Miss Billy, by Edith K. Stokely and Marian K. Hurd

"But the children will be so disappointed. They will have their reports all ready, and there will be almost no one here to hear them. Neither mother nor father can be present. And the little ones are so fond of you."

Even this mixture of pathos and diplomacy failed to touch Bea's flinty heart. "I don't wish to be here," she replied.

"That was before I knew you were going to invite every Tom, Dick and Harry in the neighbourhood."

Miss Billy was roused immediately. "I suppose by that you mean Mr. Francis Lindsay," she said with spirit; "I invited him here on purpose. I want to be especially nice to him just because you were so mean and sniffy to him the night of our call. That was my blunder, and you needn't empty the vials of your wrath on him. He was as gentlemanly and pleasant as he could be, and did his very best to make us forget that we were two girls calling upon a boy. Besides, he is interested in this kind of work—he told me so himself. And the children all adore him,—and mother said I might."

"It is none of my affair whom you choose to invite to the house," said Beatrice coldly. "But I prefer not to see him."

"All right, don't, then," retorted Miss Billy wrathfully. "I'll ask Marie Jean, instead. She'll be glad to come, I guess. But I don't understand you at all, Bea. It isn't like you to be so petty and small."

Beatrice walked away without another word, and Miss Billy marched defiantly to the Hennesy fence, and vaulted lightly over. It was wicked of Miss Billy, for she knew that this tomboyish expression of independence would be most irritating to Beatrice.

Marie Jean Hennesy, sitting with her embroidery on the back porch, looked amazed at the breathless apparition which appeared over the fence.

"You're the very one I wanted to see," said Miss Billy. "The Street Improvement Club is going to meet in our yard this morning, and the children are going to read reports of what they have accomplished. I'm sure you'd be interested, and I do wish you'd come and hear them."

Marie Jean was not so enthusiastic. "I don't know," she said doubtfully. "I was intending to finish this work to-day."

"I do wish you'd come," urged Miss Billy. "There will be no one there besides the children, except Mr. Lindsay,—the young man staying at Mr. Schultzsky's. I think you'd enjoy it."

Marie Jean folded her linen slowly. "Maybe I'll come," she decided, "if I can get my dress changed in time."

"You'd betther be makin' haste, Mary Jane," called Mrs. Hennesy from the foot of the stairs ten minutes later. "I seen the children go trapesing into Miss Billy's a minute ago, an' I guess maybe they're waitin' on you."

Marie Jean deigned no reply. She tipped her mirror at a more satisfactory angle, as she applied Mde. Juneau's Bloom of Youth to her freckled nose, and gave a sigh of satisfaction at the result. Then she surveyed the vision before her with a pleased smile. A dream in blue smiled back at her from the glass,—a dream in a striking costume of brilliant blue foulard, with pointed neck and elbow sleeves. A faded blue hat was perched sideways upon the heavy reddish hair, and a pair of long silk mitts in another shade of blue completed the attire.

Marie Jean pursed up her lips to produce an elongated dimple in one cheek. "If I could only remember to do that every once in a while!" she said to herself. From the hush that pervaded the hall below Marie Jean suspected that her mother, with her nose pressed tightly against the window pane, was assuring herself as to the condition of affairs in the next yard. Her suspicions were confirmed by the call that followed:

"Young Mr. Lindsay has came now, Mary Jane. He's all in white, close, hat, shoes an' all. Sure ol' man Schultzsky'll be worryin' about his laundry bills. They're all a sittin' round on the grass with him an' Miss Billy. You'd best make haste."

This had the desired effect. There was a hurried moving about in the room upstairs, and two minutes later the daughter of the family appeared, fluffing her frizzes to their widest extent, and giving a final hitch to her openwork stockings.

"It's one I borrowed from Lily Corcoran to match my suit," answered Marie Jean cautiously. "Don't be lettin' the neighbours know about it, either."

Mrs. Hennesy withered beneath the reproof. "Of course I'll not spake of it," she said. "It was a slipsy of the tongue, Mary Jane."

Her daughter accepted the apology in the spirit in which it was given, for her time was too limited for haughtiness. "All right," she said condescendingly, as she hurried down the walk.

There was a commotion in the Lee yard as the vision in blue appeared around the corner of the house. Marie Jean in her usual clothes was not to be lightly regarded, but in this new and startling costume the effect was electrifying to the spectators. Little Aaron Levi, who was holding the floor, became suddenly affected with stage fright, and the small Canarys stared open mouthed. Fridoline alone arose to the emergency and inquired in a loud and interested tone, "Hallo, Mary Jane. Where'd you get that hat?"

"We were afraid you were not coming," she said cordially, "so we went on with our reports. Won't you sit down." She cast a rueful look at the gay costume. "I'm afraid you won't dare to sit on the grass with the rest of us. Let's begin over again, Aaron."

Marie Jean took the garden chair that Francis offered and smiled sweetly at him, not forgetting to exhibit the elongated dimple; Miss Billy settled back on the grass; and Aaron Levi took up his half-finished sentence.

It was the first meeting of the Civic Improvement Department of the Child Garden. The Street Improvement Club, as they had chosen to call themselves, had been successfully organised and valiantly living up to their motto of "Be clean and keep clean." The life of a missionary is never easy, and Cherry Street had made it particularly hard for the little band of workers who fought so bravely against the dirt, disorder and disease in their surroundings. It would have been hopeless to try to interest the older people, but the children were all enthusiastic little citizens, and their interest in the work had won over many of the fathers and mothers who had opposed the idea of cleanliness as "putting on airs." Already the street had begun to show improvement, and the reports of the children plainly told under what difficulties some of the sturdy members had worked.

Aaron Levi, with a long sheet of soiled foolscap, which effectually concealed a large portion of his anatomy, read the first report in loud and distinct tones:

"As I belong to the Street Cleaning Club I would like to tell a thing or more what happened last week. I told Joe to pick up some paper which was lying in the street. If he wouldn't pick it up I would. I was just going to see what he says, so finally, he wasn't going to pick it up, and he said he wasn't going to pick dirty papers up from the streets, and that wasn't even all, he also littered the streets. He also stated that there was not a law passed forbidding people to throw papers on the street.

"The place where I live, which is not large, there is very seldom a piece of paper or anything else. Hoping that other places may be in the same condition. This can be easily done if people and children help together.

"Yours truly,

"Aaron Levi."

"Very good," said Miss Billy heartily, as Aaron, flushed with emotion and heat, took his place on the grass. "Aaron, I'm proud of you. If we all do work of that kind there won't be need for our club always. Ginevra, have you something to read to us?"

"I didn't write mine," she murmured faintly. "It's only about an orange peel, anyway."

"There was a man goin' up Cherry Street last night, an' he was eatin' a orange, an' droppin' the peelin' right on the sidewalk. An' I said to him 'Mister, please don't drop those on the walk.' And he didn't pay no attention to me, an' so I walked along behind him an' just picked them up myself."

Ginevra's patient little story was most touching, and Miss Billy and Francis exchanged quick glances of sympathy. Marie Jean settled the folds of her gown, and smiled. "How perfectly lovely," she remarked to no one in particular.

"Isn't it interesting?" asked Miss Billy proudly. "Frank Murphy, you come next. What have you done?"

Frank's report was brief and to the point. "There was a dead rat out in the street. It was big and smelt awful. I poked it with a stick, but it was so smelly I couldn't take it in my hands. So I brought the cat out and she et it up."

The fastidious sense of Marie Jean was much offended by the story, but she bravely accepted the custom of the Romans, and only indicated her disgust by a slight elevation of the nose, as Frank's successor was announced, and Launcelot, in a high state of excitement and a huge red necktie, took the floor.

"Our slop barrel was running over. And ma wanted to give some of it to Hennesy's chickens, and I wouldn't let her because it ud make Hennesy's yard look worse than ever. And she said it was the slop collector's fault and that Cherry Street was always neglekted. And I said I'll see to it. And I went to see the slop gentleman at the city hall and told him about the slop running over, and the germs that were just flying round loose inside, and I spoke fierce and he said he'd 'tend to it. And I said he'd better and he said he would and he did. An' we've smelled nice ever since.

"And Johanna who lives with old man Schultzsky threw tin cans into the street, and we kids waited till night an' then stuck them all along on the pickets to his fence, an' she don't do it any more. An' I asked ma not to wash me and Mike in the same water, and she said all right if I'd carry in fresh water and I did.

"An' there was a grocery boy dropped a egg on our walk, and I made him clean it up.

"An' I got two kids to sign our pledge, and they'll come to every meetin' where there's going to be grub."

Launcelot's recital was followed by a chorus of admiration. Francis' face was hidden, but his shaking shoulders showed his emotion, and Miss Billy's eyes danced as she patted the small workman upon the shoulder, exclaiming, "Bravo, Launcelot! You're our Master Constable."

"To be sure they are," responded the hostess. "Mike is one of our best workers. Tell us about it, dear."

"A boy camed and shaked our new 'ittle twee. An' I said 'No, no, boy,' and he wunned away. And Fwiddie helped me make a fence wound it," lisped the little lad.

Even Marie Jean was delighted with the childish recital, and she joined enthusiastically in the applause which followed. Little Mike buried his face in his sister's lap, and only glanced out shyly when Friddie began his report.

"I'm using my ecspress wagon to clean up the streets with," he began. "I go out early every morning, and Aaron Levi helps me. We pick up all the trash in the street an' pile it in my wagon, and sometimes there's two loads of it. We sell it to Mr. Hennesy for fillin' holes with. He gives us a cent a load. We bought nine cents worth of taffy on a stick last week, an' we're goin' to save up to buy a patrol wagon."

One by one the other reports followed. Lena Engel had burned a pile of rubbish in the alley; Moses Levi had gathered all the old rags on the street and sold them to the ragman; Mary O'Shea had planted grass seed in her yard; Pius Coffee had cut down "eight stacks of weeds"; the little Moriaritys had "filled up a sink hole" on their premises; Jacob Kohn had stopped putting ashes in the street; and two of the larger boys had placed a box on the corner, for the disposal of rubbish. Even the tiniest children had their small stories to tell, and Miss Billy glowed with pride as the last member of the Street Cleaning Brigade was heard from.

"Isn't that splendid?" she said, with face aglow, as she turned to her two older guests. "Just think what it will mean to Cherry Street to have citizens of this kind growing up on it!"

Francis had risen from his place on the grass, and was facing the small audience. "May I give my report?" he asked, his brown eyes twinkling mischievously through his sedate glasses.

"You all know how long I have lived on Cherry Street," began Francis; "just long enough to be greatly interested in your work, and yet not long enough to accomplish much. During that time I have had two sidewalks repaired, a new one laid, and some curbing reset. I have taken down three fences. I have cleared my uncle's yard of weeds, and we are beginning repairs on his house. I don't know what one's qualifications must be to belong to your club, but I should like to join,—here and now."

The members of the Street Improvement Club cheered with enthusiasm at this delightful addition to their number. But there was a greater surprise in store for them.

Whether it was Francis' example, or the reports of the little ones, that had inspired the action, it would be hard to say; but the cause of Marie Jean's conversion was not inquired.

The pledge was brought out, and amid vociferous applause the names of Marie Jean Hennesy and Francis Wilde Lindsay were added to the roll.

"The feast of reason and the flow of soul has come to an end," announced Miss Billy, as she collected the written reports, and laid them in a neat pile on the grass. "But our mundane bodies are yet to be fed. On yonder porch there sits a jug, and in the jug there is some beer—only root, however. Launcelot, if I pour the drink which cheers but not inebriates, will you pass the cakes?"

Marie Jean's face was expressive of a little disappointment as Francis rose from the grass and followed Miss Billy and Launcelot to the porch.

Ginevra's unchildish eyes turned upon the speaker. "She don't need no help," she said slowly. "Mr. Francis needn't 'a' gone. He just went 'cause he likes her company-ship."

The children had finished their root beer, and noisily rounded the corner of the house; and Marie Jean had reluctantly departed with repeated assurances of her aid in the future, when Miss Billy and Francis sat down in the deserted yard.

"It has been a great success," he said. "I cannot thank you enough for permitting me to enjoy the morning with you. It's a fine work, Miss Lee."

The girl looked up brightly. "It was interesting," she admitted. "The little ones have worked so faithfully and well. I am proud of them all. But there is so much yet to accomplish. I think Cherry Street has been effectually aroused, and we can depend on the children to keep it awake. But it will take so much money to do what we wish, and our hands are practically empty."

Francis was silent for a few moments. "Are there no ways of raising money?" he said finally. "Seems to me there's energy enough in this club to earn some."

"We're going to do that," said Miss Billy. "We are planning a lawn fête now. The mothers are all going to help us, and the children have been working like Trojans. It will be held in our yard, and we shall demand your attendance, and maybe your services. Everybody on the street will be roped in to help. Of course we will raise some money in this way, but there are so many things to spend it for. It won't go half way round."

"Why, haven't you heard? The papers are full of it to-day. Peter Hanson, the New York florist, offers a prize of one hundred dollars to be voted to improvements on any city street which makes the greatest change for the better during this year. The money is to be awarded about December 25, and the judges are to decide from photographs,—the 'before and after taking' style, you know."

"Well, why can't you? Look what fine work you've done in short time. Think what you can accomplish in almost four months. You won't have to do much to make a great improvement here, for every little thing will show. I'll bring out my camera, and we'll take our first picture to-morrow morning. Then we'll go to work together."

"To be sure I will. Am I not the agent on Cherry Street, and will not every improvement benefit my uncle's property? It's all a matter of business, you see. You'll let me help you, won't you?" He held out his hand questioningly. The brown eyes looked into the grey ones steadily and earnestly. Miss Billy put her hand into his with a grateful look that spoke volumes.

CHAPTER XVII

THE LAWN SOCIAL

“Never was seen such a motley crowd,—
Never was seen such a merry throng.
Never was laughter so long and loud:
Never so merry the jest and song.”

CHERRY STREET will be ablaze with light and aglow with colour," Theodore had mocked some months before. "Number 12 will be filled with diamond tiaras, and cut glass pianos, and freezers full of ice cream, to signify that a function is on!" And the spirit of his prophecy was being fulfilled.

Miss Billy, herself, had tied eighteen campaign torches to the front pickets. Now, as the twilight closed in, like tiny watchfires they sent their welcoming gleams up and down Cherry Street to the faithful. And the faithful, one hundred fifty strong, headed by Mr. Hennesy, in a wonderful dress coat of the fashion of '69, and brought up in the rear by Mr. Schultzsky, on two stout oaken crutches, partly for Miss Billy's sake, and partly for the sake of the clean street, marched to the Street Improvement Club's first lawn social.

Long vistas of Chinese lanterns in red and blue and yellow swung gaily over the lawn in double rows. Francis had furnished these. John Thomas Hennesy had brought two locomotive headlights, and these, stationed on the side where Miss Billy hoped her "berbarry haidge" might sometime be, shot their rays across the yard straight into the faces of the astonished hollyhocks, and beyond, to where Mr. Hennesy's shirt flapped, wraith-like, on the Hennesy clothes-reel. The house, thrown wide open, radiated with light and hospitality. Children, comporting themselves with a dignity befitting the occasion, were everywhere. And still the people, in twos or threes, or sometimes shyly alone, with mysterious bundles under their arms warranted to contain ten cents' worth of household merchandise, which they should presently mix up and buy again, kept coming steadily through the front gate.

Miss Billy, radiant in a pink gown, with pink sash ribbons fluttering at her waist, and her eyes shining like stars, squeezed John Thomas's arm in a little ecstasy of excitement as he knelt in the grass, putting the rapidly accumulating packages into clothes baskets.

"It is going to be a success," she predicted joyously. "It seems as though the people would never stop coming, and when we've sold every one of these packages at ten cents each, Cherry Street Improvement Club will have at least fifteen dollars in its treasury. John Thomas, I'm the happiest girl in the world to-night!"

"And the prettiest,"—said John Thomas admiringly, sitting back in the grass, and taking in her appearance critically, from the pink bow on the top of her head to the toe of her black slipper.

"Now, that isn't like you," said Miss Billy reprovingly. "Usually you don't pay compliments, because you are too truthful; but you haven't seen Beatrice. She's in shimmery white, with a heavenly thing thrown over her head. And oh, John Thomas, the dearest, sweetest, handsomest girl in the world, with the darkest eyes and the waviest hair, will be here presently. It is Margaret Van Courtland. She's just home from Germany, and she is coming to the social to-night."

"Well, you suit me all right," said John Thomas, returning to his packages with a determined air. Then he added sullenly, "I'd be feelin' all right, too, to-night, if it wasn't for that darn Francis Lindsay."

Miss Billy gasped in astonishment. "Why, what in the world has Francis been doing to you?"

"Why, of course I do! I think he's elegant, and—and gentlemanly, and handsome, and everything! I don't see what you can have against him."

John Thomas made no reply, but went stubbornly on putting the packages into the clothes baskets, and Miss Billy sat flat on the grass to think the matter over.

"Now you are the second one," she went on, "that has an unreasonable grudge against Francis. There is Beatrice,—she treats him horridly. To-day when we were getting things ready, if she had to hand him a nail, she'd draw up her lips and give it to him as if he were a cat. It's horrid of Bea,—and I've had to take her to task about it more than once. And do you know, in spite of it all, I believe Francis likes her immensely."

"He seems to like other girls immensely, too," said John Thomas, from the depths of the basket.

"Oh, but not like that!" said Miss Billy with conviction. "When she is out of the room, he watches for her return,—and when she is in the room, though he talks to me, he looks at her. But you must never—never breathe it, John Thomas. Beatrice would faint at the very idea, and she'd never forgive me! It must be a dead secret between you and me."

"Is this straight goods you're giving me?" demanded John Thomas, rising to his full height and gazing down at Miss Billy, seated on the grass.

"Why, I've never had any love affairs of my own. I never had anybody look hard at me, or take snubs cheerfully, or anything of that kind, you know. But as I said before, it's my conviction it is true."

"Well," said John Thomas, going down on his knees before the baskets again, "if it is true,—if it is Miss Beatrice he fancies, why, then, he won't find no rival in me."

"Miss Billy, where are you?" called Beatrice, around the corner of the house. "Margaret is here, and looking everywhere for you."

Miss Billy hurried away, and in another moment, in the full glare of a headlight, had her arms around the neck of a tall handsome girl, who was returning the salutation with interest.

"Billy!" remonstrated the newcomer laughingly. "You have a hug like a bear! You've spoiled my hair and crushed my attire. And I am in one of my best dresses, too, I'll give you to understand! I've brought six of the girls along with me, and we've pledged ourselves to put a dollar each in the box, and help make the thing go."

"Oh, but it's good to see you again," breathed Miss Billy. "My cup runneth over! I have a thousand things to say to you. Where shall I commence first?"

"Defer it till to-morrow," counselled Margaret. "We shall visit all day. Your time to-night belongs to the lawn fête, not to me,—and I am here to help you. Introduce me instantly to your Marie Jean Hennesy, and to your lady of letters with the six children, and I want to see every flower in the child garden, and Theodore,—oh, but first of all, let me meet your remarkable Francis Lindsay. Billy, your letters have taken on a suspicious tone of late!"

They locked arms in schoolgirl fashion, and came upon Marie Jean, who was presiding over a lemonade table. Miss Billy introduced them, and the two types of girlhood, one representing fashion in Cherry Street, the other the gentle blood of Ashurst Place, gazed intently at each other.

Marie Jean was gotten up in a style known as "regardless." She wore a sweeping black lace dress covered with spangles, that might have graced a coronation ceremony. The sleeves terminated at the elbows in two large puffs of blue satin, and her wrists tinkled with bracelets and bangles. Her hair was bushed in heavy frizzes over her ears, and in the untidy waves piled high on the top of her head gleamed a crescent of Rhine stones.

"My, she's plain!" was Marie Jean's mental ejaculation as she looked at the girl before her. Margaret's pretty dark hair was parted evenly in the middle, and plaited into heavy Dutch braids about her shapely head. Her dress was a yellow embroidered mull, with simple sash ribbons of the same colour. Had it not been for two slender rings that flashed upon the finger of one hand, Marie Jean might not have thought her worthy of passing consideration. But as the girls talked on in a friendly fashion, she gleaned from Miss Billy's remarks that Margaret was a student of music and the modern languages:—that she pursued her studies in Europe:—that she would return in the Spring:—and Marie Jean could no longer doubt that she was the "real thing." Moreover, she was pretty,—undeniably pretty,—with dark eyes, and white even teeth. Marie Jean wondered if "he" might not fancy this stranger, and for the first time in her life, she considered her own personal attractions with misgivings.

A rush of lemonade trade separated the girls, and Miss Billy and Margaret, wending their way on, came upon Francis, lifting over the back fence a load of belated chairs, borrowed from the church.

"I'll call Moses Levi to do this,—you've worked enough to-day," ordered Miss Billy. "Beside, I want to introduce you to my very dearest friend, Margaret Van Courtland."

As Francis flecked the dust from his clothes and came forward, a ray of the headlight fell directly upon Margaret's face. "I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Van Courtland before," he said, without a moment's hesitation.

"I beg your pardon," said Margaret uncertainly,—"I cannot remember——" Then as the light fell upon his tall form, handsome face, and dark, grave eyes, she gave a little gasp, and floundered helplessly in a sea of words. "Why,—I had no idea!—of course, we met in Cologne,—that is, we both fell in the mud!—Miss Billy, this is the Count!"

On a lawn seat, in the flare of the campaign torches, Mr. Hennesy, a glass of lemonade in hand, held forth to a bevy of Miss Van Courtland's fashionable friends on the superiority of masculine intellect as compared to that of woman.

"Sure an' phwat if a man cut off th' top av his coat, an' sewed it onto th' lig av his pants, to thrail in th' mud afther 'im? Sure an' wudn't ye be afther thinkin' he was crazy? Answer me thot, now?"

"Why, of course we would," answered the girls in a breath. "But then, Mr. Hennesy, we don't——"

"Wait now," said Mr. Hennesy, holding up one finger triumphantly. "Be aisy a bit. There's one p'int scored fer th' masculoine moind! Now thin,—phwat if I sh'ud be afther comin' here to-noight wid a feather shtuck up in me hair, or a gould buttherfly hoverin' over me forehead, th' same as ye have? Wudn't ye be afther thinkin' me brain no heavier than me head-dress? Answer me thot, now."

"There's two p'ints scored fer th' masculoine moind!" counted off Mr. Hennesy. "An' now,—if besides havin' a feather or a buttherfly in me head, I'd be daubin' me face wid red paint——"

"Some ladies does," said Mr. Hennesy sententiously. "Thot's three p'ints in favour of the masculoine moind!"

On the sofa, in the corner of the parlour, Beatrice had found Mr. Schultzsky, looking very pale and tired.

"I haf been looking for my nephew," said the old man. "I think we should go home."

"Oh, Mr. Lindsay is surrounded by admiring young ladies," answered Beatrice. "It would be a pity to spoil his good time. Beside, you must wait and have a mystery package. They are selling at ten cents each, and every one is warranted."

She brought from the kitchen a cup of tea and a slice of cake, and settled the tray cozily on the old man's knees. "They don't seem to need me in the garden, so I shall stay with you," she said. "May I sing for you?"

She seated herself at the piano, and hesitated a moment, wondering what style of song the old man might like. "Something old-fashioned, anyhow," she decided, and began in a sweet contralto voice "The Pilgrim."

"I'm a pilgrim, and I'm a stranger,
I can tarry, I can tarry but a night:
To that country where I am going,
My Redeemer, my Redeemer is the light.
There is no sorrow,—nor any sighing,
Nor any tears there,—nor any dying:
I'm a pilgrim, and I'm a stranger,
I can tarry, I can tarry but a night."

There was the sound of a crutch on the floor, and Beatrice was amazed to find Mr. Schultzsky standing at her side, wiping his eyes on his red cotton handkerchief.

"My wife wass young like you," he said brokenly, "and she sang the same song. It wass a long time ago. She lifed only three months."

"I am sorry, Mr. Schultzsky," was all Beatrice found to say. She thought of the picture of the beautiful lady, hung crooked and high on the wall, opposite the old harness. "Perhaps grief and loneliness have made him what he is," she thought pityingly. "Miss Billy is right. There is a tender side to everybody, if we can only find it."

Outside on a platform improvised from an over-turned tub Policeman Canary was selling off the packages with neatness and despatch. Mr. Hennesy disported a pair of ladies' side combs in his hair. Mrs. Hennesy had a mouse-trap. Margaret Van Courtland became the happy possessor of a pound of dried codfish, Francis had a pair of red mittens, three sizes too small. Miss Billy drew a fire shovel, John Thomas got a mouth organ, and Mrs. Canary revelled in a dream book. Theodore was going round with an ornamental and very sticky candy heart that one of the children had contributed, begging every one to accept it,—and finally traded it to Marie Jean Hennesy for a bottle of catsup.

"We'll open ours together," said Beatrice, coming back to Mr. Schultzsky in the parlour.

Inside the wrappings in Mr. Schultzsky's hand lay a dainty thing, tied in tissue paper and blue ribbon. "Oh, it's what Margaret Van Courtland brought," exclaimed Beatrice. It was a lady's handkerchief, sheer and fine, edged about with a delicate lace. It lay in the old man's palm, yielding up a faint perfume and he gazed at it without speaking.

"And I," said Beatrice brightly, "have a package of smoking tobacco! Now that will be handy next Spring to pack away my furs."

The children grew sleepy, and the torches burned out, before the guests departed. Every one was in holiday humour. Every one voted it a success, and begged Miss Billy to set an early date for another. Miss Billy, tired but elated, counted the money in the tin box. "Twenty-five dollars!" she announced jubilantly. "With that amount the Improvement Club shall work wonders. There is a five-dollar bill here. I wonder if anybody could have contributed that amount?"

"Mr. Schultzsky put that in,—that is, he gave it to me to put in for him," answered Beatrice quietly.

"Now what do you suppose can have come over the spirit of the old fellow's dream?" said Theodore. "Maybe he's enamoured of you, Bea."

"No, I think not," said Beatrice soberly. "I believe it was the stirring of a tender memory. He talked to me to-night of a girl wife, who died."

"Well, it has been a night of nights, and I am not surprised at anything," said Miss Billy. "To think that Francis should prove to be the Count, and Margaret and her set should go wild over him! Did you know, Beatrice, that he is a Princeton graduate;—and has had a year at Heidelberg, beside?"

Beatrice yawned. "Is there any more to do to-night?" she said. "I'm very sleepy."

CHAPTER XVIII

MARGARET LENDS ASSISTANCE

THE only nice thing about your going away is your coming home again," said Miss Billy to Margaret.

The two girls were seated side by side on the floor in Margaret's room, which bore a startling resemblance to a fancy bazaar. The bed was filled with airy masses of silk and gauze, the divan covered with ribbons and gloves and shoes, and the floor strewn with a varied assortment of hats, perfumery flasks, filigree silver and handkerchiefs. Margaret's last trunk had arrived from abroad, and the two girls were spending the morning at that mysterious and delightful task known to all womankind as "unpacking."

"It's the next best thing to going away myself," continued Miss Billy, "to have you go; and come home with so much of the foreign atmosphere about you. Your sentences fairly ooze Rhine water, and foreign castles, and pretzels."

"Am I as bad as that?" laughed Margaret. "You remember Edward Eggleston's woman, whose topic of conversation was always, 'when I was to Bosting.' Do I give the impression of having been to Bosting?"

"Certainly you do," accused Miss Billy. "You've talked of nothing else since your return. Of course I might confess that I've egged you on a little,—a very little,—for politeness' sake. Oh, Peggy dear, it does seem so inexpressibly adorable to have you here again!"

"In order that you may tell me I talk too much," laughed Margaret again. "Never mind, Miss Billy. Your turn will come in a few moments, and I know from your eager and glittering eye that you have much to tell yourself. Here is the box I was looking for. I put the little things I got for you when I was abroad all together so that I could have the fun of seeing you open them."

"The little things" filled a long pasteboard box, with a queer foreign picture on the label. Margaret tossed it over on her friend's lap. Inside were a number of bundles and packages, two long tubes of pasteboard, and several smaller boxes. Miss Billy's lips trembled with a smile in which tenderness as well as joy was mingled.

"Open them quick," commanded Margaret. "I want to see if they're right. Everything in the box was chosen especially for you."

Miss Billy obediently untied the packages. Margaret's words were true. Everything in the box had been chosen with a loving care that made the gifts still sweeter. There was a flame-coloured shawl of soft clinging crêpe, a gay Roman sash, a string of pale pink corals, four pairs of gloves in various shades of tan, a small gauze fan with ivory sticks, some carved wooden animals from the Black Forest, a set of crystals in purple and white, and best of all—two large photographs of famous paintings—the little Angel of the Lute, and the boy St. John.

"Mother has something else for you," said Margaret, delighted at the evident success of her gifts. "She found three long pongee coats for you and Beatrice and me. They are just alike except for the trimming, and she thought it would be fun for us to have them alike."

Miss Billy glanced down at the heap of treasures in her lap to hide the grateful tears in her eyes. "I don't know how to thank you," she began unsteadily.

"Oh, pshaw," returned Margaret. "You'd better compose some grateful resolutions, in nine or ten whereases, which will express your emotions. I don't remember that I ever wept tears of thankfulness over the things you brought me from Chinatown when you went West. I merely received them as what was due me by all the laws of right and justice. That yellow shawl will make you look like a dream, Billy. I thought of your browny-coppery hair when I bought it."

"It isn't the things that I'm grateful for," began Miss Billy smiling through her tears. "It's just that you're home again, I guess. You don't know how much I've missed you, Peggy. You know, dear, it makes lots of difference in the number of friends one has, if one moves from Ashurst Place to Cherry Street."

"That's just what I knew you'd say," exclaimed Miss Billy. "A thing like that would never occur to you. But it does occur to the majority of people."

"Do you mean to say that your old friends have treated you differently since you—you moved?" demanded Margaret indignantly.

"Yes, I do mean that," responded Miss Billy. There was a moment's hesitation before she added proudly, "Of course, Margaret, I don't feel that it has made any difference with me. Only I have to admit to you that it does make a big difference with others."

"With whom, for instance?" questioned Margaret. "The Blanchards and their ilk? I thought so. Wilhelmina Lee, you don't dare to tell me that the Blanchard tribe can hurt you?"

There was a world of comfort in Margaret's loyal voice, and Miss Billy was forced to smile at her vehemence.

"I should be ashamed of you if I thought they could," went on Margaret. "They are such a punk lot—if you'll excuse my English. We met Mrs. Blanchard and the girls in Germany, and they were kind enough to offer us their escort through Europe. Mrs. Blanchard is a regular Old Woman of the Sea, and we were afraid we would either have to commit suicide or murder to get rid of her. She attached herself to mamma, and always called her 'my dear,' before strangers. She introduced papa as 'the Honourable Mr. Van Courtland'—you can imagine how furious that made my respected parent! And as for me, in a burst of affection, one day, she assured me that any one who had seen me six years ago would never have thought I 'would turn out so well!'"

"She also told us the news of our friends," continued Margaret. "Of course I asked about you, the first thing; and she responded that you were interesting yourself in settlement work. It was such a laudable and praiseworthy undertaking, but she understood that it was apt to be dirty; and—now don't be mad—Miss Billy—a little unmaidenly, for a young girl. Naturally my ire rose, and I replied that I thought it was the loveliest thing that a girl could do; that I had heard about what you had accomplished on Cherry Street, and that the moment I got home I was going to help,—if I wasn't too stupid. You don't mind my telling you all this, do you, Billy?"

Margaret's guest was surveying her with shining eyes and eager expression. She did not seem to hear the last question. "Oh, will you? Will you?" she demanded delightedly. "Oh, Peggy, you can help so much if you will."

Margaret threw aside the masses of chiffon she had been folding, and faced Miss Billy with straightforward eyes. "How?" she asked. Miss Billy hesitated. There was help needed in so many places. Then the pathetic face of Holly Belle rose before her. She thought of the worn little hands that thumped imaginary times on every piece of furniture in the house, of the sad little voice that spent its sweetness in lullabies, and of the starved little soul that was pining for the melody that had been utterly left out of her life. She remembered the unchildish expression of longing for a piano, and she told Holly Belle's sorry little story in a way that was very touching. Margaret's eyes grew tender, and her voice was very sweet as she said simply:

"I am more than ever glad of my music now. I shall love to help her. And she shall practice on my piano, too. Tell me all you have been doing on Cherry Street," said Margaret, as Miss Billy ratified the agreement with a grateful look that spoke volumes.

"Not very much," said Miss Billy modestly. "In fact, I haven't attempted much. 'Settlement work,' as our friend Mrs. Blanchard so genteelly put it, is not in my line. When I first went to live on the street I had great ideas of Improvement and Progress, with a big I and P. There was such grand opportunity for both. I had in my mind's eye a view of Cherry Street, shining with cleanliness and beauty; the neighbourhood united by a community of interests, and the thoroughfare famed far and wide as a model avenue. Now if I can get the Canarys to deposit their garbage in a barrel instead of the gutter, can induce the Levi children and the little Hogans to stop fighting at least one night out of the week, and can tell the street car conductor to let me off near Cherry Street without having him say, 'Where's that, lady?' I shall be satisfied."

"But what about the Child Garden and the Civic Improvement Club? Mr. Lindsay—I shall never cease to call him the Count to my own soul—says that you have already lured him into the work, and are going to give him a gymnasium class to manage as soon as cold weather begins. And that willowy lady at the lawn fête who assured me that she was 'the mother of a numerous prodigy, and naturally restricted to her home circle——'"

"Told me that you were the inspiring genii of the place, and that you had everybody on the street under the charm of your dainty thumb."

"Don't interrupt, I'm not through yet. And Miss Marie Jean Hennesy assured me that since Mr. Lindsay came you had 'waked up to the needs of the street.' But the best is yet to come. Marie Jean's father, the old philosopher who appeared in the frock coat of the vintage of '69—complimented you up to the skies. He said that it was well that there was only one o' Miss Billy, or the street 'ud be baked with the sunshine she made."

Miss Billy had sunk back against the bed, overpowered by the assault of praises.

"'I was never so bethumped with words,'" she quoted. "I'm not accustomed to such flattery."

"Well, don't be so painfully modest, then. There's no sense in concealing things from me, Miss Billy. Other people will tell me if you don't. Papa and mamma wrote me the whole history of your triumphs two months ago,—the people on Cherry Street openly dote and gloat over you, and as for 'Miss Francis Lindsay'—if it were any one else but you I should be devoured with jealousy!"

"Mr. Lindsay has been of great help to me," said Miss Billy simply. Her face was very happy. Up to the present time she had felt that the work had been its own reward, but it was very sweet to have it appreciated by others.

"He is a nice fellow," said Margaret. "Simple and manly, I mean, and without the conceit that usually goes with those boys of brain and brawn, who have led their class and been captain of the college football team. Of course, Miss Billy, I'm perfectly willing that he should help you with your civic improvement work, but don't ever fail to remember that I saw him first!"

"I won't forget," laughed Miss Billy. "But you must take care, Margaret. Marie Jean, according to Mrs. Canary, has a 'manner that's tinged with romantickism towards Mr. Francis.' However, as long as he is willing to help me in the Cherry Street work, I suppose you will permit me to use him. A boy can do more than a girl in many ways, and since Theodore has gone to work I often feel the need of a masculine hand."

"I suppose he comes in handily in chastising the Canary birds? How you must miss Ted during the whole day? You have always been together so much."

"I do miss him," responded Miss Billy soberly. Ted's hard lot had not yet ceased to leave a sore spot in his sister's heart. "Still I do admire him for sticking to his work."

"Do you know that he has changed much in the last six months?" inquired Margaret. "Of course he has grown much taller, but that isn't all. He seems so much older and more sedate. He laughs and jokes, but the old happy-go-lucky boy is gone. The change is delightful, but I do confess I miss the old teasing Ted."

Miss Billy looked a little anxious. "Yes, I know it," she said. "I have noticed it myself recently, and I've worried over it a little."

CHAPTER XVII THE LAWN SOCIAL

CHAPTER XVIII MARGARET LENDS ASSISTANCE

CHAPTER XVII

THE LAWN SOCIAL

CHAPTER XVIII

MARGARET LENDS ASSISTANCE