possession, Julia naturally looked around to see to whom they belonged. The owner was not far away, for just a few steps behind her was an old gentleman, not very tall, dressed all in black with a high silk hat. Under his arm he carried a book, and as he held out his hand towards her Julia had no doubt that he was the owner of the wandering manuscript.
"Thank you, my child," he said, as she held the sheets towards him. "Another gust, and I should have had to compose a new poem to take the place of the one that was so ready to—go to press against that lamp-post.
"There, that was not a very brilliant pun, was it?" he asked, for Julia now was walking along by his side.
"Why, sir," she had begun to say, looking up in his face. Then suddenly she gave a start. Surely she had seen that face before! But where? Yet almost in a shorter time than I have taken to tell it, she recognized the owner of the papers. He was certainly no other than Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, the famous Autocrat of the Breakfast table, several of whose poems she knew almost by heart. All her old shyness came back to her, she did not exactly dare to say that she recognized him, and all she could think of was another question in relation to the manuscript. "Were—were they some of your own poems?" she managed to stammer, "it would have been dreadful if they had been lost."
"Not half as dreadful," he replied smiling, "as if they had been written by some one else. As a matter of fact these were sent me by an unfledged poet who wished me to tell him whether he would stand a chance of getting them into a publisher's hands. He told me to take great care of them as he had no copy. I read his note at my publisher's just now, and I felt bound to carry the manuscript home. But I'm not sure that it would not have been a good thing to lose a sheet or two to teach him a lesson. He should not send a thing to a stranger without making a copy."
The poet of course did not speak to Julia in precisely these words, but this was the drift of what he said, and it was in about this form that she repeated it to her aunt and Brenda at the luncheon table.
"What else did he say?" her aunt had asked, with great interest.
"Oh, he thanked me again for picking up the papers, complimented me for being so sure-footed on such a slippery sidewalk, and what do you think, Aunt Anna, when he heard that I had not long been in Boston, he asked me to call some afternoon to see him. He is always at home after four. I walked along until he reached his door step. Do you know that he lives very near here. I was so surprised to find it out. Have you ever been there, Brenda?"
"No," said Brenda, shaking her head, "I did not exactly notice whom you were talking about."
"Why, Dr. Holmes," replied Julia.
"Oh," said Brenda, with a stare that seemed to imply that this name did not mean much to her.
"Why, you know, Brenda, Oliver Wendell Holmes?" prompted her mother, and still Brenda looked rather blank.
"Brenda," said Mrs. Barlow, "I am surprised. Surely you remember how pleased you were with 'The Last Leaf' when I had you learn it last summer, and you must remember that I told you that the poet who wrote it lives in Boston."
"I dare say," answered Brenda carelessly, "but I had forgotten. I don't see why Julia should be so excited about meeting a poet. There must be ever so many of them everywhere."
"Ah! Brenda," responded her mother, "I do wish that you would take more interest in the affairs of your own city. Here is Julia who has been in Boston but a short time, and I am sure that she knows more about our famous men and women than you who have lived here all your life."
For a wonder Brenda did not laugh at what her mother said, nor take offence.
"I never shall be a book-worm," she said very good-naturedly. "I am willing to leave all that to Julia."
So when Julia asked her one afternoon, if she would not like to go with her to call on Dr. Holmes, she declined with thanks, and left Julia free to invite Edith.
As the two friends walked up the short flight of stone steps to the front door, their hearts sank a little. To make a call on a poet was really a rather formidable thing, and they pressed each other's hands as they heard the maid opening the door to admit them.
"Just wait here for a moment," said the maid, after they had enquired for the master of the house, and she showed them into a small room at the left of the entrance. It seemed to be merely a reception-room, but it was very pretty with its white woodwork and large-flowered yellow paper. There was a carved table in the centre with writing materials and ink-stand, and little other furniture besides a few handsome chairs. Tall bookcases matching the woodwork occupied the recesses, and they were filled with books in substantial bindings.
In a moment the maid had returned and asked them to follow her. At the head of the broad stairs they saw the poet himself standing to meet them with outstretched hand. When Julia mentioned Edith's name, "Ah," he said, "that is a good old Boston name, and if I mistake not, I used to know your grandfather," and then when Edith had satisfied him on this point he turned to Julia, and in a bantering way spoke of the service she had done him that windy day. Then he made them sit down beside him, one on each side, while he occupied a large leather armchair drawn up before his open fire, and asked them one or two questions about their studies and their taste in literature. As he talked, Julia's eyes wandered to the bronze figure of Father Time on the mantelpiece, and then to the little revolving bookcase on which she could not help noticing a number of volumes of Dr. Holmes' own works. The old gentleman following her glance, said:
"They make a pretty fair showing for one man, but my publishers are getting ready to bring out a complete edition of my works, and that, well that makes me realize my age." After a moment, as if reflecting, he asked quickly, "Does either of you write poetry?"
"Oh, no, sir," answered Edith quickly, "we couldn't."
"Why, it isn't so very hard," he said, "at least I should judge not by the numbers of copies of verses that are sent to me to examine. Poetry deals with common human emotion, and almost any one with a fair vocabulary thinks that he can express himself in verse. But nearly everything worth saying has been said. Words and expressions seem very felicitous to the writer, but he cannot expect other persons to see his work as he sees it."
"It depends, I suppose," said Edith shyly, "on whose work it is."
"I am afraid," replied the poet, "that there is no absolute standard for verse-makers. It has always seemed to me that the writer of verse is almost in the position of a man who makes a mold for a plaster cast or something of that kind. Whatever liquid mixture he puts into that mold will surely fit it. So the verse is the mold into which the poet puts his thought, and from his point of view it is sure to fit."
Though Edith may not have grasped the full force of the poet's meaning, Julia was sure that she understood him.
"Do you really have a great deal of poetry sent you to read?" she asked.
"Every mail," he answered, "brings me letters from strangers,—from every corner of the globe. Some contain poems in my honor, as specimens of what the poet can do. Others are accompanied by long manuscripts on which my opinion is asked. I am chary now about expressing any opinion, for publishers have a way of quoting very unfairly in their advertisements. If I write 'your book would be very charming were it not so carelessly written,' the publisher quotes merely 'very charming,' and prints this in large type."
Both girls smiled at the expression of droll sorrow that came over the poet's face as he spoke.
"And I am so very unfortunate myself," he added, "when I try to get an autograph of any consequence. Now I sent Gladstone a copy of a work on trees in which I thought he would be interested. He returned the compliment with a copy of one of his books. But—" here he paused, "he wrote his thanks on a postcard!" Again the girls laughed. "Dear me!" he concluded, "this cannot interest young creatures like you; do you care for poetry?"
"Oh, yes indeed we do," cried Julia, "and we just love your poetry."
"Well, well," said the poet, with a twinkle in his eye, "perhaps you would like to hear me read something?"
The beaming faces that met his glance were a sufficient answer, and taking a volume from the table, he began in a voice that was a trifle husky, though full of expression,
When he had finished the stanza, he looked up enquiringly.
"The Chambered Nautilus," murmured Julia.
"Ah, you know it then?" said the poet.
"Oh, yes, I love it," she answered.
Then with a smile of appreciation, adjusting his glasses, Dr. Holmes read to the end of the poem in his wonderfully musical voice. When it was finished, the girls would have liked to ask for more, but the poet rose to replace the volume. "Come," he said, "you have listened to the poem which of all I have written I like the best, now I wish to show you my favorite view." Following him to the deep bay-window, they looked out across the river. It was much the same view to which Julia was accustomed in her uncle's house, and yet it was looking at the river with new eyes to have the poet pointing out all the towns, seven or eight in number which he could see from that window. Somerville, Medford, Belmont, Arlington, Charlestown, Brookline, and one or two others, perhaps, besides Cambridge with its spires and chimneys.
"In winter," said Dr. Holmes, "there is not much to see besides the tug-boats and the gulls. But in the early spring it is a delight to me to watch the crews rowing by, and an occasional pleasure-boat, ah! I remember"—but what it was he did not say, for as Edith turned her eyes toward an oil painting on the wall near by he said, "Of course you know who that is; of course you recognize the famous Dorothy Q. Now look at the portrait closely, and tell me what you think of that cheek. Could you imagine any one so cruel as to have struck a sword into it? Yet there, if your eyes are sharp enough, you will see where a British soldier of the Revolution thrust this rapier."
When both girls admitted that they could not see the scar, "That only shows," he said, "how clever the man was who made the repairs."
Before they turned from the window he made them notice the tall factory chimneys on the other side of the river which he called his thermometers, because according to the direction in which the smoke curled upwards, he was able to tell how the wind blew, and decide in what direction he should walk.
"Remember," he said, "when you reach my age always to walk with your back to the wind," and at this the girls smiled, they feeling that it would be many years before they should need to follow this advice. Yet during their call how many things they had to see and to remember! He let each of them hold for a moment the gold pen with which he had written Elsie Venner and the Autocrat papers, and Julia turned over the leaves of the large Bible and the Concordance on the top of his writing table. Dr. Holmes called their attention to the beautiful landscape hanging on one wall done in fine needlework by the hands of his accomplished daughter-in-law, and he told them a story or two connected with another picture in the room. Julia, as she looked about, thought that she had seldom seen a prettier room than this with its cheerful rugs, massive furniture, and fine pictures, all so simple and yet so dignified. When the poet pointed out the great pile of letters lying on his desk, he told them that this was about the number that he received every day.
"But you don't answer them all," exclaimed Edith almost breathlessly.
"No, indeed," and he laughed, "my secretary goes through them every morning, and decides which ought to be given me to read, and then—well if it is anything very personal I try to answer it myself. Often, however, I let her write the answer, while I simply add the signature."
Edith gave Julia a little nudge; they were both at the age when the possession of an autograph of a famous man is something to be ardently desired. But neither of them had quite dared to ask Doctor Holmes for his. It is possible that he saw the little nudge, or perhaps he read the eager expression on their faces, for almost before they realized it he had placed in the hand of each of them a small volume in a white cover, and bidding them open their books he said, "Well, I must put something on that bare fly-leaf."
So seating himself at his table with a quill pen in his hand, he wrote slowly and evidently with some effort, the name of each of them, followed by the words "With the regards of Oliver Wendell Holmes," and then the year, and the day of the month. As he handed them the books, he opened the door, and with a word or two more of half bantering thanks to Julia for her assistance on that windy day, he bowed them down the stairs.
So impressed were they by the visit that they had little to say until they reached home, where they found Mrs. Barlow a very sympathetic listener. Brenda, who happened to be at home looked with interest at the little volumes of selections from Doctor Holmes' writings with their valuable autographs, and said, "Well, you might have taken me, too."
"Why, Brenda, I am sure that I asked you," said Julia, "but you declared that you would not speak to a poet for anything in the world."
They all laughed at this, a proceeding which this time did not annoy Brenda.
Mrs. Barlow admired the little books.
"But I hope that you did not stay too long," she said gently, "for I have been told that Doctor Holmes has a way of sending off a guest who tires him, by bringing out one of these little gift books."
"Oh, I don't think we tired him," said Julia; "at any rate he was too polite to show it, but I'm glad that we have the books."
On a bright, sunny morning just before the beginning of the Christmas holidays, Miss South asked Julia if she would care to go within a day or two to visit some of the historic spots at the North End.
"It is not quite as good a season," the teacher had added, "as in the early autumn or spring, but I have learned that it is never well to put off indefinitely what can be as well done at once. Something may happen to prevent our going later, and so if you can go with me this week I shall be very glad."
"Oh, thank you, Miss South," replied Julia, "I should love to go, and any day this week would do."
"And I may go, too, mayn't I?" cried Nora, who happened to be standing by.
"Why, certainly," replied Miss South, "the more, the better; I should be pleased to have all 'The Four' go."
As it happened, however, on the afternoon selected for the excursion, only Julia and Nora really cared to go. Brenda and Belle had some special appointment which nothing would induce them to break, and Edith expressed decided objections against going again into that dirty part of the town.
Even a Boston December can offer many a balmy day, and one could not wish a pleasanter afternoon than that which Julia and Nora had for their visit to the North End under the guidance of Miss South.
She made Faneuil Hall the beginning of the trip, and if I had time I should like to repeat what she told them about this famous building and its donor, old Peter Faneuil, the descendant of the Huguenots.
Nora was very much impressed by hearing that the first public meeting in the building which Peter Faneuil had given to his native town was that which assembled to hear Master Lovejoy of the Latin School pronounce a funeral eulogy over the donor of the hall.
For his death happened less than six months after the town had formally accepted his gift in 1742.
"You must remember," said Miss South, "that fire, and other causes have led to many changes in the old building, both inside and out, and yet it may still be considered the most interesting building in the country historically, or at least of equal interest with Independence Hall in Philadelphia."
As they walked about and looked at the portraits of Washington, and Hancock, and Adams, and Warren and the other great men considered worth a place in this famous hall, Miss South told them of a political meeting which she had once attended there, and how interesting it had been to look down from the galleries upon the mass of men standing on the floor below. For no seats are ever placed in this part of the hall, and with an exciting cause, or a noted speaker to attract, the sight of this crowd of men close pressed together is well worth seeing.
"There is one time in particular," said Julia, "when I should have loved to look in on the people in the hall."
"When was that?" asked Miss South.
"Why, during the Siege of Boston," she answered, "when the British turned it into a play-house, and all the British officers in town were attending 'The Blockade of Boston.'"
"Why, how can you remember?" exclaimed Nora.
"I don't know," said Julia; "I've always remembered it since I read it in some history that just in the midst of the play the audience rose in great excitement at the report 'The Yankees are attacking our works at Charlestown.'"
"Yes, that was the beginning of the end for the British in Boston," said Miss South. "We are going to see other things to remind us of them this afternoon. But now we must hasten on, for the afternoon will hardly be long enough for all that we wish to see."
Then after a short walk, she said, "I am taking you a little out of your way to show you one or two spots that you might overlook yourself. Now just here at this corner of Washington and Union streets, where we stand, Benjamin Franklin passed much of his boyhood. Some persons believe that his birthplace was here. But I am more inclined to accept the Milk street location than this. Yet, here, almost where we stand, his father hung out the Blue Ball sign for his tallow candle business, and here, too, he lived with his wife and thirteen children.
"Not far away," she continued as they walked along, "was the Green Dragon Tavern where John Adams, and Revere, and Otis and the other Sons of Liberty used to hold their meetings, and this—let us stand here for a moment—is the site of the home of Joseph Warren. Here, where this hotel stands in Hanover street, he lived and practised his profession of physician, and in this old house I suppose, the news was brought to his children of his death at Bunker Hill."
To save their strength Miss South now signalled a passing street car, and in a very few minutes they were taken to the corner of Prince street. On the way Miss South had said that she wished to show them North Square, and when they left the car, one turn from the main thoroughfare brought them within sight of this noted locality.
The little corner shops, of which there were many in sight had signs worded in Italian, and some of the shop windows displayed all kinds of foreign-looking pastry and confections—less tempting, however, in appearance than the fresh green vegetables shown in the windows and doorways of other shops. The dark-browed men and women who passed spoke to each other in Italian, and some of the women wore short skirts and bright kerchiefs which made their whole costume seem thoroughly foreign.
"Down this Garden Court street," said Miss South, just before they reached the square, "used to stand the house of Sir Harry Frankland."
"Oh, yes," cried Nora, "there's one thing that I remember, the story of Agnes Surriage. I've read the novel."
"Well, Agnes used to live here," said Miss South, "at least in this neighborhood. No trace of the old mansion remains, although when built it was the finest house in town, three stories high, with inlaid floor, carved mantels, and other decorations that even to-day we should probably admire. Many other houses in this neighborhood are old, and I have a friend who can tell almost their precise age by studying the style of the bricks and mortar, but the only one of great historic interest is that little old wooden house," and she pointed to one on the western side of the square.
"It does not look so very old," said Julia.
"No, because it has been clapboarded after the modern fashion. Aside from that, however, you can see that its overhanging upper story makes it unlike any house built in modern times. Here Paul Revere lived for many years, and his birthplace is near-by. I hope that in time it may be bought by some patriotic person, to be preserved as long as it will stand. At present it is a tenement house, and liable to destruction by fire at any moment through the carelessness of its occupants. Now we must hurry on, but I wish that you could come to the square some time on a holiday, when it is a centre for all the picturesque Italians of whom there are so many now in this part of the city."
As they turned about under Miss South's guidance, she pointed out other old houses—(one with the date 1724 above it) almost tumbling down,—and she told them a little about the habits of the people living in the narrow streets and alleys which they passed.
"On the whole these people are much better off than ever they were in their own country. They have political liberty, and their children have the chance of acquiring a good education. In that school over there they are taught to speak English, and they do learn it in a very thorough manner. The older people are slow in learning our language, and even slower in acquiring our habits. They are so anxious to make money that they live crowded together in a very unwholesome fashion. Sometimes a whole family and one or two boarders will live in the same small room, and the children will go without proper food or clothes while the father is saving money enough to invest in a house or shop which he wishes to own."
"Cannot this be prevented?" asked Julia.
"Only by teaching young and old better habits. That is the effort which all the charity workers in this neighborhood make. The kindergartens, and industrial schools, and all the other organizations are gradually accomplishing this. But it is hard work. I should like to tell you more about their difficulties, but now I suppose we must pay more attention to history."
While Miss South had been talking she had led them up a narrow street which in snowy weather must have lived up to its name "Snowhill street." At the top of the hill after a turn or two they came upon an old burying-ground.
"Copp's Hill," said Julia.
"Why of course," responded Nora.
"I brought you here to-day," said Miss South, "because I knew that the gates would be open. One cannot always get in during the winter months except by special arrangement. But in summer the old graveyard is like a park, and the little children from all parts of the North End come here to play, and mothers with their babies are thankful enough for a seat under the trees where they can feel the cool breeze from the harbor."
"How quaint it is!" said Julia, looking down the narrow street, just as they entered the gate. "Why there is Christ Church, isn't it?"
"How did you know it?" asked Nora, "I thought that you had never been here before."
"Well, I haven't, but there are ever so many photographs, showing just this view. What is that queer little house, Miss South?"
"I am glad that you asked, although I should not have forgotten to point it out. That is a real Revolutionary relic, General Gage's headquarters during part of the British occupation; it is one of the most interesting houses left standing."
Now turning their steps away from the quaint, hilly street, they were within the enclosure of the graveyard. It would take long to tell all that they saw. There was the old gravestone which the British had made a target, and marked with their bullets. There were some stones with nothing but the name and date, and neither very legible, others with rough carvings of cherubs' heads, or the angel of death, while some of the vaults at the side had heraldic carvings, the arms of old Tory families.
Miss South told them of the days when this graveyard had been neglected, and when the gravestones had toppled over, and had been carried off by any one who wished them. Some had been found by the present custodian of the ground in use as covers for drains, others as chimney tops, and some in old cellars and basements. There were famous names on some of the stones, and strange verses on others.
Julia copied an inscription or two, such as,
and this
She had heard before of the Mather tomb, and looked with great interest on the brown slab enclosed with an iron railing, under which rested the noted Puritan preacher.
Yet while Julia took interest in the stones and inscriptions, Nora was better pleased with the lovely view of the water to be seen from the summit.
"It was there in the channel," said Miss South, "that the men-of-war lay when Paul Revere started out on that wonderful ride, and not so far from the spot where the receiving ship 'Wabash' now lies at the Navy Yard, the British landed in Charlestown on their way to Bunker Hill."
"Oh, yes," said Julia, who had put aside her pencil and notebook, "I can understand now what a fine view the people of Boston must have had of the battle when they crowded to the graveyard and the roofs."
"Yes, there was almost a clear view then," said Miss South, "and it must have been a very exciting day for the watchers on the Boston side of the water."
"Bravo!" cried the others as Nora finished this quotation from Holmes' well-known poem. "If there were time," added Miss South, "we might ask Nora, or perhaps you Julia, to cap these stanzas with some other historical poem.
"The North End would be well worth another visit," continued Miss South, as they turned away. "I hope that some time you will both come to a service in the old church, and if you choose the first Sunday of the month, you will be able to see the fine communion service presented by George the Second, and you will find the high backed pews and the frescoes on the wall the same as they were a hundred and twenty-five years ago."
"What lots of little children there are playing about," cried Nora; "I should think that they would be run over a dozen times a day, for there are certainly more in the middle of the street than on the sidewalks. Why see there, why just look, it really is——"
"Manuel," broke in Julia, as Nora rushed forward and took the little fellow by the hand—"why how are you, Manuel?"
"My mother sick," he replied, smiling at Nora whom evidently he remembered very well.
"Oh, couldn't we just go to see him, I mean his mother," cried Nora.
"But if she is sick—" replied Miss South with hesitation.
"Let us wait here at the corner—this is the very corner," pleaded Nora, "and you can see whether there would be any harm in our going there; Julia wants to see the house, and perhaps Mrs. Rosa only has a cold."
As this seemed to be a sensible suggestion, Miss South with Manuel by the hand went down the little street where the Rosas were living.
In a few moments Miss South returned.
"I do not think," she said, "that there would be the least harm in your going with me to the house. I know, Nora, that your mother would not object, and Julia, you can use your own judgment. I am sure that there is no contagious disease in the neighborhood, and——"
"Oh," interrupted Julia, "do let me go back with you. I have never been in a tenement house and I am so anxious to see one. My aunt would not have the least objection, and you know that Brenda has been there."
So in less time than it takes me to tell of it they were actually at the door of the house where the Rosas lived. Fortunately their rooms were now on the first floor, and as the door was open as well as the window, there was good ventilation. Had this not been the case they must have been half suffocated by the heat from the stove which was glowing hot. Mrs. Rosa was seated in a high backed wooden rocking-chair, but she rose to her feet as she saw Miss South and the two girls approaching. To do this was evidently a great effort for her, and after she had said a word or two of welcome in broken English, she sank back half exhausted.
She had strength, however, to speak to her elder daughter, who had not turned when they entered, and at her bidding Angelina had looked up from the depths of the mysterious mixture which she was stirring in an iron kettle, and coming forward offered her hand to the three newcomers. Two younger girls in rather untidy dresses, with half the buttons off their shoes looked on a little timidly, and no one but Manuel seemed perfectly at ease.
"It's rather hard, isn't it," said Miss South pleasantly, "to take care of so many children, Mrs. Rosa?"
"Oh, yes, Miss South," she replied, "they gets hungry every day, and always wants so much to eat." Even the lively Nora did not smile at this, although she afterwards said that she wondered if their mother expected the children to want only one meal a week.
"But you're not able to work now; you can't go out to your fruit stand, can you?" continued Miss South.
"Oh, no indeed, no indeed," shaking her head. "I'm awful weak."
"Then how have you been paying your rent?"
"Well, the good minister, he help me; he pay it just now, and John he have a license for papers, and he sell quite a good many every day after school—and, oh well, we get along." Mrs. Rosa had a very pleasant expression, and as she talked she looked almost handsome. Her black stuff dress, worn without a collar, made her pale face seem more haggard than usual, yet it beamed with gratitude as she told how kind one and another had been since her illness had become so serious.
"Where does she sleep?" asked Julia in a half whisper to Nora.
"Why, in that little room where you see the door open. I remember they told us when we were here before, that she and the girls sleep there, while the boys have a mattress to themselves on the kitchen floor. They bring it out every night."
"How dreadful!" was all that Julia had time to say, for she saw Angelina's sharp eyes turned towards her, and feared that already she had been impolite in talking thus in an aside to Nora.
The latter, while Miss South was talking with Mrs. Rosa about her recent symptoms, tried to draw Manuel into conversation, but, as before, only a word or two at a time could be drawn from him, although his expression was still as seraphic as ever, even when Nora was half teasing him.
Yet, after all, they had been in the dingy room but a very short time when Miss South reminded them that it was growing dark, and that Mrs. Gostar and Mrs. Barlow would both disapprove their being out much later. As they rode up Hanover street in the car both girls noticed that Miss South was unusually quiet. At last Julia broke the silence.
"I'm sure that you are thinking about Mrs. Rosa," she said softly.
"Yes," answered Miss South, "I see that something must be done to help her, but I am not sure just what it should be. Possibly she cannot recover, or perhaps if she had a good doctor he might advise—but still, she is almost too poor to take advantage of any advice."
"Yes," said Nora, "suppose a doctor should advise her to go to Colorado, or California; why he might as well talk about the moon."
"I know it," murmured Julia, "and yet people are sometimes very kind to the poor."
"Yes, at Christmas especially," rejoined Nora with a laugh. "Did you hear one of the little girls when I asked her what she had Thanksgiving say, 'Two turkeys, one Baptist and one 'Piscopal.'"
Julia looked a little shocked at this, but Miss South only smiled. "I am afraid that loaves and fishes count for a great deal with these people when they come to select a church. They have discovered that they can get more from the Protestants than from their own church, and if they have some little disagreement with a priest, they take advantage of this to put themselves under the wing of the Bethel, or of Christ Church. Both have a great many Portuguese in attendance, and I ought not to be too censorious, for some of them undoubtedly are perfectly sincere."
"How does it happen, Miss South, that you know so much about these poor North End people?" asked Julia. "There, I did not mean to be inquisitive, but it seems wonderful that you should understand them so well."
"To tell you the reason fully," replied she, "would be a long story, but just now it may be enough to say that I have had a little mission class down there but a block or two from Mrs. Rosa's for several years. In this way, spending one evening among them, as well as Sunday afternoon, I have come to understand the characteristics of these foreigners."
"Have you known Mrs. Rosa all this time?" asked Nora.
"Oh, no indeed, I never had seen her until after you rescued Manuel. But since then I have called at the house two or three times and I have grown to like Mrs. Rosa very well. She has more influence over her children than many other foreign mothers of my acquaintance. But here we are at Scollay Square, and as it is only five o'clock, would not you enjoy walking down over Beacon Hill instead of taking another car?"
"Yes, indeed," both girls exclaimed, and pleased enough they were with their choice. For as they wound in and out through some of the picturesque streets of the West End, Miss South almost made the old streets alive again with the people of the past. As they passed the head of Hancock street back of the State House,
"Down there," she said, "was the Sumner homestead, where Charles Sumner lived for many years." Then as they continued down Mt. Vernon street, toward Louisbourg Square, she told them that here was once the estate of Rev. William Blackstone.
"Historians," she added, "believe that the spring of fresh water whose discovery by Blackstone led Winthrop's party to prefer Boston to Charlestown, was probably not far from the centre of the grassplot in the square. But we must walk quickly," she concluded, as they turned to a side street that led them to the familiar Beacon street.
"I have come over here to call your attention to this curved front of cream white at the middle of the slope. You have passed it hundreds of times, Nora, but I wonder if you have ever realized that it was for many years the home of William Hickling Prescott, the historian, and that here he wrote many of his finest works."
Nora was ashamed to admit that she hardly remembered what Prescott had written. But Julia, whose historical reading had been unusually deep for one of her years, was delighted to see the home of the author of "Ferdinand and Isabella." If there had been no old landmarks to look at they all would have enjoyed the walk to the utmost. Few streets in the world are more beautiful than Beacon street, at dusk or after the lamps are lighted. Those who walk westward at this time of day have the Common and the Garden on one side, the dignified old houses on the other, and winding far in front of them the long street with its long lines of lamps, while far off in the west the heights of Brookline whose brightly lit houses and twinkling street lamps suggest a huge castle as the end of the journey. Home for Julia and Nora, however, lay far this side of Brookline, and it was not long before they had to bid Miss South good-bye, with many thanks for her kindness.
Nora at dinner that evening was full of the experiences of the afternoon, and her mother and father and the younger boys were not only interested, but had various suggestions to make as to the most helpful things to do for the Rosas. I won't say that the boys were always practical, for with their minds full of the approaching Christmas they could think of little that was really worth while doing except giving the family an elaborately decorated Christmas tree.
Dr. Gostar promised to find out whether Mrs. Rosa was having the proper kind of medical treatment, and Mrs. Gostar said that she would try to talk with Miss South and learn whether there was any special thing that she could do.
"The Christmas tree is not a very bad suggestion," said their mother consolingly to the boys when she saw that they were disappointed that their father treated this as a matter of slight importance.
"Why I think that it would be just lovely to give them a tree," added Nora, "if, if, that is, you know that we must not forget Brenda."
"Of course not," replied her mother, "but Brenda does not own the Rosas, in fact I should be inclined to think that she had forgotten them lately."
"Oh, she has made up her mind that she is going to accomplish something wonderful for them by means of the Easter Bazaar, and——"
"In the meantime she would leave them to starve."
"Oh, papa, you are laughing at me; Miss South says that there is no danger of any one's starving in Boston."
"All the same you cannot expect me to encourage a dog-in-the-manger disposition in Brenda, and you have so good an adviser in Miss South that I am willing to help you to carry out any plans which she starts."
Dr. Gostar was so far right in his estimate of Brenda that he would have felt more than justified in what he had said to Nora had he looked in at the Barlows at dinner-time. For he might then have seen that Brenda was very much disturbed, and from her lips he would have heard some very cross words.
"Really, Julia, I think that it was awfully unkind in you and Nora to go to see the Rosas without me; you know that I wanted to see them, and you never gave me the least idea that you were going."
"But I am sure that Miss South invited you to go to the North End with us."
"Well, you never said a word about the Rosas, and you know that I do not care at all about old streets and houses, and besides, I could not have gone this afternoon, so that you might have waited."
"How unreasonable you are, Brenda, and inconsiderate towards Julia," interposed her mother. "Really I had begun to hope that you were improving, and here you are, crosser than ever."
"Yes, Brenda, don't let me hear you talk in that way again," added her father.
"Well, I don't think it's fair for Julia and Miss South and Nora to keep making plans for the Rosas when I was the one who first wanted to do something for them; you remember, papa, that I asked you to buy a carpet for them, and I have been thinking so much about that Bazaar, but now it won't be a bit of good if everything is going to be done for them at Christmas."
"Nonsense, Brenda, you can have a share in Julia's Christmas tree, and I cannot feel that your interest in them has continued very strong. It seems to me that you have been more interested in the Bazaar than in the Rosas, and that now you should be willing to let others make plans for them."
During all the discussion Julia had had little to say, but she resolved at the earliest opportunity to ask Miss South to tell Brenda the exact condition of the Rosas.
When Miss South heard of Brenda's feeling on the subject of the Rosas she hastened to invite her to assist in the Christmas tree enterprise "not so much with money, Brenda," she said, "as with your taste. I know that you and Belle can make several of the decorations for the tree. Money to spend for the things has been given me by a friend, and we shall have more than enough."
With this suggestion Brenda was not at all displeased, for she had spent more than double her liberal allowance of Christmas money on gifts for her friends. A foolish habit of exchanging presents had grown up at school, and each girl tried to return the presents of the season before with something handsomer than the giver had bestowed on her. In this way those who had to consider money were called mean if they did not give a handsome present to all those whom they knew, that is those girls with whom they had anything more than a speaking acquaintance. The ever extravagant Brenda had reached almost the end of the list of those whom she wished to remember with Christmas gifts, and had had to go to her father for more money, which he gave her only on condition that she should deduct it from her allowance of the next two months. It was probably this knowledge that she could do little for the Christmas tree for the Rosas which had led her at first to express herself rather ill-naturedly to Julia on the subject.
Mr. Barlow always protested a little against Brenda's present-giving habit. He said that it was very foolish to give a silver pin-tray to a girl who perhaps already had a half-dozen similar articles, which she would probably return with a silver scent bottle, of which Brenda already had more than she could use in a lifetime. "It would be much more sensible if each of you would go out and buy the thing which you wish the most for yourself and let others do the same. I have an idea that your wants would be less numerous and less costly if you felt that you were spending your own money for yourself."
"Oh! papa."
"Yes, I mean it. If you were in the habit of buying more books, it would not be so bad, there would be little danger of your having too many, and one book, if a duplicate, could be properly exchanged for another. But you buy such foolish things for one another, and the chief aim of each girl seems to be to outdo every other girl."
"Oh, papa, I'm sure we all make out lists of what we want the most, and we always try to please one another, indeed we always do, and one can't be mean; I'm sure you wouldn't want any one to call me mean."
"Now, Brenda, of course not; but there are different kinds of meanness, and I wonder how many of you girls at Miss Crawdon's ever stop to think how many little comforts your Christmas presents would buy for the needy men and women who have so little to brighten their lives. No, Brenda, I do not begrudge you the money that I give you, but I often do object to your way of spending it—sometimes," he hastened to add, as he saw the frown gathering on Brenda's face.
But, after all, it would take too long to tell you how thoroughly in earnest Julia and the others were in their efforts to make the Christmas tree a success. The tree, to be sure, was the least part of it. For Mrs. Rosa's small kitchen was not adapted to a very large one, and Miss South decided that it would be rather foolish to put too much money into a thing of that kind. The decorations were inexpensive, or homemade, and the presents were useful rather than ornamental. Of course there were toys and colored picture-books for Manuel and the smaller girls, and bags of candy and oranges for each of the family, and candles enough on the tree to make a cheerful illumination for five or ten minutes while Miss South and Philip stood near by with pails of water ready to use in case a spark of fire should fall where it was not expected. But after all, things went off very well, and when the Four, or rather the Five—for Julia, of course, was included—drove down to see the distribution of the presents, they had hardly standing-room in the little kitchen. Julia and Miss South had done the most of the purchasing, and the things that they had thought of were innumerable. I need not tell you what they all were, but there was a new rug to go in front of the stove, and there were two wadded quilts for each of the family beds, there was a new gown for Mrs. Rosa, and mittens and shoes for all the children, and—but it is better for you to imagine it all, only remembering that when a family is absolutely destitute, a great deal of money may be spent without making a great show. The Christmas dinner had been sent by the Baptist Church, and on Christmas evening the children were to go to a festival at the Episcopal Church where they expected to receive some other presents. For even Miss South had not yet had enough influence to get the Rosas to devote themselves to one church. They still continued to think that to attend two Protestant churches showed a praiseworthy excess of virtue.
But whatever the trouble and expense had been, the beaming faces of Mrs. Rosa and the children were sufficient compensation for Miss South and her pupils. Even Belle had no fault to find with the tree, or the Rosas or with anything connected with the celebration.
But for Julia one of the pleasantest results of the Christmas tree was the intimacy which grew up between her and Miss South, a rather unusual friendship to have arisen between a girl of sixteen and a woman ten years older.
Mr. and Mrs. Barlow were pleased with the animation which Julia had shown in this work for the Christmas tree, and they had no objection to the intimacy with Miss South, since Miss Crawdon had assured them that they knew her to be a young woman of unusually fine character. Just after Christmas Miss South went up to the country for a week or two of perfect rest, and Julia for the first time since she came to Boston found herself entering into a round of gaiety. Dancing parties were given almost every evening by some one of the schoolgirls, and no one thought of inviting Brenda without asking Julia, too. It is true that Julia did not care very much for round dances, but she had come to see that it was almost a duty to enter more heartily into the amusements of her schoolmates. So, putting aside—so far as she could—her natural diffidence—she almost always accompanied Brenda, and though she could not take part in round dances, she seldom had to sit alone. There was always some other girl who did not dance, or who had not been asked for the dance, and not infrequently some awkward boy who preferred sitting it out to dancing. On some occasions, even when there had been but two or three square dances in which Julia could take part, she had reported to her uncle and aunt at breakfast the next morning that she had enjoyed herself very much.
"A contented mind is a continual feast," said Belle, sarcastically, when she heard Julia telling some one how much she had enjoyed a certain evening. "Why, I do not think that Julia was on the floor twice. Whenever I saw her she was talking to wall flowers, or small boys who ought to have been at home or in bed." By "small boy," Belle meant any one who was not yet in college, for she herself was hardly polite to any one younger than a sophomore, and she wondered that any hostess to whose house she was invited should think of having any one there younger than this. But the best-intentioned hostess sometimes had young cousins or nephews whom she wished to invite, and the two or three years' difference in age between a sophomore and a boy still in the preparatory school did not count for much in her eyes, however it may have been regarded by some of the girls of Belle's age.
Yet in spite of Belle's unfavorable criticisms, Julia was gradually winning her way to considerable popularity, and this without any effort on her own part. She was especially polite to elderly ladies, not from any motive, but because this seemed the proper thing, and her natural kindliness of heart led her to look after any other girl who seemed neglected or lonely. As to the boys—well, while no one could tell exactly how it was, she had a way of drawing them out and making even those who hated parties, admit to her that if more girls were like her they wouldn't mind going out. "But most girls, you know, just order us boys about so, and we have to dance whether we want to or not, or they call us all kinds of things behind our backs," one of them said to Julia one evening.
"Why, how do you know?" she had asked.
"Oh, our sisters tell us; why haven't you any brothers yourself?"
"No," said Julia, laughing at his earnestness, "nor any sisters either."
"Oh, well, you know lots of girls, and you must have heard them talk. I can tell you after I have heard my sisters and their friends talking people over, I think that I will never go to a party again."
"Then why do you?"
"Oh, you have to; some way, the other fellows all kind of make fun of you if you don't, and then your family all get at you, and it's all an awful bore. But when I find a girl like you who don't mind sitting still and talking, I don't have quite so bad a time." Then remembering that a little more politeness was due even to a girl who didn't pretend to be fond of dancing, he added, "Wouldn't you like to try this Portland Fancy? I can generally get through that all right, and I don't mind dancing with you," and though the compliment in the last part of his speech was a little dubious, Julia accepted, to the amazement of some of the other girls, who would have felt themselves very much lowered if obliged to dance with a schoolboy.
After all the gaiety of Christmas week it wasn't the easiest thing in the world for the girls to settle down to work at school. There were so many things to talk over, there was so much to think about. Christmas day itself had been very pleasant for Julia, though it had been kept by her uncle and aunt strictly as a family festival. She and Brenda were the youngest of the group gathered at the table, for Brenda's elder sister was still in Europe, and the other cousins invited to the dinner were all older than Julia and Brenda. The presents were given unostentatiously at breakfast before the arrival of any outside of the household, and Julia was touched to find that she had been remembered not only by the relatives whom she had seen, but by the absent cousins in Europe who had known her only when she was a very little girl. Brenda in her turn was extremely surprised by the handsome gifts which Julia gave to her and to her father and mother. There was the beautiful bracelet which she had been longing for as she had seen it in a Winter street window, with the tiny watch set near the clasp, while for her father and mother was a large paper edition of Thackeray, finely illustrated and elegantly bound. Brenda was too heedless of money herself to stop to count the cost of these gifts, and yet she realized that they must be expensive, and while thanking Julia with the greatest warmth, she wondered how in the world she had been able to afford them.
Her father had laughed as usual at what he called her "silverware," and had asked her again as he had always asked her since she had acquired the habit of present exchanging, as he called it.
"Now, wouldn't it really be more fun to have all your own money again, Brenda, so that you could start out, and buy for yourself the things that you like the most instead of all these odds and ends."
"Oh, papa," Brenda had replied, as she always did, "I just love these things, and I have more presents than almost any girl I know; they say that I really am the most popular."
"Yes," he rejoined, "because you make the most presents. However," as he saw a cloud settling on her face, "I will not say anything if you are happy. Only remember that you won't have any allowance again until the first of March."
But an empty pocketbook did not seem the worst thing in the world to Brenda with her happy-go-lucky disposition, and on the Monday after New Year's, when they were all back in school she was the merriest of the crowd.
It is never the easiest thing in the world to settle down to work after the holidays, and even Julia for a day or two found herself a little dreamy, with her thoughts constantly going back to the many pleasant things of that Christmas week. But it was not as hard for her as for her cousins to resume the regular routine. She had a more definite aim than they, with the prospect of college examinations not so very far away. Brenda had not yet made up her mind to give her approval to her cousin's studying Greek, and she did not take the trouble to contradict Belle and Frances Pounder when they said that it must be a very disagreeable thing to have a cousin who intended to be a teacher. It is true that neither Belle nor Frances was thoroughly informed as to Julia's intentions, but they never needed very definite facts on which to base their theories. Consequently when they were at a loss for a subject of conversation, they were in the habit of discussing Julia's peculiarities. Other persons did not find Julia peculiar. To older people she seemed an especially well-mannered girl, with a delightful vein of thoughtfulness that was not too often met in young girls. She had become also a decided favorite with the brothers of her school friends to an extent that sometimes seemed surprising. For Julia was not an extremely pretty girl, and she was not half so well informed on sports and games as were the girls who had lived all their lives in Boston. But she had a way of listening attentively to whatever any boy happened to be saying to her, and the questions that she asked always showed an unusual degree of attention—an attention that any one could see was not a mere pretence. Philip Blair had already begun to confide to her a larger share of his college woes than he would have confided to his placid sister Edith. For Edith had an uncomfortable habit of forgetting just what was to be kept secret, and though Philip had no very dark secrets, there were still little things that he preferred not to have told. Julia was also very ready to help Nora's younger brothers in their lessons, and as Harry Gostar said, "There isn't another girl Nora knows that could help a fellow with his Greek exercises, and even if she hasn't studied Greek any longer than I have, she has learned more than enough to show me where I make mistakes in these beastly old conjugations."
There was probably some jealousy in the feeling of Frances and Belle toward Julia, but jealousy was not a strong motive with Brenda. In her case there had been little more than pettishness in her first attitude towards her cousin—the pettishness of a spoiled child. Yet this pettishness, which left to itself would have seemed of little account,—hardly worth noticing, when fanned by Belle and Frances took on the aspect of jealousy. In consequence of this feeling Julia had been made at times very uncomfortable, though no one had ever known her to say a word to Brenda in resentment.
Sometimes she found it very hard not to say a word when she heard the Four rushing upstairs on the afternoons of the club meetings. Strange though it may seem, no invitation had yet been given her to assist in the work for the Bazaar, even although all the other girls realized that the success of the Rosas' Christmas tree had been largely due to her. Perhaps it was just as well that Julia had no opportunity to inspect the things that were preparing for the Bazaar. For even after these many weeks of work there was hardly a single finished article. Belle's centrepiece was so elaborate that a whole afternoon showed hardly more than a single finished leaf, or one exquisitely wrought blossom.
"If any one would pay you for your time, Belle," Nora said mischievously one day, "we should have money enough to send one of the Rosa children to Europe."
"You'd better talk, Nora," Belle replied, "your afghan isn't half done either, and an afghan does not begin to be as fussy as a centrepiece, and it isn't even artistic, or——"
"Oh, well," Nora replied, "this is not the only thing that I have done; I keep it to work on here, but I have finished a small shawl at home, and a pair of baby's shoes, and I am going to do any number of things besides."
"Ah," said Belle, tossing her head, "you won't find me working myself to death over a Bazaar. I think one afternoon a week is a great deal to give to any poor family, for that is what it amounts to, and you know that I don't care much about those Rosas, anyway."
"Oh, Belle!" cried Edith, looking shocked.
"No, indeed, I don't, and I am sure that Brenda does not care half as much as she pretends. Why, Edith, as for that you yourself never go down to the North End to see them."
"I can't; my mother won't let me go into dirty streets or into tenement houses."
"Oh! if you cared very much, you'd find some way to go there occasionally. You could drive."
Edith looked so uncomfortable at this suggestion, that Nora, on whom usually fell the duty of taking up the cudgels, exclaimed,
"You know that Edith was very generous at Christmas, and that she is ready to do ever so much more for the Rosas, and it isn't a bit fair to speak in that way."
Belle discreetly said nothing further, for she had learned that when Nora assumed this positive tone, Brenda was apt to go over on her side, and then Belle herself would be so in the minority as to be obliged to seem an unpopular person, and if there was one thing in the world that she dreaded, it was to be considered unpopular. So trimming her sails she said, "Why, how silly you are, Nora, you know that I was only in fun. Of course we all are interested in the Rosas, and I only wish that I could do two or three centrepieces for the Bazaar. But I am always so busy at this season——"
"You busy, Belle," cried Nora. "Who ever heard of such a thing. You are just the idlest person I know."
"Indeed I am not," was the answer. "I have to do all the errands for the family, and half my clothes are made in the house, and we always have such stupid seamstresses, that——"
"I should say so, Belle; I do think that you have had some of the ugliest clothes, lately, that I have seen this winter," interrupted Nora, rather unceremoniously. Belle reddened very deeply at this speech, for as a matter of fact she was extremely sensitive on the subject of her clothes. Unlike Brenda or Edith, she never had the privilege of going to a fine costumer; nor could she even employ the dressmaker who made some of the gowns worn by others of her set of friends. The circumstances in her family were such that she could not gratify her taste in dress. She must wear this thing or that thing that her grandmother had selected, or must have something of her mother's altered to the present fashion for girls. However skilful the alterations, she felt as if she were in some way disgraced. Now to tell the truth Belle herself had so much natural taste that only a very severe critic could see anything to criticise in her dress, and a sensible person watching the two girls would have said that it was much better for a young girl to be brought up with the somewhat economical habits that had to be Belle's than to have the rather too elegant clothes, and the many changes of costume which Mrs. Blair seemed to prefer for Edith. But girls will be girls, and Belle's great grievance was that when fawn brown for example, was the fashionable spring shade, she had to wear a gown of stone grey, because somewhere in the cedar chests in her grandmother's attic there was a stone grey thibet, ample enough to cut over into a spring gown for her. As to hats, neither her mother nor her grandmother approved of her having her hats trimmed at a milliner's. In consequence, after her mother had put on a hat a simple trimming such as she approved herself, Belle would spend her first spare afternoon in ripping it all off, in order to retrim it. Indeed she usually spent not one afternoon but several in this operation, and even ventured to lay out her own pocket money in little ornaments or in ribbons that she thought would add to the appearance of the hat. In the same way she was able too to make slight alterations in the appearance of her gowns, and sometimes the changes were improvements. At other times what she had considered a genuine addition to the style of her garment or hat to other eyes seemed only queer, or in schoolgirl parlance "weird."
When therefore Nora said that she had considered Belle's clothes of the present winter the ugliest she had seen, she touched a tender cord. In the first place Belle had had a strong dislike for the coat and hat which her mother and grandmother had selected for her, and in the second place she thought that she had improved the appearance of her costume as a whole by entirely altering the style of her winter hat. For she had twisted the front to the back, had added a deep blue bow to the trimming, and she believed that altogether she had accomplished wonders.
At Nora's speech the tears came to her eyes, and the heedless Brenda, who was not herself always careful of the feelings broke forth indignantly,
"I do think, Nora, that you might be careful what you say; you know that Belle dresses as well as she can, and I think that she always looks well. I wish that I could trim hats."
"Oh, Brenda, it is a good thing that you can't, for if you could you never would have a thing to wear; you can do fancy work, but you haven't a thing finished yet for the Bazaar."
While Nora was talking Belle had been folding up her work, and in a moment more she was putting on her hat and coat.
"You are not going now?" cried Brenda. "Oh, don't go; you're not mad at Nora, are you?"
"Oh, no," answered Belle with the air of injured innocence. "Oh, no, but I think that I ought to be going. I did not mean to stay the whole afternoon."
"Oh, don't go," urged Edith; "if you'll wait half an hour I will go with you, but I must finish this piece of drawn work."
But Belle continued to put on her outer wraps, and in a few minutes had bidden the others good-bye. As a matter of fact Belle was deeply offended, and she knew that if she had stayed much longer with her friends she would have been driven to express herself strongly. Now a general quarrel was a thing to be dreaded, and she knew that it would be unwise to risk it. Belle was certainly a sensible girl, and what she now did was really the best thing under the circumstances.
Left to themselves the three other girls let their tongues move very freely. It was something new for the rather loquacious Belle to go off without a word, as if in some way she had been vanquished. It was the very best thing that she could have done for herself.
"Really, Nora, I don't see how you could speak in that way to Belle. I am sure that she feels very badly," began Edith.
"Well, she is awfully conceited about her clothes, and sometimes she does look so queer."
"But you shouldn't say so to her face——"
"Better to her face than behind her back."
"I don't know," rejoined Edith, "there are some things that it is just as well not to say at all. Belle has a right to wear whatever kind of hats she likes."
"Oh, Edith," responded Nora, "you are altogether too fair. I am tired of having Belle find fault with every one else as if she were just perfect herself. For my own part, I——"
"Well, Nora," said Brenda, "you ought not to say anything to Belle when she is in my house. I happen to know that she is very sensitive about her clothes. In the first place her mother will never let her have what she wants——"
"No, it's her grandmother," interrupted Edith. "She really does have a hard time, and it isn't fair to criticise her."
"No," added Brenda, "it is not."
"Well, Brenda," said Nora, "you ought not to say anything. You make Belle awfully mad sometimes by what you say. I heard you telling her the other day that you should think that she'd just hate that winter coat that she has been wearing, the fur is so very unbecoming, and you asked her why she didn't have a chinchilla collar and muff. She won't quarrel with you, because there are so many little things that you can do for her."
"There, there," cried Edith who saw that neither Brenda nor Nora was in an amiable frame of mind. "Don't let us bicker. Any one would think that we were all enemies instead of the inseparable four."
"Oh, Edith, we can't all be as amiable as you," responded Nora. "But really I am a little sorry that I offended Belle, for I know that she has a rather hard time at home, but I do wish that she would not put on such superior airs, and I do wish that she would not wear her hats hind side before. Sometimes I almost hate to go out with her."
"Why, Nora, I never heard of such a thing. I did not know that you attached the least importance to appearances. Besides I thought that you always wanted to make every one comfortable in her feelings. It seems strange that you should have been so awfully thoughtless towards Belle."
"I dare say that you are perfectly correct," responded Nora; "you usually are, Edith Blair. And I haven't a doubt that I shall go down on my knees to-morrow at recess, and apologize to Belle and to every one else whom I have ever offended. But I say that we have had enough of this exchange of compliments for to-day. Let us put up our work, and talk about something else. Why, see here, Belle has left her centrepiece behind her."
"Oh, give it to me," cried Brenda; "I will put it away," and she took it from Nora's hands.
"We shouldn't have had this fuss, should we," said Edith, "if Julia had been working with us?"
"You don't call this a fuss," rejoined Nora, "only a slight misunderstanding."
Now in spite of her outspokenness Nora was really a very fair minded young person, or perhaps I ought to say because of it. Those who express themselves very plainly often hurt the feelings of their friends, and not all of them have the courage to admit that they have been wrong. It does require some courage to go to a girl who is in the habit of justifying all her own words and deeds to tell her that you yourself have been wrong. Yet this was just what Nora did a day or two later when she began to reflect on the criticisms she had made in the matter of Belle's clothes. She was surprised herself at the graciousness with which Belle received her apology. But this was one of the cases—rather exceptional to be sure,—in which Nora was decidedly in the wrong. Belle, therefore, could afford to be magnanimous. After this Nora was much more careful about criticising any one, for it was her general aim in life to follow as closely as she could the Golden Rule.