The Story of the Big Front Door
by Mary Finley Leonard · English · Gutenberg #19340 · 331,959 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Story of the Big Front Door
Author: Mary Finley Leonard
Release date: September 20, 2006 [eBook #19340]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19340
Credits: Produced by David Garcia, Jeannie Howse and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF THE BIG FRONT DOOR ***
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file was produced from images generously made available
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[Illustration: "THEY HAD DRAWN THEIR CHAIRS TOGETHER IN A COSEY
GROUP."]
THE STORY
OF
THE BIG FRONT DOOR
BY
MARY F. LEONARD
"THEY HELPED EVERY ONE HIS NEIGHBOR."
NEW YORK: 46 EAST FOURTEENTH STREET
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY
BOSTON: 100 PURCHASE STREET
COPYRIGHT, 1898,
BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE OUTLAWS 1
II. IN THE STAR CHAMBER 12
III. THE LADY OF THE BROWN HOUSE 20
IV. DORA 31
V. UNCLE WILLIAM 51
VI. THE MAGIC DOOR 59
VII. IKEY'S ACCIDENT 65
VIII. THE M.KS. 74
IX. A RIVAL CLUB 84
X. GOOD NEIGHBORS 93
XI. PLANS 103
XII. CEDAR AND HOLLY 112
XIII. THE HARP MAN'S BENEFIT 127
XIV. CLOUDS 140
XV. DORA'S BRIGHT IDEA 156
XVI. SILVER KEYS 165
XVII. A PRISONER 172
XVIII. SOMETHING ELSE HAPPENS 183
XIX. AUNT SUKEY'S STORY 190
XX. THE ORDER OF THE BIG FRONT DOOR 198
XXI. WORK AND PLAY 206
XXII. UNCLE WILLIAM IS SURPRISED 219
XXIII. JIM 230
XXIV. A DISAPPOINTMENT 238
XXV. AUNT ZELIE 246
XXVI. THE BIG FRONT DOOR IS LEFT ALONE 255
THE STORY
OF
THE BIG FRONT DOOR.
CHAPTER I.
THE OUTLAWS.
"Come listen to me, ye gallants so free,
All ye who love mirth for to hear;
And I will tell you of a bold outlaw
Who lived in Nottinghamshire."
_Old Ballad._
Ikey Ford was the first to make the discovery, and he lost no time in
carrying the news to the others.
Great was their consternation!
"Moving into the Brown house? Nonsense, Ikey, you are making it up!"
Carl exclaimed.
"What shall we do about the banquet for King Richard?" cried Bess,
sitting down on the doorstep despairingly.
"And my racket is over there, and your grandma's fur rug, Ikey Ford!"
wailed Louise, shaking her finger at the bringer of evil tidings. He
assented meekly, adding, "and Sallie's clothes-pins."
A stranger might have been puzzled to guess what sort of calamity had
befallen the little group in the doorway of the pleasant,
hospitable-looking house among the maple trees, that warm August
morning. Something serious certainly, for Louise's dimples had
disappeared, Bess was almost tearful, and the boys, though they
affected to take it more lightly, wore plainly depressed.
"Let's go over to Ikey's and look through the fence," suggested Carl,
and, as there seemed nothing else to do, the others agreed.
They filed solemnly down the walk and across the street,--Bess with a
roll of green cambric under her arm,--and nobody uttered a word till a
secluded spot behind Mrs. Ford's syringa bushes was reached, where,
through an opening in the division fence, they could look out
unobserved upon the adjoining house.
"The side windows are open!" Louise announced in a tragic whisper.
"Didn't I tell you so?" replied Ikey with mournful triumph.
It was a small house with a pointed roof, and it stood in the midst of
an old-fashioned garden, where for years and years lilacs and
snowballs, peonies and roses, pinks and sweet-william, and dozens of
other flowers, had bloomed happily in their season, without any
trouble to anybody. In the background sunflowers and hollyhocks grew,
and on either side of the front gate two stout little cedars stood
like sentinels on guard. The street upon which this gate opened was
wide and shady, and the bustle and din of the city had not yet invaded
its quiet.
Though in reality a red house grown somewhat rusty, it was called the
"Brown house," because as far back as any one in the neighborhood
could remember it had been occupied by an old lady of that name. For
years before she died she was bed-ridden, and to the children there
was something mysterious about this person who was never seen, but on
whose account they were cautioned not to be noisy at their play. After
her death the house was left closed and unoccupied, but hardly more
silent than before. An air of mystery still hung about the place; the
children when they passed peeped in at the flowers alone in their
glory, and spoke softly as though even yet their owner might be
disturbed.
This was in the early spring; as the summer wore on this garden grew
more and more irresistible. Other playgrounds lost their charm to the
eyes that looked in at the long waving grass and the pleasant shady
places under the apple trees.
"Let's play Robin Hood," Bess proposed one morning as they sat in a
row on the fence.
Carl and Louise received the idea with enthusiasm, and Ikey listened
in silent admiration as the details of the fascinating game were
unfolded.
The Hazeltine children had from their babyhood been in the habit of
making plays of their favorite stories, but it seemed to Ikey
immensely clever; so while the others argued over who should take this
part and who that, he joyfully accepted whatever was offered him.
He did not fare so badly either, for being plump and rosy he was
allowed to personate the jolly Friar Tuck. Robin Hood fell naturally
to Carl as the oldest and the leader, Bess became Little John, Louise
appeared by turns as Allan-a-Dale and the sheriff of Nottingham, and
little Helen was occasionally pressed into service as Maid Marian. Who
first thought of turning the deserted garden into Sherwood forest no
one could ever remember, but as they sat on the fence that morning
with the waving sea of grass below them, somebody began
"One for the money,
Two for the show,..."
and away they all went. Some minutes later, Mrs. Ford, glancing from
her window, wondered what had become of the children.
So the fun began and continued through the long summer days, when
grown people stayed indoors and wondered what the children found to do
out in the heat from morning till night. But in that distant corner of
the garden, where, under the shelter of a crooked apple tree, the
forest rovers had their trysting place, the weather was never too
warm. The unoccupied house became transformed into Nottingham castle,
and was never approached without delicious thrills of terror.
Excitement ran high on the day when Robin was released from the
jail--otherwise a small rustic arbor--by his trusty followers.
There was simply no end to the fun, and the secrecy with which it was
carried on helped to deepen the interest. The climax was reached when
preparations were begun for King Richard's banquet.
As usual, it originated with Bess, when she heard that a favorite
cousin, a boy about Carl's age, was coming to visit them for a few
days.
"Aleck will make a very good King Richard," said Louise, when the
matter was under discussion, "and we can pretend that he is just back
from the Holy Land."
It was decided that this must be a real feast, not merely an occasion
of pepper grass and cookies, so their combined funds were carefully
laid out at the corner confectionery. Many articles supposed to be
necessary to the comfort of the royal guest were smuggled into the
garden, and everything was in readiness for his arrival on the next
day, when Ikey made his startling discovery.
It had never occurred to them that some one might come to live in the
Brown house; they were quite overwhelmed by it, and for more than an
hour they sat under the syringa bushes peeping through at their lost
domain. No one had much to say. Bess was gazing sadly at her roll of
cambric which was to have done duty as suits of Lincoln green for the
foresters, and Ikey was thinking of the fur rug and the clothes-pins,
when Carl proposed a raid for the recovery of their possessions. "The
girls can wait on the fence and take the things as we bring them," he
said.
This promised a little excitement, so on the very spot from which they
had made their first entrance into Sherwood forest, Bess and Louise
waited while the boys dropped down and disappeared behind the bushes.
In a few minutes they came rushing back empty handed, to report that
not a trace of anything was to be found, and that a man with a scythe
was at work on the other side of the garden cutting down the grass.
* * * * *
It was very quiet in the neighborhood that afternoon. There were no
children to be seen anywhere, and on the broad piazza of the house
where the Hazeltines lived the chairs and settees, with here and there
a gay cushion, appeared to be having a good time all to themselves,
gathered in sociable groups. The clematis and honeysuckle swung softly
in the breeze, making graceful shadows, and the maple trees stretched
out long arms and touched each other gently now and then. At the back
of the house on the kitchen steps sat Aunt Sukey, a person of dignity
and authority. Her hands were folded over her white apron and her eyes
rested with satisfaction on the rows of peach preserves that
represented her morning's work.
"Mammy," as the children called her, was a family institution, and
could not be spared, though her last nursling was fast outgrowing her.
No preserves tasted like Sukey's, and no one could, on occasion, make
such rolls.
"Yes," she remarked, continuing her conversation with Mandy, the cook,
who was stepping around inside, "they's _mischevious_ of course, but I
can remember when Mr. Frank and Mr. William was a heap worse."
"Law, Aunt Sukey, I wouldn't want to see 'em if they was any worse
than that Ikey Ford! It looks like the children has been up to twice
as many pranks since he come," replied Mandy.
"He don't take after his pa, then; Mr. Isaac was as nice,
quiet-mannered a boy as you ever see, when he used to go with Mr.
Frank. But pshaw! all that triflin' is soon over. Look at Miss Zelie:
seems like it warn't no time since she was climbin' fences and tearin'
her clothes, till I'd get clean discouraged tryin' to keep her nice.
Oh! they's fine children, I don't care what you say; and Louise is the
flock of the flower. She is like Miss Zelie, with her dark eyes and
shinin' hair."
"Miss Zelie herself sets more store by Carl than any of the rest,"
said Mandy, coming to the door.
"That's cause he favors his ma's family and has a look like his uncle
Carl. You know Miss Zelie married Miss Elinor's brother. He used to
come here for his holidays when she was a little girl no bigger 'n
Bess,--that was after Mr. Frank married Miss Elinor,--and they was
always great friends. It looks like it's mighty strange that Miss
Elinor and Mr. Carl should be taken, and old Sukey left."
There was silence for a minute; then as Sukey wiped her eyes she
continued, "I've nursed 'em all from Mr. William down, and I knows old
master's grandchildren is bound to turn out right."
It was almost sunset when Aunt Zelie--tall and fair, like Bess's
favorite heroines--came and stood in the front door, wondering where
the children were. She was not left long in doubt, for hardly had she
settled herself to enjoy the pleasant air when there was a sudden rush
from somewhere and she was surrounded by a laughing, breathless little
company. The outlaws of the morning were scarcely to be recognized.
Little John and the sheriff of Nottingham were attired in the freshest
of white dresses, with pink bows on their Gretchen braids, while Robin
and the Friar were disguised as a pair of bright-faced modern boys,
and with them was little Helen, a dignified person of eight, who
carried a doll in her arms.
"Auntie, did you know that somebody is coming to live in the Brown
house?" Louise asked, as they drew their chairs as close as possible
to hers. At this time in the day she was their own special property,
though there _were_ people who complained that they always monopolized
her.
"Yes, your father heard that a relative of old Mrs. Brown's was going
to take the house, but that is all I know," she answered.
"Carl and Ikey saw a cross-looking woman with a feather duster. I do
hope there will be some nice children," said Bess.
"All boys," Carl added briefly.
"Boys? No, indeed! Girls are much nicer, aren't they, Ikey?" and
Louise looked at him mischievously over her shoulder.
Ikey's shyness or his politeness, perhaps both, would not allow him to
reply.
"They are both nice when they are nice," said Aunt Zelie. "Being a
girl myself, of course I like girls, and so does this individual,"
patting the head against her shoulder.
"Oh, I like _some_ girls!" Carl conceded graciously.
"I wish there would be a little girl for me to play with," remarked
Helen plaintively, for it was the trial of her life that she was
considered too little to be made a companion of by the other children
except on special occasions.
"It is a fortunate thing that the house is to be occupied," said Aunt
Zelie, "for Mr. Jackson, the agent, told Frank that it looked as if
some one had been camping out in the garden. The grass was trampled
down and I don't know what damage done."
If she had not happened to be looking across the street she would have
seen some guilty faces. Bess grew red, Louise opened her mouth and
shut it again without saying anything, Carl drummed on the back of his
chair with an air of extreme indifference which Ikey tried to copy,
and Helen looked from one to the other with very big eyes.
The Fords' tea bell, rung at the front door for Ikey's benefit,
relieved the strain. Then presently Louise saw her father and baby
Carie coming up the street, and the Brown house was not mentioned
again.
As Aunt Zelie was on her way upstairs that night she was waylaid in
the dimly lighted hall by three ghostly figures.
"What are you doing out of bed?" she exclaimed.
"Oh, auntie, we want to tell you something! It is about the Brown
house. We have been playing Robin Hood in the garden."
"It was a lovely place, and we didn't do any harm, really."
Aunt Zelie listened with just a little bit of a smile till she had
heard the whole story. It had been great fun, there could be no doubt
of that.
"Was it wrong?" asked Bess anxiously.
"We did not hurt anything, not one bit," Carl insisted.
"Why did you keep it such a secret?"
"That was part of the fun; but I wish we had told you," said Louise.
"Yes, it is nicer to have you know things;" and Bess sighed, relieved
now that confession was made.
"It is too late to discuss it to-night, but I want you to think about
it and decide for yourselves whether or not it was right."
"Did you know it before we told you?" Carl asked suddenly.
"I only guessed it to-day," she replied, smiling.
CHAPTER II.
IN THE STAR CHAMBER.
There never lived a more genial, kindly man than old Judge Hazeltine,
and the house he planned and built reflected, as perfectly as a house
could, the character of its owner.
"The front door looks like the Judge," people used to say, laughing as
they said it, for he was portly and the door was wide. But they meant
more than just that, for there were few, even among the unimaginative,
who did not feel drawn to that door. Hospitality shone from every
panel, the big fanlight was like a genial sun, and the resemblance to
his cheery face and cordial manner was not altogether fanciful.
Of the inside of the house perhaps it is enough to say at present that
it kept the promise of the outside.
After the judge's death the old home fell to the share of the younger
of his two sons, for the William Hazeltines had already built their
fine mansion out on Dean avenue, where Aunt Marcia found things more
suited to her fastidious taste than on the quiet street which had
ceased to be fashionable.
On the other hand, her brother-in-law declared that he much preferred
his large garden and home-like neighborhood to the elegant monotony of
her surroundings. The children agreed with their father, and so
perhaps, for the matter of that, did Uncle William.
At the top of the house there was a long low room, with five windows
looking east, west, and south, which was known as the star chamber.
This name had originated with Uncle William in the days when he and
his brother Frank played and studied there, as Carl and his sisters
did now. On rainy days when the garden was out of the question the
children were most likely to be found here.
It was a pleasant place and well suited for any sort of indoor game.
Except for a rug or two the floor was bare, and the furniture
consisted of an old claw-footed sofa on which at least six people
could sit comfortably at one time, a wardrobe, some book-shelves, and
a hammock swung across one corner. There may have been a chair or two,
but the wide window-sills made pleasanter resting-places. Here in the
summer time you looked out into the soft greenness of the maple trees,
getting glimpses of the quiet street, but when the branches were bare
a fine outlook was to be had all over the neighborhood, and you saw
how big houses and little houses stood sociably side by side, while an
old gray church kept guard at one corner. Here Bess and Louise
romanced over an imaginary family known as "The Carletons," or played
dolls with Helen, and here Carl arranged his stamp album and made
signals to Ikey across the street. Sometimes their father and uncle
would drop in and pretend they were boys once more. Then what delight
it was to listen to their stories of boyish pranks!
Aunt Zelie was their most frequent visitor. The days when she kept her
dolls and "dressing-up things" in the old wardrobe, which was now put
to the same use by her little nieces, were not so very far back in the
past, and many of her story books were still to be found on the
shelves among later favorites.
Going up to the star chamber on the morning after the excitement over
the Brown house, she walked in upon an indignation meeting.
"Just when we wanted to play Crokonole!"
"It is _too_ mean!"
"She might let him come, it spoils all our fun!"
This is what she heard, and she asked in surprise, "What in the world
is the matter?"
There was silence for a minute, during which the rain made a great
pattering outside; then little Helen, who was serenely busy with her
paper dolls, replied, "Ikey's grandma won't let him come over, 'cause
he took her fur rug and Sallie's clothes-pins."
"What did he want with the clothes-pins and rug?"
"We wanted them to play with, Aunt Zelie. You can do a great many
things with clothes-pins," Bess explained.
"Aleck was to have been King Richard--the rug was for him at the
banquet; and now he hasn't come and we can't do anything," said Louise
mournfully.
Aunt Zelie sat down on the sofa and folded her hands in her lap.
"I should like to know how many of _our_ things have been carried over
to the Brown house garden," she said.
"We took some of the straw cushions and two or three cups that Mandy
said we might play with," replied Bess, watching her aunt's face
anxiously. There was another silence, during which Carl became
absorbed in a book and Louise gave her attention to Helen's dolls.
Then Aunt Zelie spoke:
"The more I think of this the more uncomfortable I feel about it."
"I can't see why," came from Carl.
"Because it seems to me such a lawless proceeding. Do you know that
there are people who say that no children were ever so lawless as
American children to-day?"
"That is poetry, auntie; you made a beautiful rhyme," laughed Louise.
But her aunt refused to smile.
"It is not poetry, but sad fact, I'm afraid. You may not have done
much actual harm, but you have shown no respect for other people's
property. You went into the Brown house garden without leave, and you
encouraged Ikey to carry off his grandmother's things without
permission. I have trusted you all summer--I thought I could; but this
makes me afraid that you ought to have someone with more experience to
watch over you. You know when I came back to you two years ago I
promised to stay so long as I could be a help to you, but--"
"Oh, Aunt Zelie! You do help us--don't go away!" cried Bess, clasping
her around the waist; Louise seized one of her hands tightly in both
her own, and Carl looked out the window with a flushed face.
"That is not fair, Aunt Zelie," was all he said.
He could never forget--nor could Bess--how she had come to them in
their loneliness, and taken the motherless little flock into her arms,
comforting them and wrapping them all about with her love and
sympathy. How could they ever do without her?
"You aren't going away, are you?" Helen asked, leaving her dolls and
coming to her side.
"I hope not, for I can't think what I should do without my children,"
she answered. And then they all snuggled around her on the old sofa
and talked things over. It was astonishing what a difference it
made--trying to look at the matter from all sides. Even Mrs. Ford's
indignation did not seem so very unreasonable when you stopped to
think how inconvenient it was to be without clothes-pins on Monday
morning.
"I know it does not seem exactly right as you put it, Aunt Zelie,"
Carl acknowledged, "but it was such fun, we couldn't have had so good
a time anywhere else."
"Suppose you found the Arnold children playing in our garden some day,
would you think that because they had found that they couldn't have so
good a time anywhere else, it was all right?"
"Why, auntie, those Arnold boys are not nice at all; we _couldn't_
have them in our garden," cried Louise.
"No one was living in the Brown house--it is different," Carl began.
"I know what she means," said Bess. "Just because it is fun isn't a
good excuse."
"That is it," answered her aunt. "I believe in fun if only you do not
put it first, above thought for the feelings or property of others. I
am sure you did not mean to do wrong, but it would not do for me to
let you go on being thoughtless, would it?"
"Mrs. Ford isn't a bit like you, Aunt Zelie; she was dreadfully mad at
Ikey, and said he must stay in his room all day," remarked Louise.
"I am sorry for Mrs. Ford. I rather think _I_ should be dreadfully mad
too, if I were in her place. She is an old lady and is used to having
her household affairs move on smoothly, and one day she finds her
servants upset and some of her property missing, all because certain
naughty children cared more for a little fun than for her comfort."
Aunt Zelie spoke gravely, and her audience looked very much subdued.
In the course of the day Joanna, one of the maids, was sent over to
the Brown house to inquire about the things left by the children in
the garden. She returned with the missing articles, which had been
carried into the house by the man who cut the grass.
"Did you see anybody, Jo? Are there any children?" were the questions
she met with. But she had only seen a middle-aged woman who was
cleaning the hall, and had learned nothing about the new occupants.
"It is very stupid of Joanna," said Carl as he rolled up the rug and
the clothes-pins and marched over to apologize to Mrs. Ford for their
share of the mischief. He did this so meekly and with such evident
sincerity that the old lady was greatly mollified, and sent him up to
tell Ikey he might consider himself released from the day's
confinement in his room.
For the rest of the week the children were models of propriety. No one
would have dreamed that they had been outlaws so short a time before.
From the star chamber windows Robin and his merry men looked down on
the transformation which was taking place in their old domain.
The long grass was cut down, and with it those patches of pepper grass
that had seasoned many a feast. The bushes and vines were trimmed, the
walk was reddened, the shutters were thrown open. Every day added
something to the change, yet, besides the servants, no one had been
seen about the house.
Who could their new neighbors be? The subject was discussed morning,
noon, and night, till their father said he would have to tell them the
story of the man who made a fortune minding his own business. Uncle
William, who was there at the time, said that probably the man was too
stupid to enjoy his fortune after he made it, and he pretended to be
willing to go over and inquire at the door, if Louise would go with
him.
"At least we know there can't be any children," said Bess, "for they
couldn't stay in the house all the time."
"Please tell us the story about the man, Father," asked little Helen,
and couldn't understand why they all laughed.
CHAPTER III.
THE LADY OF THE BROWN HOUSE.
Bang! went the door, and away they rushed, like a small tornado,
across the porch, down the walk and over the street.
They seemed to be running away from Helen, for a second after they had
vanished behind Mrs. Ford's oleanders she came around the house.
Indignant tears were in her eyes; it was hard not to be wanted, to be
thought too little to play with. Bess and Louise had such good times
with the boys and she had nothing in the world to do this afternoon.
To be sure they had been very gracious all morning, and had even
allowed her to listen to a thrilling chapter in the history of the
Carletons, but this was too good to last.
At lunch certain signs passed back and forth across the table arousing
her curiosity, and afterwards when she found them laughing on the
stairs and begged to know what they were going to do, Carl had replied
provokingly, "What do you suppose?" and now they had run away with
Ikey somewhere. The house was very quiet; Carie was taking her nap,
Aunt Zelie dressing to go out. Helen sat down on the top step of the
porch and wiped her eyes, saying to herself, "They are just as mean
as anything, but I don't care--I'll have a good time too. I think I'll
ask Aunt Zelie to let me go with her."
It happened that as the runaways reached the gate Aunt Marcia's coupe
turned the corner, and her horrified eyes beheld their flight. When
she stepped from her carriage her lips were firmly closed in a manner
which indicated that they would be opened presently for somebody's
benefit. She was so absorbed that she almost fell over the woebegone
little figure on the step.
"You have been crying--what is the matter?" she demanded.
"Oh, Aunt Marcia, I didn't see you--please excuse me," said Helen,
whose politeness rarely failed her, rising and putting away her
handkerchief. Mrs. Hazeltine saw pretty clearly how matters stood.
"Never mind, my dear," she said; "perhaps you would like to take a
drive with me. I am going out to Cousin John's."
Helen was her favorite among the children, because she was quiet and
demure, and did not tear and soil her clothes as Bess and Louise did.
Helen on her part looked up to Aunt Marcia with deep admiration, and
meant to be just like her when she was grown. So she ran off very
happily to have her dress changed, while Mrs. Hazeltine waylaid Aunt
Zelie as she came downstairs ready for a walk.
"Dear me! the children have been in mischief," was this lady's inward
exclamation, for she knew the signs of disapproval, and felt like
running away, as she used to do when a child, from Sister Marcia's
lectures.
She only sat down on the bottom step, however, and waited.
"How do you do, Zelie? I see you are going out and I shall not detain
you for more than a minute. Little Helen is coming to drive with me."
She seated herself in a judicial attitude on one of the high-backed
hall chairs.
"I do not wish to interfere," she continued, "But I should like to
inquire if you know where the children are this afternoon?"
"I have a general idea," Aunt Zelie replied, slowly putting on her
glove and reflecting that it would take more than her sister's powers
to be able to say at any given moment exactly where they were.
"I thought you did not know. They are running through the streets,
Louise without her hat. It may do for boys, but for little girls I
think it disgraceful."
"I told them they might go to the Ford's; they do not play in the
street. You must have seen them when they were on their way there, and
I do not object to their running."
Mrs. Hazeltine shook her head. "How can you think it proper for Bess
and Louise to race with the boys in that fashion? You seem to be
conscientious, yet you do not restrain them in the least."
"I own I do not know how to make a difference between girls and boys.
Why are they born into the same families if they are not meant to play
together? And if they are to be strong and healthy they must be out of
doors. I am sorry to seem to set my judgment up against yours, but--"
"You are stubborn, Zelie, like all the Hazeltines. _I_ believe in
fresh air as much as you do, but I should send Bess and Louise to walk
with Joanna. However, I see it is of no use to talk to you. I should
never mention the subject at all if I did not feel a deep interest in
the children." Mrs. Hazeltine rose. "Here comes Helen," she said, "so
I'll not detain you any longer," and taking her little niece by the
hand she sailed away.
Meanwhile the culprits were taking breath on the grass in the Fords'
back yard, Ikey hospitably treating his guests to apples and salt.
"I suppose," Bess began, taking a bite of her apple, "that it is
rather mean to run away from Helen, but we have been very good to her
to-day, haven't we, Louise?"
"Yes, we have; and the more you do for her the more she thinks you
ought to do."
"She can't expect to go everywhere we go," said Carl decidedly.
The business on hand this afternoon was nothing more or less than the
erection of a telephone which had been constructed by the boys out of
fruit cans and pieces of old kid gloves. The main difficulty lay in
getting their line across the street, for it was to communicate
between Ikey's room and the star chamber. An attempt had been made
once before, but the result was such a mortifying failure that their
energy and interest flagged for a while.
The trees caused most of the trouble. Their line first caught in one
of these at such a distance from the pavement that while they were
absorbed in getting it off a gentleman who happened to be passing had
his hat suddenly removed. This accident convulsed everybody but Bess,
who in great embarrassment tried to explain that it was not intended
for a practical joke. Finally it was caught and broken by the angry
driver of a market wagon. Carl, who disliked to give anything up, had
ever since been trying to think of a plan.
"There must be some way," he said as he lay on his back looking up at
the sky.
"I know!" cried Bess, seized with an inspiration; "clothes-props!"
"What about them?" asked Ikey doubtfully.
"It isn't Monday, and any way we can get ours.--Mandy will let us have
them," Bess said reassuringly, and then she unfolded her plan.
"Isn't she clever?" exclaimed Louise admiringly.
"We'll try it, it may work," said Carl, with masculine condescension.
"What in the world can those children be doing?" somebody wondered as
she looked through the half-closed blinds of one of the Brown house
windows a few minutes later.
Mounted on a chair near the Fords' front fence stood Bess holding
aloft a clothes-prop, and looking like a small copy of "Liberty
Enlightening the World." Through a groove in the top of the pole ran
the line, one end of which was safely fastened in Ikey's window.
Louise had the rest of it in charge and slowly dealt it out as she
crossed the street in front of Carl, who by means of another pole kept
it elevated beyond all harm. Once over the street it was easily
attached to a cord hanging from the star chamber, then slowly and
cautiously Ikey pulled it up. Several times it caught in the trees,
but a careful jerk sent it free, and at last it was safe.
"Three cheers for Bess! It was her plan," called Ikey from above.
"It really worked very well," Carl acknowledged.
"I knew all the time it would," added Louise, as they went inside to
finish their work.
The watcher in the Brown house window returned reluctantly to the book
she had been reading, as though she found the bit of real life more
entertaining.
When all was done it was pronounced a success. Even though you could
not hear so very distinctly, at least the bells fastened at each end
tinkled most realistically when the line was pulled.
As they came out of the side door at the Fords' after inspecting
Ikey's end of the telephone, Louise catching sight of a ball which lay
on the grass made a spring for it. The others rushed after her, there
was a scramble that would have shocked Aunt Marcia beyond expression,
and Carl getting possession tossed it with all his might--he did not
stop to think where. Alas! it went over into the next yard and a crash
of broken glass told the tale. They looked at each other in
consternation, and Ikey ran and peeped through the fence.
"You have broken one of the Brown house windows," he reported.
"It wasn't all his fault, it was partly mine," said Louise, who always
stood by her friends in trouble.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Bess. "Just when we were going to be so good! What
will Aunt Zelie say?"
"I'll have to go and tell them I did it, and that I'll have the glass
put in," said Carl.
Louise at once volunteered to go with him, and Bess suggested, "Let's
all go."
Ikey did not like the plan exactly, but he would not have objected for
the world. Louise tossed back her long braids and put on her hat, and
the solemn little party started out.
"Whom shall I ask for?" Carl suddenly demanded, as they marched up
the newly reddened walk.
"Dear me! We don't know the name," gasped Bess, feeling inclined to
turn and run.
"Never mind, just ask for the lady of the house," said Louise, her
courage rising to the occasion. "It sounds beggarish, but you can't
help it."
Bess and Ikey retreated a little when the door was opened by a woman
who asked somewhat gruffly what they wanted.
Carl hesitated, so Louise in her politest manner inquired for the lady
of the house.
"What do you want with her?" said the woman, eying them sharply.
"We want to _see_ her," was the emphatic reply.
"Well, you can't, then," and the door would have been shut in their
faces if a voice from inside had not called "Mary!"
She disappeared for a moment, then returning asked them in.
Bess held Ikey's hand tightly as they followed the others along the
hall. To think of being inside the Brown house!
Before they had time to consider what they were to do or say, they
found themselves in a quaint room with dim old portraits on the wall;
but all the children saw was a lady with white hair and bright eyes,
seated in an invalid's chair by the window. As Louise advanced
timidly, followed by the others, this lady held out her hand, saying:
"You wish to speak to me, Mary says; I am very glad to see you."
They all felt reassured by her pleasant tone, and Louise found her
voice.
"We came to tell you that, while we were playing, Carl threw his ball
and broke your window. It was partly my fault too, and we thought we
would all come and tell you."
"I am very sorry about it, and I will have a new pane put in," Carl
added.
"I am sure it was an accident," said the lady, smiling; "you must not
feel badly. I shall be glad of it if it helps me to make the
acquaintance of some of my new neighbors. Won't you tell me your
names?"
Louise's dimples at once began to show themselves, for she was always
ready to make friends, and she gave her plump little hand, saying:
"I am Louise Hazeltine, and this is my brother Carl and my sister
Bess, and Ikey Ford who lives next door."
"We are much obliged to you for not minding about the window," Bess
added, forgetting her shyness.
"Won't you sit down and talk to me for a while? I am Miss Brown."
The children smiled at each other. "We have always called this the
Brown house," Carl explained.
"Then you won't have to change. It is much simpler than if I had
happened to be named Green or Black, isn't it?" said their new friend,
laughing. "And now I am sure you can't guess what I call _your_
house."
Of course they couldn't, so she told them that she had named it the
house with the Big Front Door.
This amused them very much, and Louise asked, "How did you know we
lived there?"
"Oh, I have seen you going in and out. I can't move about easily, so
when I grow tired of reading or sewing I look out of the window."
It was astonishing how much at home they felt. Bess and Louise sat
together in a big chair chattering away as if they had known Miss
Brown all their lives. When she asked about the telephone, even Ikey
had a word to say as they grew merry over the story of their
difficulties.
As they were leaving, Bess said demurely, "Miss Brown, I think we
ought to tell you that we have been playing in your garden. We didn't
mean to do any harm, but Aunt Zelie says it wasn't respecting other
people's property."
"My dear children, I wish you would come often and play in my garden,"
was the hospitable reply.
"I am afraid your Mary wouldn't like it," said Louise; adding quickly,
"and we'd rather come inside now and see you."
"Thank you, I hope you will come, and you must excuse poor Mary; she
is not so ill-natured as she seems."
"Aunt Zelie," said Carl that evening as they were relating the day's
adventures, "Miss Brown is tiptop, she wasn't a bit mad. There is
something about her like you."
"Why, Carl! Her hair is white, and she is not nearly so pretty," cried
Louise.
"Well, goosie, I didn't say she looked like her, did I?"
"She is very nice at any rate, and has lots of things to show us some
time--things she had when she was a little girl. We may go to see her
again, mayn't we, Auntie?" Bess asked.
"Do you think she would like me to go to see her?" Helen inquired.
"Probably she wouldn't mind; we will take you sometime," Louise
replied graciously.
Helen had returned from her drive in a happy frame of mind, for Aunt
Marcia had bought her a charming little card-case, and had ordered
some engraved cards to go in it. Her sisters admired it as much as its
proud owner could desire, and were quite attentive all the evening.
"Mary," said Miss Brown that night, "those are nice children; and just
think! I already know _four_ of my neighbors!"
CHAPTER IV.
DORA.
One afternoon, when the interest in the Brown house was still at its
height, and before the children had made the acquaintance of their new
neighbor, a little girl came slowly up the street carrying a
sun-umbrella.
A hush had fallen upon the neighborhood; nobody was to be seen, and
the only sound not made by the birds and insects was the far-away
click and whirr of a lawn-mower.
She had had a long walk and was tired; a carriage-block under the
maple trees offered a pleasant resting place, so, closing her
umbrella, she sat down. She had a pair of frank gray eyes and a smile
that made you feel at once that she was a cheery little person,
accustomed to make the best of things.
"How still it is!" she said to herself. "I wonder if some wicked fairy
has put everybody to sleep? I wish I might go into their houses and
break the spell. And here comes an enchanted prince," she continued,
laughing at the fancy, as a large black cat came across the street in
a leisurely, sleepy way.
The gray eyes seemed to inspire his confidence, for the victim of
enchantment stopped to rub against her dress.
"Pretty old kitty, you are somebody's pet," she said, softly touching
the glossy head.
He could have told her that some one in the neighborhood was awake. In
fact, two individuals had invaded the shady spot where he was taking
his nap, and persisted in tickling his ears with grass till he was
obliged to leave. He did not mention this, however, only arched his
back and purred a little, and then, as if he suddenly remembered
important business, trotted off through the bars of the gate and up
the walk leading to a large house. The observer on the carriage-block
thought it the most attractive house she had ever seen. Everything
about it told of pleasant times: the tennis net, the hammock under the
trees, the broad piazza, and, most of all, the wide front door which
seemed to invite her to come in and see what sort of people lived
behind it. "I wonder who lives here. I wish I knew. I believe I'll
follow the cat and find out," she thought merrily.
At this moment the door opened and two little girls appeared, all in a
flutter of dainty blue ruffles. Each carried a cushion, and one had
what looked like an atlas under her arm.
"Shall we sit on the porch, Bess?" asked the one with yellow hair.
"Oh, no, Louise, don't you think it will be pleasanter under the
chestnut tree?" the brown-haired maiden said; and then they came
across the grass and settled themselves under the horse-chestnut, the
branches of which met those of the maple tree that cast its shade over
the carriage-block. They were quite unconscious of the wistful eyes
that watched them as they bent over the atlas, from which Louise took
some large sheets of paper.
"How pretty they are! I wish I knew them," the owner of the eyes said
to herself. Then, feeling rather shy in the presence of these charming
little persons who might look around presently and wonder what she was
doing there, she rose and took up her umbrella.
She couldn't help lingering a little, for she wanted very much to know
what they were going to do. Standing where she was shielded front
their view by a bush that grew in the fence corner, this is what she
heard:
"We haven't played the Carletons for ever so long; do begin," urged
Louise.
"I think Lucy ought to be married," said Bess; "she is eighteen, you
know, and I suppose people are generally married when they are so old
as that. Then a wedding will be such fun!"
"Yes, indeed, and she has been engaged to Edwin Graves a long time."
"Well, her father and mother have at last consented, though they
wanted her to marry an English earl, who was madly in love with her."
"I am glad I finished the new house in time," said Louise, holding up
a drawing which represented the interior of a lofty mansion. "But go
on about the earl."
"She met him at the queen's palace, where all the English young ladies
were in love with him, but he thought Lucy the most beautiful of all.
She did not care for him, though, because she loved Edwin and had
promised to marry him. Even though he hadn't so much money, she said
she would rather marry a free-born American than any haughty earl."
"That is very interesting," said Louise, admiring the patriotic
sentiment, "but do you suppose if she didn't marry Edwin he would die
of a broken heart?"
"But she is going to marry him," said Bess, refusing to consider the
question.
"And now we will skip the getting ready part and have the wedding. It
is a beautiful cloudless night in June, and there are roses
everywhere; the house is filled with them."
"I'll put them in while you are telling it," suggested the artist.
Bess assented to this and continued, "Lucy is dressed now, and she is
the most beautiful bride anyone ever saw."
"Do you remember Aunt Zelie's wedding?" asked Louise. "Cousin Helen
says she was the prettiest bride she ever saw."
"Not very well. I don't remember how she looked, but I think she is
the most beautiful person in the world now."
"Oh, yes, so do I!"
The wedding then went on without interruption for a while.
"Lucy is tall and stately, her eyes are blue as the sky, and her hair
is long and golden. She speaks very softly, and has the sweetest
smile, and she walks like a queen. Her dress is white silk and
beautiful lace, with a long, long train, and she wears diamonds and
carries a bunch of roses."
"Now tell about Edwin Graves, Bess."
"Men are a great deal harder to do," said the story-teller with a
sigh.
"Let me, then, for I know exactly how he looks," and, clasping her
hands around her knees and gazing upwards, Louise began: "He is very
tall and grand-looking, his eyes are black, and his voice is very
deep."
At this interesting point Bess exclaimed, "Louise, here comes Uncle
William, and I know he is going to take us driving!"
The listener, who had forgotten everything but the story, came to
herself with a start. "How dreadful of me!" she said, walking away
very rapidly, while the story-tellers ran out of the gate to greet a
tall gentleman who had just driven up.
"I suppose they are sisters," she thought, looking back once more
before she turned the corner.
"How nice it must be to live in a house like that. _Bess_ and
_Louise_; I wonder what their last name is."
Louise was busy with her drawing one morning, comfortably established
in a shady corner of the porch, when her aunt called to her:
"I wish you would keep an eye on Carie while Joanna goes on an errand
for me."
"I will, Aunt Zelie," she responded promptly.
It was not likely her charge would give her much trouble, for Carie
was quite capable of entertaining herself, and was at that moment
promenading back and forth with an old parasol over her head,
pretending she was going to market.
"Don't go on the grass, baby; it is wet," cautioned Louise, by way of
showing her authority, and then returned to the new mansion for the
Carletons upon which she was working. She soon became so absorbed in
this that she forget to look up now and then.
Meanwhile Carie talked busily to herself, gesticulating with one small
forefinger. But after a little she grew tired of filling her basket
with grass and leaves, and stood peeping out through the bars of the
gate. How much more fun it would be to go to the real market where she
had often been with Joanna! She knew perfectly well that she was not
allowed outside by herself, but that did not make it seem any less
attractive. With a cautious glance over her shoulder she softly
pulled the gate open, and in a moment more was flying up the street.
When she reached the corner she turned to the right and slackened her
pace, feeling very important and grown up as she bobbed merrily along
under her parasol.
"Where are you going, little one?" asked a man who passed her.
She gave him a roguish glance as she answered, "To martet."
At the next corner she turned again to the right, safely crossing the
street, but here everything was unfamiliar and she began to feel
timid. Then she suddenly saw a very large dog coming toward her. He
was so large she thought he must be a bear, and, with a frightened
scream, she turned to run, but tripped over her parasol, and fell, a
forlorn little heap, on the sidewalk.
"What is the matter? Are you hurt? You mustn't be afraid of the dog;
he is good, and doesn't bite."
These reassuring words were spoken by a girl of eleven or twelve, who
helped her up and brushed off her dress.
"What a darling you are!" she added, as Carie lifted her big blue
eyes, all swimming in tears, saying, "I fought it was a bear."
"No, indeed; he is only a nice old dog who lives next door to me, so I
know all about him. Now tell me where you are going all alone?"
"I runned away," was the honest answer, "and I dess you better take
me home," she added, looking up confidingly into the pleasant face.
"Then you must tell me what your name is and where you live."
Carie could tell her name, but to the other question could only
answer, "Over there," pointing in the wrong direction with great
assurance. Her companion was puzzled; she felt certain some one was
alarmed at the disappearance of this dainty little midget.
"I'll ask Mrs. West if she knows anybody near here named Hazeltine,"
she said. "Come in and sit on the doorstep till I find out something
about you."
She was back in a moment. "I think I know now, you dear little thing!
It must be that lovely house I saw the other day."
For some minutes after Carie's flight Louise worked on, then
remembering her charge she discovered her absence. She ran to the gate
and looked up and down the street, she searched the garden and the
house, and finally burst in upon Aunt Zelie crying:
"I have lost her! I have lost her!"
The news spread in a moment; nothing else could be thought of till the
lost darling was found.
Carl ran in one direction, Sukey in another, and Bess flew over to ask
if by any chance Miss Brown had seen the runaway. Louise stood on the
porch, the picture of misery.
[Illustration: "A GIRL OF ELEVEN OR TWELVE HELPED HER UP AND
BRUSHED OFF HER CLOTHES."]
"You will never trust me again, _never_" she sobbed as her aunt came
out and stood beside her, looking anxiously up and down.
"I am sure you won't be so careless another time," Aunt Zelie said,
pitying her distress.
At this moment who should turn the corner but the small cause of all
the excitement, chatting away to her new friend, quite unconscious
that she was giving anybody any trouble!
"Why, Carie Hazeltine, where have you been?" cried Louise, drying her
eyes and running to meet her.
"I found her on Chestnut street--a dog had frightened her," her
companion explained, reluctantly releasing the plump hand she held.
"You are a naughty girl," said her sister, taking possession of her.
"You might have been run over, or something dreadful."
"I didn't det run over," Carie insisted indignantly.
"Well, say good-by, and 'thank you for taking care of me.' We are all
very much obliged to you," Louise added, turning to the stranger.
Carie held up her mouth for a kiss, and then allowed herself to be led
away.
"At any rate I know their name is Hazeltine," said Carie's friend to
herself.
The culprit was soon in a fair way to think she had done something
very funny and interesting, people made such a fuss over her, so Aunt
Zelie carried her off to be solemnly reproved.
"I suppose you are going to the party to-morrow, aren't you?" asked
Elsie Morris, a neighbor and friend, who had been helping in the
search.
"Of course," answered Bess. "I am glad you came home in time, Elsie;
Aleck is going to stay in and go with us."
"There are to be fireworks and lanterns and all sorts of things,"
observed Aleck, who lay at his ease in the hammock.
"Yes, I know," said Elsie, "and everybody is to have a--I don't know
what you call it--something to remember the party by. Annie May told
me herself."
"How nice! It will be almost like Christmas," said Louise.
"Not like one of Uncle William's parties, though," put in Carl.
"School begins next week, and three months of pegging before
Christmas," groaned Aleck.
"Come on, then; let's make the most of the time we have," Carl urged
energetically.
It was the afternoon of the next day, and Louise stood before the
mirror critically viewing her sash.
"Why, Joanna! You have made Bess's bows ever so much longer than
mine."
"I can't see what difference that makes," was the rather sharp reply,
for the September day was warm and the task of dressing three restless
young ladies for a party was not conducive to coolness.
"It makes a great deal of difference to us, for we wish to look
exactly alike," said Louise loftily. "And if you are going to do a
thing at all, you ought to do it well; Father says so."
"Dear me! Here comes Ikey, and we are not ready," exclaimed Bess, who
stood at the window.
"You might be if you weren't so particular. I never saw the beat of
your equal," and Joanna whisked Helen's dress over her head.
"The _beat_ of your _equal_," Bess repeated. "What does that mean,
Jo?"
"My patience!" was the only reply to be had from this much-enduring
maid.
"Joanna is cross; I'll get Aunt Zelie to tie my sash," said Louise,
running off, followed by Bess.
Their aunt was in the lower hall with Ikey, who was looking dignified,
if not a trifle stiff, in a new standing collar. Louise decided that
he needed a rose in his buttonhole, and danced away to get one when
her sash had been arranged to her satisfaction.
Though there was more than a year's difference in their ages, Bess and
Louise were exactly the same height, and were sometimes taken for
twins. This delighted them beyond measure, and to help the impression
they wished to be dressed alike, down to the smallest detail.
Though Bess's hair curled prettily she insisted on wearing it in two
braids, because that was the only comfortable fashion in which her
sister's heavy locks could be arranged. Aunt Zelie laughed at them,
but let them have their way.
Carl and Aleck were the last to appear, which Bess thought was very
strange, considering they had no sashes to be tied, or hair to be
curled or braided.
"Now trot along and have the best kind of a time," said Aunt Zelie
after she had inspected them, and given some finishing touches to
their cravats; "I am proud of my girls and boys."
They were a merry party as they started out, waving their good-bys,
Ikey feeling particularly proud to be counted one of her boys. He only
half wanted to go, for, though sociably inclined, he was bashful, but
the girls had promised not to desert him.
Carl affected to hold parties in disdain. "They never do anything
worth while; who cares for 'drop the handkerchief' or dancing?"
When Louise mischievously suggested that he must be going for the
supper, he strolled ahead with an air of lofty scorn.
The occasion was a birthday party, an outdoor affair, and the large
yard was hung with Japanese lanterns ready to light when the sun went
down. As the children came flocking in with their bright faces and gay
ribbons, it was a pretty scene.
There were swings and all sorts of games, and soon everybody was busy
having a good time. Even Carl forgot that he did not like parties. But
there was one person who seemed to be left out of the fun. Stopping to
rest after some lively game, Bess noticed a girl sitting on a bench
all by herself. She looked lonely, and Bess felt sorry for her.
"I think I ought to go and speak to her; won't you go with me, Elsie?"
she asked.
"No; I'd rather not. I think she is funny-looking."
"But I am afraid she does not know anybody."
"Well, it is not our party; why doesn't Annie May take care of her?"
And Elsie smoothed her pink ribbons complacently.
Bess was shy, and thought she could not go by herself to speak to a
stranger. "I'll wait till I see Louise," she said.
"Who is that girl?" some one asked the little hostess.
"Her name is Dora Warner," was the reply. "Mamma knows her mother.
They haven't lived here long. I have tried to introduce her, but
nobody wants to talk to her, and she doesn't know a single game. I
wish Mamma would come and take care of her."
The stranger sat alone looking on at the merry scene. She felt timid
and unhappy, and had to wink very hard now and then to get rid of a
troublesome mist that found its way to her eyes.
"I am silly I know; I ought not to expect to get acquainted all at
once," she said to herself bravely.
If it had not been for the loneliness she might have enjoyed the fun
going on around her, even though she had no part in it. Such dainty
dresses, such laughing and dancing about, such airs and graces, she
had never before seen! She recognized the charming little girls who
had so taken her fancy a week or two before--sisters, she felt sure,
of that dear little Carie.
"Oh, dear!" she said at last; "I can't help wishing I had not come!"
Not thinking what she was doing, Dora took up a croquet mallet which
had been left on the bench, and began slowly to screw it into the
ground. Just then a boy rushed by hotly chased by another. The one in
pursuit tripped on the mallet and fell headlong on the grass.
"Are you hurt? I am so sorry; I did not mean to do it!" she exclaimed
in dismay.
"No, I am not hurt," he replied, sitting up and rubbing the stains off
his hands with his handkerchief. "How did you come to do it anyhow?"
and he gave her a glimpse of a pair of merry brown eyes, and then went
on polishing his hands.
"I don't know," she answered.
"If it had not been for you I could have caught Aleck."
"I am so sorry," Dora said again, in such a mournful tone that the boy
laughed.
"You needn't think I care! Aleck knows I can catch him. Do you like to
run?"
"I haven't tried it very often lately. I think you could catch me,"
she answered.
"I probably could; as a general thing girls aren't much on running,
but you should see Louise!"
"Who is she?" asked Dora.
"She is my sister; I thought everybody knew Louise."
"I don't know any one," was the reply in a mournful tone.
"Don't you really?" Carl asked, sitting up very straight; "and is that
the reason you are over here by yourself?"
"I know Annie a little, but you see I haven't lived here since I was a
baby. We have been travelling about a good deal, so I haven't had a
chance to know many people. Mamma wanted me to come this afternoon."
There was something exceedingly pleasant in her straightforward
manner.
"I don't care much for parties myself," said Carl, "but if you want to
get acquainted you must not stick in a corner."
"What must I do?" Dora asked, smiling.
"Well, to begin with, you make friends with somebody who knows
somebody else, and so on. It is very easy."
"Then I have begun with you, though I do not know your name."
"Very well, here goes! My name is Carl Hazeltine, the girl over by the
oak tree is my sister Louise, the boy with her is Isaac Ford--the one
who is laughing I mean; next to him is Elsie Morris, and that fellow
coming this way is Aleck Hazeltine, my cousin, and--"
Dora put out her hand appealingly. "I can't possibly remember so many,
and I haven't told you my name. It is Dora Warner."
"We used to have a cat named Dora," Carl remarked gravely, taking a
small round glass from his pocket and composedly surveying his
necktie, "a nice, white, meek little pussy cat."
"I had a dog once, when we were in London, named Carl--o. He was a
curly dog and ever so vain when we tied a ribbon on his collar," was
the prompt response. Then they both laughed merrily, and Carl asked
with friendly interest, "Were you really in London!"
"Yes, we were there last winter."
"Wasn't it great fun?"
"No, for papa was ill, and mamma always with him, so I was lonely."
Something in Dora's tone made Carl notice that her sash was black.
"So I suppose her father is dead," he thought, but could think of
nothing to say, and jumping up suddenly was off like a flash.
Dora thought her new acquaintance a funny one, but his friendly manner
had made her feel cheerful again.
She saw him coming back presently, accompanied by a little girl with
soft dark eyes and a sweet face which she recognized at once.
"This is my sister Bess," he announced.
Bess sat down beside her, saying gravely, "Carl says you don't know
anyone. Wouldn't you like to come and play with us? We are going to
begin a new game."
Dora was quite ready. "Only I am afraid I shall not know how," she
said.
"That won't make the least difference, for we haven't any of us played
it before. It is very easy--just throwing bean-bags," and, taking her
hand in a friendly clasp, Bess led her toward a gay group that was all
in an uproar over some of Aleck's nonsense.
"Here comes that odd-looking girl," whispered Elsie to Helen. "Just
see what a plain dress she has on!"
"Why, you are the girl who brought our Carie home yesterday, aren't
you?" cried Louise, as Bess introduced Dora.
"Are you really? She has been talking about you all day. Carl, it was
Dora who found Carie," Bess exclaimed delightedly.
From this moment the charmed circle was open to her. Dora could hardly
believe she was not dreaming. To be taken into the midst of all the
fun under the protection of her new friends--to find herself suddenly
popular! What could have seemed more incredible half an hour before?
Louise, who was a born leader, and whose bright face and sunny temper
made her a general favorite, took her in charge, and Dora entered so
heartily into the game, laughing so merrily at her mistakes, that her
companions begun at once to like her.
"Come, Elsie, aren't you going to play?" asked Bess.
"I don't know how," was her reply, in a fretful tone.
"It is perfectly easy," said one of the others.
"Never mind; she doesn't know beans," laughed Aleck, tossing a bag to
Dora.
"I know you are very rude," pouted Elsie.
"Do play," urged Dora, running to her. "I will show you exactly how,"
and half reluctantly she yielded, for she really wanted to play.
Before they were through the game, supper interrupted, and gave them
something else to think about.
Mrs. May, remembering the stranger and coming to look for her,
concluded that she was quite able to take care of herself, for she
seemed to be having an extremely good time.
A good time truly it was, Dora thought, as she sat among her new
friends.
"I am so glad we are acquainted with you," Louise said.
"I am sure I am glad," she answered, "and I do hope I shall see Carie
again sometime. There is one thing I must tell you," she continued.
"The other day I walked by your house, and I was so tired I sat down
on your carriage-block to rest. It was very quiet, and nobody was in
sight, and I was sitting there thinking how very big your front door
was--"
"How did you know it was our house?" asked Bess.
"I didn't then, but presently the door opened and you two came out.
You had on blue dresses, and Louise had a book, and you came and sat
under a tree not very far from me."
"Why, we didn't see you!"
"I know you did not, and, of course, I ought to have gone away,
but"--here Dora's face flushed--"I couldn't help hearing the beginning
of your story, and then I forget what I was doing--it was dreadful; I
want you to know about it--I listened to all you said."
"How funny! And we did not see you! Why, Dora, we don't care a bit, do
we, Bess?"
"I am very glad if you don't. I was so ashamed of myself. I hoped some
day I should know you, but I did not think it would happen so soon,"
and Dora heaved a sigh of relief.
"But isn't it funny that you should have found Carie?" said Bess.
"And then have tripped me up," added Carl, joining them. "It is really
as curious as our getting acquainted with Miss Brown."
"Who is Miss Brown?" asked Elsie.
"She is a person who has lately moved into Nottingham castle," he
replied gravely.
"Robin Hood broke one of her windows," added Aleck.
"What does he mean? I don't understand it at all," fretted Elsie, who
was so easily teased the boys could never resist the temptation.
"Carl is talking nonsense. I will tell you about her sometime," said
Bess.
"Good-by, Dora," said Louise when the happy evening was over and they
were starting home. "I think we ought to be friends because you found
Carie; don't you, Bess?"
Bess certainly thought so, for she had taken a desperate fancy to this
new acquaintance.
"You must come to see me; Helen and all of you," Dora said cordially.
"Mamma, I have had a beautiful time, I am glad I went," she exclaimed,
standing beside her mother's couch a few minutes later. "Does your
head ache? Then I'll wait till to-morrow to tell you about it;" and
she went to bed to dream pleasant dreams.
CHAPTER V.
UNCLE WILLIAM.
When the children reached home that evening they found Aunt Marcia and
Uncle William in the library.
Carie, too, was there, bent on an investigation of her uncle's pocket,
from which she had just brought to light in triumph a chocolate mouse.
"Now, baby dear, you must go to bed, mammy is waiting for you," said
Aunt Zelie.
"Let me find one uzzer one," pleaded Carie, depositing her prize on
her uncle's knee, and continuing the search.
"Of course you have had a 'perfectly lovely' time," said Uncle William
as the party-goers entered.
"Indeed we have," answered Louise, establishing herself on an arm of
her father's chair. "And we've found the nicest girl," she added.
"I found her," said Carl.
"She is the girl who brought Carie home yesterday, and we like her
very much," explained Bess.
"Annie May hasn't any politeness; she didn't introduce her to more
than one or two people. Think of being at a big party like that and
not knowing anyone!"
"That is not a proper way in which to speak of your hostess, my son,"
said Mr. Hazeltine.
"How did you happen to get acquainted with her?" asked Aunt Zelie,
smiling at Carl's vehemence.
"Auntie, it was the funniest thing you ever heard of!" Louise
exclaimed. "She tripped him up with a croquet mallet!"
"She must have been desperate," remarked her father, pulling one of
the long braids that hung over her shoulder.
"She did not mean to do it--it was when I was running after Aleck--and
she was very sorry. Then I found she didn't know anybody, so I went
for Bess, and she had a good time after that," Carl explained briefly.
"She has lived in London, and different places abroad," Bess added.
"May we go to see her, auntie? We told her we would if you'd let us."
"Louise, you should never promise to visit people till you know
something about them," said Aunt Marcia reprovingly.
"Her name is Dora Warner, and she boards with her mother at Mrs.
West's on Chestnut street, and her father is dead. I think we know a
good deal about her, Aunt Marcia," Bess said demurely.
"I am going to see her, and take her a chocolate mouse," Carie
suddenly announced, having been a silent listener while she captured a
handful of mice.
"I want to know what it is you like so much about your new friend,"
said Uncle William.
"What do you think of her, Helen?" his wife asked of the little girl,
sitting so quietly beside her.
"Oh, I like her, Aunt Marcia, ever so much. She asked _me_ to come to
see her, and she is older than Bess."
"There is no nonsense about her," said Carl.
"I think it is hard to tell why you like people." Bess twisted her
handkerchief meditatively. "She isn't exactly pretty, but she is
pleasant and polite--"
"Yes, and she is ready to do anything, and doesn't think about her
clothes," Carl interposed.
"Boys think about their clothes as well as girls," said Louise. "I
know lots of girls who don't think about their clothes."
"So do I--some who have no regard whatever for them," said Aunt Zelie,
laughing.
"Do you know I like the description they give of Dora," remarked Mr.
William Hazeltine, after the children had left the room.
"I never knew Carl to be so warm in the praise of a new acquaintance,"
said his brother. "You will have to let them go to see her, Zelie."
"Pray, do not be rash; find out who they are first," begged Mrs.
Hazeltine.
"I can't help thinking," said her husband, "that this little girl may
be the daughter of my old friend Dick Warner; you remember him, Frank?
He died about a year ago, somewhere abroad. As bright and
sweet-tempered a fellow as ever lived! I must look into it."
Uncle William usually had his own way about things, for the reason
that no other way was so pleasant. No one could resist his bright face
and cordial manner. He carried around with him an atmosphere of such
hearty goodwill that it was next to impossible to be cross or gloomy
in his presence. People sometimes wondered how he happened to marry
Mrs. Hazeltine, but the reason was plain enough to him. He regarded
her with the greatest admiration, feeling that a harum-scarum fellow
like himself was most fortunate in having such a wife to keep him
straight. He was very proud and fond of her, and quite blind to what
others called her managing propensities. Sometimes, indeed, he
wondered how she could be so severe in her judgment of the children,
but then someone must be firm. And though she was often annoyed by his
friendliness with all sorts of odd people, and wished William would
draw the line somewhere, she always ended by saying leniently that he
would never be anything but a boy.
He had a warm love for children. No matter how ragged and forlorn they
might be, they interested him. The newsboys and bootblacks felt that
he was their friend, and many were the treats they received at his
hand. By his young relatives and their many friends he was looked upon
as a sort of every-day Santa Claus. One of his peculiarities was a
love for surprising people. He sent mysterious parcels, left candy
about in unexpected places, or took the children out for a walk, and
then whisked them off on some delightful excursion.
Promptness was another of Uncle William's good qualities. Having
determined to make inquiries about his old friend, he did it at once,
and so it happened that Dora and her mother were called down to the
parlor one day to see a tall gentleman with kindly dark eyes and
iron-gray hair, who won them at once by his simple, cordial manner.
Mrs. Warner was a thoroughly saddened woman since the death of her
husband, but even she could not resist his friendliness, and Dora was
altogether captivated.
The children were surprised and delighted when they heard that their
uncle had been to see the Warners, and that Dora was really the
daughter of his old friend.
"So of course we _ought_ to be friends with her," Bess remarked, as
though it was a solemn duty rather than a pleasure.
Aunt Zelie allowed them to go to see her at once, and invite her to
spend the next day with them.
"Don't things happen beautifully, Mamma?" Dora said gayly, as she
dressed that morning. "To think that I really know Bess and Louise,
and am going to see them!"
Her mother smiled sadly; she was glad her daughter had found such
pleasant friends, for she knew that their quiet life was making her
old for her years.
So Dora, in a flutter of delight, found herself following in the
footsteps of the black cat, up the walk leading to the Big Front Door.
And there on the porch, stretched at his ease, was that gentleman
himself, apparently waiting for her, for he rose to meet her, and
arched his back, and purred with great friendliness.
Then the door opened and she was inside, but before she could look
around her, three little girls came flying down the stairs and laid
violent hands upon her. Talking very fast, and quite breathless with
laughing, they took her up to the dainty room--all blue and
white--which Bess and Louise called theirs, where she took off her
hat. Next she had to be presented to Aunt Zelie, from whom she
received a welcome which made her feel at home from that minute. And
then to the star chamber, where they found Carl, who was very glad
indeed to see Dora again. One morning was really too short for all
there was to be said and seen.
Dora was interested in everything: stamp albums, photographs, dolls,
and most of all in the story books.
"You must take 'The Adventures of Robin Hood' home with you," Carl
insisted when he found she had not read it, and then the others began
to press their favorites upon her until she was quite overwhelmed.
She must look over at the Brown house garden, and hear about their new
neighbor, and about Ikey Ford, and how tiresome his grandmother was.
These confidences were interrupted by Carie, who walked in, eager to
see the girl who had found her, and other attractions faded before the
delight of holding this dainty bit of humanity on her lap. Nothing
could be so charming, Dora thought, as she kissed the rosy cheeks and
soft hair, and listened to her funny chatter; for Carie, who was not
given to showing favors indiscriminately, treated her with unusual
graciousness, bestowing chocolate mice with a lavish hand.
"You ought to be the best children in the world, for you have
everything," Dora said as they went down to lunch.
"Oh, we are!" modestly replied Carl.
When this was over she was taken into a large room full of books and
beautiful things, among them two portraits. One of these was of a
white-haired man whose eyes seemed to smile at her as Bess said, "This
is Grandfather;" the other face had something about it so like Bess's
own that her low-toned explanation, "This is Mamma," was not needed.
After all, they had not quite everything.
When Carl went over to see Ikey about something, they seized the
opportunity to play the Carletons, it being a game that the masculine
mind scorned. They sat under the same chestnut tree, and the black cat
joined them, and was formally introduced to Dora as Mr. Smith.
Everything was quiet in the neighborhood, somebody was cutting the
grass not far away, and it really might have been mistaken for that
afternoon two weeks ago, except that the girl who was then on the
carriage-block was now in the garden. To make the resemblance
complete, who should drive up but Uncle William, calling to know if
anybody wanted to go to the country.
The Carletons were promptly consigned to the seclusion of the atlas,
while the romancers ran for their hats.
It was almost dark when Dora was set down at her own door, merry and
rosy.
"Good-by! and do ask your mother to let you go to our school," her
friends called, waving their handkerchiefs as they turned the corner.
That happy day settled it. Dora and the Hazeltines became fast
friends. Everybody liked her, the grown people as well as the
children. Even Aunt Marcia pronounced her a most well-behaved little
girl, and hoped Bess and Louise would profit by her example. Carl
claimed the credit of having discovered her, and Carie always referred
to her as "My Dora."
CHAPTER VI.
THE MAGIC DOOR.
When Miss Brown said of the Big Front Door that it made her cheerful
simply to look at it, she had no idea, nor had anyone else, how much
was going to grow out of it.
First of all was the story Uncle William told one stormy Sunday
evening before the wood fire in the library.
It had been a trying day to the children, with the rain coming
steadily down, their father away, and Aunt Zelie sick with a cold.
Perhaps it was not to be wondered at that by afternoon they had grown
"cantankerous," as Sukey expressed it, and that something very like
quarrelling had gone on in the star chamber.
This was all forgotten when the early tea was over, and they gathered
around the fire with Uncle William in father's arm-chair.
The shadows were dark in the corners of the room, but the soft
wavering light gilded everything within reach, touching Grandfather's
portrait with its gentle magic, till he himself seemed to be standing
there, smiling and about to speak. The young faces turned to Uncle
William were full of quiet content.
"Do you know what Miss Brown has named our house?" Bess asked. "She
calls it the house with the Big Front Door."
"That is a very good name and reminds me of a story."
"Oh, please tell it," they all begged, and so without preface Uncle
William begun:
"Once upon a time a man built a house. He selected the materials with
greatest care, and watched every brick, stone, and beam used in its
construction, that everything might be strong and good. But it was to
the front door that he gave most thought. This was of oak after a
design of his own, and was wide and massive, with hinges of
wrought-iron and a dragon's-head knocker. Some of his neighbors
admired it, others found fault with it, objecting that it was out of
proportion and too large for a dwelling-house. But after a while they
discovered that it was more than an ordinary door. There was some
magic about it; it shed a radiance over the whole neighborhood. People
when they were perplexed would look towards it, and presently their
doubts would fade away. Those who were despondent or sorrowful were
cheered and comforted by the sight of it. In stormy weather it was
like a small neighborhood sun. And no one rejoiced more than its owner
in the strange power of the door, for he had a heart full of love and
goodwill, and he and his children were constantly doing kindnesses to
their neighbors. They were a happy family too among themselves, and
the reason seemed to be because they lived in the radiance of the
magic door.
"At length, to the sorrow of his friends, this good man died. In his
parting instructions to his children he warned them that the door
might sometime lose its power, and if its hinges should ever become
rusty, or its lock hard to turn, he directed them to a certain iron
box where they would find a key which, if used according to the
directions attached, would soon restore it. This made little or no
impression upon them at the time, for, since the oldest of them could
remember, the door had been always the same, and it seemed improbable
that it would ever change. They missed their father sadly, but for a
time continued to live as they had when he was with them. However, as
the months passed, all unconsciously at first they began to neglect
their duties; to forget the acts of neighborly kindness they had once
been so glad to perform; and saddest of all, they fell to quarrelling
among themselves. Then one day they could not open the door, try as
they would. Rust was discovered thick upon its hinges, and while they
were wondering how this could have happened, some one brought word
that complaint was general in the neighborhood that the door had lost
its magic power. The children looked at one another in dismay, till
one remembered the iron box and went in search of it. When it was
found and opened in the midst of the family there was in it simply an
ordinary key with a card tied to it, and on the card were written
these words: 'They helped every one his neighbor.'
"They were for a time at a loss to understand, when one wiser than the
rest spoke: 'Do you not see,' he said, 'that it was the spirit of
helpfulness that made our home happy, and gave our door its strange
power? We have neglected our father's teaching; have been selfish and
unloving, and so are no longer a blessing to ourselves or others.'
"Each felt in his heart that this was true, and with one accord they
made up their quarrels; one went to visit a sick neighbor, another
carried a coat to a poor man and food to his children, and in various
ways they tried to begin over again, and live as their father had
lived. Then happiness returned to their home, the key slipped easily
into the lock, the door opened wide once more, and gradually regained
its old power. So not only were they happy themselves, but they kept
alive the memory of their father, whose name was loved and honored by
all who came within the radiance of the magic door."
There was silence for a few minutes; then Bess asked, "Was Grandfather
the man who built the house?"
Uncle William smiled.
"You must find the moral for yourselves, but I acknowledge that Miss
Brown put the idea into my head."
"And you told it because we were cross this afternoon, I know," said
Louise wisely.
"Suppose Miss Brown could tell when we are bad just by looking at the
door!" Carl suggested, laughing.
"It would be dreadful," said Bess soberly.
"But it isn't true about _our_ door, is it?" Helen asked.
"Of course not, goosie," replied her brother.
"Put it the other way, and suppose that Miss Brown could tell when you
are kind and unselfish, that would not be dreadful," said their uncle.
"And I forgot to say," he added, "that the key in the story is
warranted to work like magic anywhere. It was a favorite text of your
grandfather's. When this house was built I was a little boy, hardly as
old as Helen, but I remember distinctly the first time I went through
it. I was very much delighted, and came running down the steps,
calling, 'Oh, father, what a nice house this is!' and he replied, 'I
am glad you like it, William. It is only a house now, but we are going
to try to make it a home.' I don't think I quite understood what he
meant till long afterwards, though he went on to explain that a home
is a place where love, obedience, and helpfulness grow, and are stored
up as the water is stored in Quarry Hill reservoir, to find its way
out into the world after a while, carrying comfort and cheer.
"Your grandfather did all he could to make this house a real home
while he lived, and now the responsibility rests upon you."
"I truly mean to remember the key, and try to be a helper," said Bess,
finding and marking the text in her own Bible, at Uncle William's
suggestion. "I like that part about the radiance of the magic door,"
she added.
"It is easy enough to talk about it, but it's not so easy to _be_
good," said Carl with emphasis.
"We are not here to do easy things, and, as Bess says, we can all
try," Uncle William replied, "and now we have had a sermon, let us
have some music before I go."
"Let's tell Dora about the magic door; perhaps she would like to
help!" said Louise, as she and Bess went upstairs to bed.
CHAPTER VII.
IKEY'S ACCIDENT.
The days grew shorter and cooler, the leaves began to flutter down,
and each morning, from her sitting-room window, Miss Brown watched the
children start for school.
First the little girls, tossing good-by kisses to Aunt Zelie, ran down
the walk to join Dora or Elsie; then a few minutes later Ikey was at
the gate whistling for Carl. In the five months since Ikey had come to
stay with his grandparents the boys had become almost inseparable.
Dr. Isaac Clinton Ford was a surgeon in the navy, and having been
ordered to the Mediterranean, his wife, whose health was not good,
followed him, with their little daughter, while young Isaac was sent
to his father's old home. Warmly attached to it himself, Dr. Ford
could think of no better place for his son, and old Mr. and Mrs. Ford
felt that it would be almost like having their boy again, from whom
they had had only brief visits for eighteen years.
Unfortunately, neither took into account that young Isaac was totally
unlike the quiet, studious boy his father had been. It was a question
which suffered most during those first weeks, the elderly people
whose lives had moved on like clockwork for so many years, or the
mischievous, fun-loving boy suddenly introduced into their household.
The Fords' was a tall, three-story, stone front house, with everything
about it inside and out in immaculate order. The stone steps and walk
were spotless, the windows shone, and the shades and curtains were
arranged in the most exact manner. The only flowers were three
oleanders in tubs, and these partook of the general tidiness.
It is easy to see that a boy without any deep regard for spotless
stones, who labored under the delusion that windows were made to look
out of, and who did not hesitate to push curtains aside and open
blinds, who whistled when his grandfather was taking his nap, left his
things lying about, and teased the snappish old pug was destined to be
a trial. On the other hand, the change from a free and easy home life,
with a mother as merry-hearted as himself and a father who was more of
a boy at forty than he had been at twelve, to that humdrum routine
would have been trying to wiser people than Ikey.
No wonder the first weeks were full of miserable homesickness. Life
would have been unendurable if the Hazeltines had not discovered him.
Ikey was ready to meet them more than half way, and before long became
their boon companion.
Mrs. Howard, the children's aunt, guessed how matters stood, for she
had lived across the street from the Fords most of her life; so she
went to his grandmother, and asked her to let Ikey play with Carl and
the little girls every day.
Mrs. Ford consented, feeling surprised and gratified; and unwilling to
be lacking in hospitality, she allowed her grandson and his friends
the freedom of the back yard, on condition that they would respect the
front. Before the summer was over she had become so used to the sound
of the children's voices that she no longer found it necessary to go
to the window every five minutes to see what they were doing.
Ikey had a genius for getting hurt. Cuts, bumps, and bruises were
matters of every-day occurrence, and were accepted with a heroism born
of long familiarity. But one morning when he and Carl were on their
way to school he met with an accident which was unusually hard to
bear.
As they were passing a high board fence they heard a great barking and
growling, as if a lot of dogs were tearing one another to pieces.
"What in the world!" exclaimed Carl, trying to find some crack or
knothole.
"You can't see in that way," Ikey cried scornfully, and giving a
spring he grasped the top of the fence and drew himself up to look
over.
Exactly how it happened he could never tell; probably his curiosity
was resented, for before he had time to see anything, some sharp
teeth made themselves felt, and he dropped down groaning, "My nose! My
nose!" Carl was very much alarmed at sight of the blood that streamed
down from his face, but had presence of mind to remember a doctor's
office in the next block.
"Your nose isn't all gone, is it?" he asked anxiously, as he led the
way.
"No, I think there is some of it left," came in muffled tones from the
handkerchief Ikey held to his face.
Fortunately the doctor was in and dressed the wound, pronouncing it
not serious, but advising his patient not to be in such a hurry to
investigate strange dogs another time, or he might lose the whole of
his nose instead of only a slice.
Relieved that it was no worse, and not being in the habit of making a
fuss over his hurts, Ikey decided to go on to school.
Perhaps if he could have looked in the glass he would not have been so
ready, for the yellow plaster did not add to his beauty.
Now all danger was over, Carl could not contain himself, but laughed
and laughed till his friend's feelings were somewhat hurt.
They were late of course, and created a sensation when they entered,
and the suppressed amusement among the boys became an uproar at
recess. It was decidedly trying to be the object of so much school-boy
wit; to hear over and over again: "Ikey, what ails your
nose?"--"Can't you wear it in a sling?"--"Or put a shade over it?"--or
to see on the blackboard lines adapted from Mother Goose:
"It used to be a blackbird, so the story goes,
But now it is a puppy dog that nips off his nose."
He stood it bravely till school was over, but on the way home, at
sight of the girls on the corner he made a sudden dive across the
street.
"Where is Ikey going?" Louise asked, in surprise, of Carl and Aleck.
"He has lost his nose," answered the latter.
"Has he gone to look for it?" laughed Dora.
"Tell us what you mean," said Bess.
With much laughter the boys told the story.
"It is mean of you to make fun. Suppose it was your nose?" and Louise
held on to her own.
"Perhaps it won't turn up any more," suggested Bess.
"I am afraid he won't go to the ball-game; that will be too bad," said
Carl.
They were all going with Uncle William to see a game of foot-ball that
afternoon, and there was only time for a hasty lunch before they
started. Carl ran over to beg Ikey to go in spite of his
disfigurement, but a melancholy voice from the third-story landing
declined so positively that there was nothing left to be said.
From behind the curtains Ikey watched the party start off, and felt
very unhappy at not being with them.
That was a miserable afternoon! His grandmother's exclamations and
questions had only made matters worse, and he took refuge in his room,
declining to eat any lunch.
Before long he succeeded in convincing himself that nobody cared for
him, except, perhaps, his father and mother, who were so far away.
Maybe the others would be sorry when he died of hydrophobia. He had
heard that people often had it when they were bitten by dogs, and it
seemed very probable that this would be his fate.
Absorbed in his misery, he hardly knew how time passed, till some one
knocked at his door. He lay on the couch with his face buried in the
pillows, and thinking it was the housemaid he said, "Come in," without
looking up.
The hand that touched his head, however, was not Katie's, nor the
voice that said, "You poor boy!"
It was Mrs. Howard, or Aunt Zelie as he always called her in his
thoughts.
Overwhelmed with mingled delight and dismay, he could only struggle to
a sitting position, with his handkerchief to his nose and not a word
to say.
She did not appear to notice this, but talked on, and in some way it
came about that presently his aching head was down on the pillows
again, and her soft hand was smoothing back his hair, just as Mamma
did, while she told him that Mr. Hazeltine had inquired about the
dogs, and found that they were only very large and lively puppies, not
at all vicious.
Ikey heaved a sigh of relief, and managed to thank her for her
thoughtfulness. Then they talked of other things, and he actually lit
the gas--for it was growing dark--that she might see the photographs
of his mother and sister.
Before Aunt Zelie left they were even laughing together over his funny
accident, and when with a kiss on his forehead she was gone, it was a
much happier boy she left on the sofa.
There was sure to be a tonic in her petting, and Ikey got up and
washed his face, looking bravely in the glass meanwhile. Then he went
meekly downstairs and enjoyed his dinner. Mrs. Ford never petted
anyone, she did not know how; but she showed her sympathy by offering
her grandson all sorts of good things to eat.
At the most exciting moment of the foot-ball game Louise exclaimed:
"We haven't done anything to help Ikey, and he is really and truly our
neighbor!"
"We will try to find something to take him," said Uncle William.
There was little to be had in that part of the town, so they turned it
into a joke, and it was a most remarkable collection that Carl and
Aleck displayed in the Fords' sitting-room that night.
There was a toy balloon, a beetle that ran all over the room in a
life-like manner, a jumping jack, and some popcorn balls.
Old Mr. Ford declared he had not laughed so much in twenty years as he
did at the antics of the boys and the beetle. His bedtime passed
before he knew it.
Ikey went to sleep with the balloon tied to the head of his bed,
feeling that after all his friends _did_ care. The next day the doctor
replaced the ugly yellow plaster with something white that was more
pleasant to look at, and in a short time his nose was as well as ever,
except for a slight scar.
Bess had thought of giving a masquerade ball in his honor, to be held
in the star chamber, and at which he was to appear as "The Man in the
Iron Mask," but owing to his rapid recovery it was given up. She was
rather disappointed, for it seemed an interesting way in which to help
a neighbor in affliction. She and Louise were very anxious to be
helpers, but were not content with small every-day opportunities.
"I can't think of things as Dora does," she complained to Aunt Zelie
one evening.
"What has Dora been doing?" her aunt asked.
"Oh, it was at school to-day, when we were reading together at recess
in a new story book of Elsie's. There was Elsie and Constance, Dora,
Louise and I, and that meek little Mamie Garland kept walking up and
down looking at us. Nobody likes her, because she is a telltale. Then
before we knew what she was going to do Dora jumped up and ran after
Mamie, and asked her if she didn't want to hear the story. You could
see she was surprised, but she came, and Louise made room for her."
"And did she spoil the story?"
"No--not really, but it is nicer to have just the people you like. But
I suppose it is pretty mean to go on having a nice time when somebody
else isn't--even if you don't like them--and not ask them."
Aunt Zelie smiled at this remarkable sentence. "It is easy to be
selfish with our good times," she said; "but don't be discouraged, you
will be more quick to see an opportunity next time. If I am not
mistaken I saw a little girl put away her book to play with her small
sister not so very long ago."
"Do you think that would count?" Bess asked earnestly.
"I certainly do," answered her aunt, pinching the rosy cheek.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE M.KS.
Bess stood at the window, her brows drawn together in a decided frown.
Not that the sunshine was dazzling; quite the contrary. It was what
Aunt Sukey called a drizzle-drazzle day. The air was full of a
penetrating mist that put outdoor amusements out of the question.
Stormy Saturdays were particularly trying, and to-day the rain
interfered with an expedition to which the children had been looking
forward for a week.
"I wish I were a fairy," said Louise, who sat on the floor building a
block house for Carie; "I wouldn't have any rainy days."
"A mighty nice world 't would be, I reckon, if you had the fixin' of
it," Sukey remarked sarcastically.
"Oh, well, perhaps I'd have _some_ rain, but only at night."
"Don't you s'pose the good Lord knows what kind of weather is best for
us a heap better than a no-account fairy?" Sukey continued, seeing an
opportunity for some moral teaching.
"Of course he does, but I shouldn't think one Saturday would make much
difference."
"That ain't for us to say. Folks can't have all they wants in this
world, and they has to be taught it."
"Louise, I see Miss Brown at her window; don't you think it would be
nice to go to see her?" said Bess. "We could wear our waterproofs."
"Yes, indeed; may we, mammy?" asked Louise, jumping up. Though Sukey
professed to be a stern disciplinarian she rarely denied the children
anything, so after a careful survey of the weather she thought they
might go if they would wear their overshoes. Miss Brown saw them as
they came out of the door and raised a big umbrella. "Where can they
be going?" she wondered as they disappeared from her view. A few
minutes later, however, they came in sight again, this time on her
side of the street, and stopped at her gate.
"You are a pair of rainy-day fairies!" she exclaimed as they entered.
They both laughed at this, and Bess explained that it was just what
Louise had been wishing to be.
"Then we each have our wish, for I have been longing for some good
fairy to cheer me this gloomy day."
Miss Brown's sitting-room was a pleasant place even on the darkest
day. A bright fire burned in the grate behind the high brass fender,
some yellow chrysanthemums bloomed in the west window, the mahogany
chairs and tables shone with the polish time gives to such things, and
behind the glass doors of the corner cupboard stood rows of pretty
old china. From above the mantel, old Mrs. Brown--at the age of
eighteen, with stiff little curls over each ear and immense leg o'
mutton sleeves in her low-necked pink gown--looked down, smiling
impartially upon everybody.
"Don't you think rainy days are tiresome?" asked Louise, seating
herself in the window beside the flowers.
"Not when I have company," was the smiling reply.
"Aunt Zelie has been staying with Cousin Helen this week, and Carl
went home with Aleck yesterday, and we were going out to spend the day
to-day and come home with them. But of course we couldn't on account
of the rain, and there is nobody at home but Carie and Sukey, for
Helen is at Aunt Marcia's." The tone in which Bess spoke was so
doleful it was almost tragic.
"Uncle William says there is always a bright spot somewhere, and
perhaps there is for us, but we haven't found it," added Louise; then
looking across the street she gave a little laugh. "I was just
thinking of the Magic Door," she explained.
Miss Brown wanted to hear about it, so Bess told the story, growing
quite cheerful as she proceeded.
Miss Brown was more pleased with it, if possible, than Dora had been.
She said it explained why she was so contented and happy in her new
home.
"My old aunt left me this house with all its contents on condition
that I would occupy it. At first it seemed out of the question, but
the more I thought of a home of my own the more I wanted to try it,
and now I feel settled for life! You see," she went on, "how
beautifully it came about this afternoon. Here I was feeling stupid
and a little lonely; I looked at the Big Front Door, and presently it
opened and you came out and straight over here, to make me cheerful
again."
The children beamed on her with faces that said plainly: "Here is an
appreciative person."
At this moment who should appear but Mary, with a plate of warm spicy
cookies! The climax of sociability was reached!
"Miss Brown, is it hard to knit?--to learn, I mean," Louise asked
presently, looking admiringly at the bright wools the lady was working
with.
"Not at all; I learned when I was a little girl."
"I should like to know how, it is such pretty soft work," said Bess.
"I shall be very glad to teach you. We might have a knitting class for
rainy afternoons."
"And after awhile perhaps we could make an afghan for Uncle William!"
cried Louise delightedly. "Wouldn't that be fun, Bess?"
"If it would not be a trouble to Miss Brown."
"It would be a great pleasure to me," she answered, smiling at the
bright faces.
"It would be nice--" Bess began.
"Well, dear, what?" as she hesitated.
"I don't know whether I ought to ask you, for it might be a bother to
you, but I was thinking how nice it would be to have a club, and ask
Dora and Elsie."
"Bess, that is a _lovely_ plan!" exclaimed her sister.
Miss Brown thought so too, and said if the others would like it she
should be glad to have them, and she suggested that they bring their
friends to talk the matter over on the next Saturday afternoon.
In discussing the club Bess and Louise forgot their disappointment,
and were astonished to find how late it was when Joanna came for them.
"There _was_ a bright spot, after all," said Louise as they were
putting on their waterproofs. "If we had gone to the country we might
never have thought of the club."
Some days later the postman had three most important notes to deliver
to Miss Dora Warner, Miss Elsie Morris, and Miss Constance Myer.
This is the way they read:
You are requested to be present at the Brown house next Saturday
afternoon, to organize a knitting club. Please come early.
Truly yours,
BESS HAZELTINE.
LOUISE HAZELTINE.
Much time and thought were expended on these invitations, and the
importance of the senders was only equalled by the curiosity and
interest of the girls who received them.
Aunt Zelie insisted that five were as many as Miss Brown ought to
have. "For you know she is not used to such lively young ladies as you
and Elsie and Do--"
"Not _Dora_, Auntie!" cried Bess; "she is perfect, and never makes a
noise."
Mrs. Howard laughed, and went to see the lady of the Brown house,
fearing she was undertaking too much for her strength.
But Miss Brown was quite sure of herself.
"If you knew how like spring sunshine they are in my sober life, you
would see that it can only be a benefit to me," she said.
"Of course _I_ think they are dear children, but I may be partial,"
their aunt replied, smiling.
"I discovered one secret of their attractiveness some time ago--they
are fortunate children," and Miss Brown looked admiringly into the
sweet face before her.
Promptly at three on Saturday afternoon the invited guests appeared.
They were a little shy and silent at first after Bess introduced them
to their hostess, but this wore off very quickly at the sight of five
pairs of needles with the knitting already begun in bright worsteds.
Dora, who had learned to knit in Germany, was made assistant teacher,
and for an hour they worked away diligently.
Then Miss Brown said they had done very well for beginners, and that
it was time to stop and decide upon a name for their club.
The work was hardly put away when Nannie, the new maid, came in,
bringing some of Mary's delicious cakes, and chocolate which was
served in the oddest little cups brought by Miss Brown's grandfather
from India when she was a child. Chocolate had never before tasted so
good.
"Did you have tea parties with them when you were a little girl, and
never break any of them?" Constance asked with wide-open eyes, for she
had broken half a dozen tea-sets in her short lifetime.
"You did not think _then_ that when you were grown up you would give
some other children chocolate in these cups, did you?" said Dora.
"If we should keep our things I wonder if they would be as funny and
interesting to us when we are grown up?" Bess fingered one of the cups
admiringly as she spoke.
"I never feel as if I'd care for things when I am old," said Elsie.
"I can remember when I used to feel so too, but it is a great mistake.
Now I enjoy things which I have had for a long time, more than I do
new ones. When I use my tea-set I always think of the days when my
cousin Margaret and I used to play together."
"Couldn't you tell us about it, Miss Brown?--about your cousin and
when you were a little girl?" asked Louise.
"Please, if it is not too much trouble," added Bess.
They all looked so eager she could not refuse.
"There is really not much to tell," she said. "Thirty years ago little
girls were not very different from those I see now, though we had not
half so many toys and books.
"This cousin and I lived with our grandmother. Margaret was a year
younger than I, and a delicate child, while I was strong and well
then. My father and mother died when I was a baby, and my
grandmother's house in Philadelphia is the first place I remember.
Margaret did not come to live with us till she was six years old. Her
mother too was dead, and her father spent most of his time abroad. She
used to talk a great deal of her home in the South, for she did not
like the city, but longed for the country and the warm climate she was
used to. I remember the stories she told me after we were in bed at
night. Sometimes they were in rhyme and always about her beautiful
southern home.
"Our grandmother was good to us, but she was strict too, and every day
for an hour we sat beside her learning to sew and knit. Instead of
going to school we had a governess. We took our exercise in the open
square opposite our house, where there were trees and grass, and, best
of all, squirrels. This tea-set which my grandfather brought to me
the year before Margaret came to live with us was my greatest
treasure, and I thought it a great treat to be allowed to play with
it. When I was ten years old Margaret and I had measles, and one day
when we were nearly well grandmother left us to go to a funeral. Our
house servant happened to be sick, so there was no one in the house,
besides ourselves, but the cook. Telling us on no account to leave the
warm room, grandmother drove off. Then Margaret began to wish that we
had asked to have the tea-set. I knew where it was kept and
volunteered to get it, for it was mine and I thought I had a right to
it.
"Next we began to wish for something to eat. The spirit of naughtiness
possessed me, I think, for I determined to go downstairs and find
something. I stole down to the dining-room, where I found nothing but
bread--which we did not want--and doughnuts. I carried back half a
dozen of these, and we had our feast.
"Before we finished grandmother came home. When we heard the carriage
we had a great time getting the crumbs out of the way, and the dishes
put in their place. In my hurry I dropped a cup and cracked it.
"When grandmother came in she found everything as usual, but that
night Margaret was very ill; she had a relapse and came near dying. No
doubt the doughnuts had something to do with this, and perhaps the
excitement also. I confessed how naughty I had been, and my
grandmother was very kind, for she knew how I loved Margaret, and how
I should miss her if she died. However, she recovered, but I had the
broken cup to remind me of my disobedience. It is there among the
others now."
"Thank you for telling us," said Dora as the cup was passed around.
"Is Margaret alive now?" Bess asked.
"Yes, indeed; she is married and living in England, and has three
great boys and one little daughter. And now let us find a name for our
club."
It was difficult to suit everybody, till after a good deal of
discussion Dora made a suggestion.
"Suppose we have a name not like any we ever heard of, and call
ourselves the Merry Knitters."
Nobody could find any objection to this, so it was accepted.
"For we want to be knitters and we mean to be merry," said Louise.
"And let's not tell the boys what M.K. stands for," proposed Elsie.
CHAPTER IX.
A RIVAL CLUB.
It was the next Saturday afternoon, and Carl, Aleck, and Ikey sat in
the star chamber busily discussing something.
"There they go!" Ikey exclaimed; and the others, looking over his
shoulder, saw the M.Ks. filing up the Brown house walk.
"They think they are so clever," growled Aleck. Carl raised the window
and called; "Never you mind, we'll get even!"
"We don't care," answered Elsie.
"You are welcome to," cried Dora gayly, waving her work-bag.
"You'd better not lean out so far," cautioned Bess, and then the door
closed behind them.
As the girls had hoped, the boys were wildly curious about the
mysterious letters "M.K." They made a great many absurd guesses, and
Carl finally nicknamed it the "Club of Many Kinks," which he thought
sounded like girls. But they only laughed, and wouldn't tell.
He tried to bribe Louise, or to extract it unawares from Bess. Aleck
went to the length of offering Elsie a box of candy if she would give
him so much as a hint, and they united their efforts upon Aunt Zelie,
all to no purpose. Now they had come to the conclusion that the only
thing to do was to start an opposition club, and in their turn arouse
the curiosity of the girls.
Mrs. Howard sat in her own little study, a room over the front door,
where she kept her special treasures, and was most likely to be found
when she was at home. She was busily sorting letters and bills when
Carl's face appeared at the half-open door.
"May we come in?" he asked.
"Who are 'we'?"
"Oh, only Aleck and Ikey," and he ushered in his companions without
further ceremony.
"If you don't object to my going on with my work, I shall be glad to
have you," she said.
"Can't we help you?" asked Aleck politely, dropping down among the
cushions on the couch.
"No, I thank you, and please have some mercy on my new pillow."
Ikey, who admired pretty things, rescued the dainty white and yellow
pillow, and modestly helped himself to a footstool.
"Take the floor, Carl, it is the only safe place," murmured lazy
Aleck.
"Somebody take it, please, and tell me the object of this call."
"We want to get even with the girls," began Carl, as his aunt leaned
back in her chair, all attention.
"They think themselves so clever with their old club," said Aleck, his
nose in the air.
"They are clever--quite as much so as boys." Aunt Zelie returned to
her bills, and there was silence for a moment; then Ikey spoke:
"We thought it would be fun to have a club too, and not tell the girls
the name. There isn't any harm in that, is there?" meekly.
"None whatever. What I do not like is that tone of lofty superiority.
You do not realize how it sounds, and as I consider myself one of the
girls I shall take such remarks as personal. Now tell me about the
club; is it to be simply for fun?"
"We'd like a little fun, please," said Aleck.
"Aunt Zelie, we really don't know what we want, but we thought you
could suggest something. You can think of scrumptious things when you
try, and we can get ahead of the girls easily if we have you. So
please, there's a dear," and Carl emphasized his request with a
bear-like hug from behind.
There was no holding out against their entreaties, so she agreed to
think it over.
"You may each invite one friend to a meeting in the star chamber next
Friday evening, and in the meantime I'll do my best to think of
something for you," she said, and very well satisfied the boys
departed, to lie in wait for the M.Ks.
When they came to think of it, it was not easy to decide which of
their friends to ask. Ikey finally settled upon his next best chum,
Fred Ames. "Don't you think he will do?" he asked Carl as they walked
home from school.
"Yes, of course; he is a very nice boy. I think I'll ask Jim Carter."
Ikey looked astonished. "Do you think he is the sort of a fellow your
aunt will like?"
"I don't care; I like him and I am going to ask him," Carl replied
positively. He thought best, however, to make some explanation.
"You see, Aunt Zelie," he said, finding her alone that evening, "Jim
is a funny kind of a boy. Ikey doesn't like him, but I think there is
a lot that is good in him. He is bright, I can tell you, and there is
nothing really mean about him, but his father gives him too much
money. I suppose that isn't ever good for a boy."
"I hardly think it is," she said, smiling at Carl's judicial manner.
"When he first came to school he thought he could get around anybody
with his money, but he soon found the boys did not like it,--but
perhaps I'd better not ask him."
"Ask him by all means if you think he would like to come. I am willing
to trust your judgment."
There were many points of resemblance between Jim Carter and Carl.
Both stood well in their classes, were independent and popular with
their schoolmates, but their home surroundings were very different.
Mr. Carter was deeply engrossed in making money, having become
suddenly rich through a lucky speculation. Ambitious for his only son,
he wished him to have all the advantages of education which he himself
had missed. So Jim was sent to a good school, but was taught at home
by precept and example that to get money was the chief thing.
Mrs. Carter was a good-natured, loud-voiced woman, who idolized her
son, and could not deny him anything. It was the want of refinement,
which Carl felt but could not express, and the utter lack of home
training, that were responsible for Jim's faults.
His good-nature and real generosity won him friends among those who
were at first disgusted by his boasting and display, and with a keen
instinct for popularity Jim quickly learned the lesson.
He admired Carl Hazeltine and was flattered by his invitation.
"We want to get up a club," Carl said. "My aunt is going to help us,
and we mean to have some fun; I'd like to have you, if you will come."
He accepted on the spot, though he wondered a little why an "aunt"
should have anything to do with it. His experience with such relatives
was limited to a middle-aged person who wore a shawl the year around,
and regarded boys as necessary evils, to be sent upon as many errands
as possible in the course of the day. Indeed, he would have considered
his mother, of whom he was very fond, decidedly out of place among
his friends.
He was the last to arrive on Friday evening, and he looked about him
with some curiosity as Carl led the way to the star chamber. As they
passed the library door he had a glimpse of a pleasant family group;
Mr. Hazeltine with his paper, Bess and Louise studying their geography
lesson, and Helen playing with Mr. Smith. An airy vision awaited them
at the top of the first flight of steps; Carie in her nightgown,
holding out her arms and calling, "I want to tiss you dood-night,"
while Sukey came running after.
"You naughty fairy," said her big brother, catching her and handing
her over to mammy after the kiss was bestowed.
"What a pretty little thing!" Jim remarked admiringly.
"She is the sweetest baby in the town," Carl responded loyally.
In the star chamber they found the other boys. Ikey and his friend
Fred Ames, Aleck and his special chum Will Archer, who was as quiet
and steady-going as Aleck was mischievous and happy-go-lucky.
Jim was warmly welcomed, and Ikey gave him an ear of popcorn to shell.
The rest were already at work seated on the rug before the fire. The
old sofa was drawn up sociably, and a chair of state had been provided
for Mrs. Howard.
When the door opened a few minutes later, they were all talking and
laughing at once in a decidedly uproarious fashion.
"Here is Cousin Zelie!" cried Aleck, and there came a sudden lull as
they scrambled to their feet. Jim was the only one she did not know,
and for some reason the sight of this slender young woman in black,
with a white rose in her dress, caused him a fit of unusual shyness.
Ikey himself could not have been more abashed than he was when Carl
introduced him.
"As the fire is in such fine condition, perhaps the popping had best
go on while we talk," Aunt Zelie said, taking the chair; "then when
business is over the refreshments will be ready."
Fred and Ikey were appointed a committee to attend to the corn, and
when all were comfortably settled, she began:
"As you know, the object of this meeting is to hear suggestions for a
club. I have been thinking about it for a week, and this is the best
plan that has occurred to me: it is to have a Good Neighbors Club. The
text Uncle William gave you children, Carl, suggested it to me. 'They
helped every one his neighbor.' It would mean keeping our eyes open
for ways of helping, and being careful to respect the property of
others.
"You see I take it for granted that you want something besides fun,
though I am sure we shall have a good time too."
"I don't think I understand what we are to do," said Will.
"You are not to break your neighbors' windows, for instance," replied
Aleck, winking at Carl.
"There is no trouble about the helping," answered Mrs. Howard; "there
are always opportunities for that, and on the other hand I am inclined
to think that you all at times do things that, to say the least, do
not improve the appearance of your neighborhood. For example--but I
believe I'll let you find out for yourselves. Suppose for a week you
try to discover what it means to be a good neighbor, and report next
Friday. The rest of my plan is very simple. To hold meetings every
week or once in two weeks, as you choose, and I have some fascinating
work which I know you can learn to do, and surprise the girls. I shall
have it ready for the next meeting, and while you work we can have
reading, or you can select a subject to discuss. Now the meeting is
open; please talk and ask questions."
Just here Ikey created a diversion by letting the pop-corn burn,
whereupon Mrs. Howard took it from him, and, kneeling on the rug,
popped the rest herself. Carl brought in a basket of apples, and
drawing up in a sociable circle they soon became merry and very much
at ease.
Aunt Zelie liked boys, and had a way of establishing friendly
relations with them on short acquaintance. And this evening she made
a special effort, for she wanted to know Carl's friends and make the
new club a success. The boys were ready to adopt her plan without
waiting, but she insisted upon their taking a week to think about it.
Before they left she wrote out the text on a card for each of them,
that they might keep it in mind.
"Isn't she splendid?" said Ikey to Jim as the door closed behind them,
for ever since the day of his accident he had been her ardent
worshipper. Jim assented rather coolly. In fact, he was a little
dazed. He had had a good time, though now it was over he was inclined
to wonder why. As for being a good neighbor, he thought it sounded
silly; but before he went to bed he took out the card and read the
text: "They helped every one his neighbor."
CHAPTER X.
GOOD NEIGHBORS.
The Hazeltines' lot was a corner one, and Aunt Marcia, driving one
afternoon along the street upon which their side gate opened, saw two
boys seated on a box near the entrance to the alley that ran back of
the stable.
"What can they be doing?" she asked herself, and not being able to
imagine, she stopped the carriage and stepped out to investigate.
As she approached it became evident that one of the boys was Carl.
"What are you doing here I should like to know?" she demanded.
"We aren't doing any harm, Aunt Marcia," her nephew answered stoutly.
"An alley is no place to play in. Is that Louise?" as somebody peeped
out of the stable door. "I am astonished; you must go in at once."
"I am going in directly, I am, indeed, Aunt Marcia; but please don't
make the boys get up till they are sure it is quite dead." As she
spoke Louise came out into full view.
"What are you talking about, and who is this boy?" Mrs. Hazeltine put
up her glass, embarrassing Ikey greatly. "Oh, it is that Ford boy!
Now tell me what you have in that box."
"A cat." Carl's eyes were full of mischief, though his tone was
solemnity itself.
"Mercy upon us! Let it out at once!"
"We can't; it is dead."
"Dead? You wicked boys! Did you kill it?"
"Oh, Aunt Marcia," cried Louise before Carl could reply, "they had to
do it, indeed, _indeed_ they did! It was hurt; some boys shot it with
a toy pistol, and it was dreadful; so we bought some chloroform and
Ikey killed it because he knew how, and now they are sitting on the
box to make sure!"
Horrified and astonished, Mrs. Hazeltine surveyed her young relatives
in silence.
"Why couldn't you have James do it?" she inquired at length.
"He has taken the horses to be shod."
"Where is Zelie?"
"Gone to Chicago with Cousin Helen."
"Well, Louise must go in at once, and may I inquire how long it will
be necessary for you to sit on that box in this damp place?"
"It must be dead now, I think," Ikey said, rising.
Carl was proceeding to make an investigation, when Aunt Marcia
protested, "Wait till I'm gone, if you _please_; _I_ don't care to
have anything to do with such business," and drawing her skirts about
her, she hastily retired.
"There never were such children!" she said to her husband that night.
"Think of it--actually killing a cat--and Louise helping!"
"Don't you think it was better than letting the poor thing suffer?"
asked tender-hearted Uncle William.
"I don't care, Carl, you needn't laugh," said Louise that same
evening; "for cats _are_ neighbors, father says so. Anything or
anybody you can help, he said."
"All right, I'll tell Ikey to report it at the G.N. meeting."
"Oh, ho, Mr. Carl! Is that what you are going to do at your club?"
cried both his sisters in the same breath.
"Pooh! that is nothing," said Carl, affecting great unconcern, but
secretly very much provoked with himself; "we do a great deal more
than that."
The girls were excessively pleased over his little slip, and he at
last descended from his lofty pinnacle and humbly begged them not to
tell Aleck.
The M.Ks. had in their turn christened the boys' club the "Great
Noodles," a name in which it was thought Uncle William had a hand.
"_Sounds like boys_," Elsie remarked with much emphasis.
The next day after school, just as the group of boys on the corner
began to separate in various directions, Jim Carter asked, "Have you
fellows thought of anything for Friday night?"
"Ikey has," laughed Carl. "You couldn't guess what he did yesterday."
"Shut up! I'd like to know if you didn't help?" Ikey's strap full of
books swung round in dangerous proximity to his friend's head.
"Full details of the sad occurrence given later," Carl called out as
he ran for his life.
"I don't understand it, do you? I haven't any neighbors to help," Jim
said, as he and Fred Ames walked on together.
"I don't know. I suppose it means _not_ doing things too. Perhaps this
is one thing," and Fred carried to the edge of the sidewalk the skin
of the banana he was peeling, and dropped it on the pile of dust and
dirt which had been swept up by the street cleaner.
"Do you think Mrs. Howard meant silly things like that?"
"Why not? I heard of an old man who slipped on a banana skin and broke
his leg. It would not have seemed silly to him if someone had put it
out of his way. But if she didn't mean such things, what did she mean?
Perhaps you think you are improving the neighborhood." Fred glanced
mischievously at his companion, who held a piece of chalk and was
carelessly making a straggling-white line on everything he passed. Jim
dropped his hand impatiently. "I don't think I'll belong," he said. He
did not quite mean this. He was really curious to see what it would
amount to, but at the same time he was not exactly pleased. He felt
great scorn for what he considered trifles, and had a strong belief in
his right to do as he pleased.
Thursday night of this week happened to be Hallowe'en. Jim, who had
had almost unlimited freedom since his babyhood, had often gone about
with a crowd of boys on this night ringing doorbells, carrying away
door-mats, and turning on water. By the marauders it was looked upon
as a grand frolic, and owners of missing mats and deluged yards might
grumble as they pleased. He had even looked forward to the time when
more daring exploits would be possible, and when some of his old
companions came for him this evening he joined them as a matter of
course.
"Let's give old Grandfather Clark a dose first, he is always as mad as
fury," said one of the boys.
At this moment the motto of the club popped into Jim's head.
"They helped every one his neighbor." This was not helping. There came
to him a sudden determination not to have anything to do with it. Not
that he saw any special reason why they should not have fun at old Mr.
Clark's expense, but rather because he wanted to go to the club at
least once more; and, mingled with this, there was a feeling that the
nicest fellows did not do things of this kind.
There could be no doubt as to the interest in the G.N.C. as the boys
had begun to call it. On Friday night six eager faces greeted Mrs.
Howard when she entered the star chamber, and there was an amiable
scramble for the honor of giving her a chair.
"First we'll have reports and then begin work; that is, if you have
decided that you like the plan." As she spoke she looked at Jim, who
was nearest.
He had entirely recovered from his bashfulness, and was feeling rather
well pleased with himself, so he answered promptly:
"I am not sure I understand it, Mrs. Howard, but I have thought of one
thing. I suppose you would not call it being a good neighbor to go
about on Hallowe'en as lots of boys do, carrying off gates and doing
other mischief. I have done it myself, and I never thought there was
much harm in it, but I suppose there is." He was astonished himself at
this honest conclusion.
Mrs. Howard smiled. "Stopping to think makes such a difference," she
said. "I should be sorry indeed to believe that any of you boys could
take part in some of the wild pranks that are often played on
Hallowe'en. My brother had a valuable young tree destroyed last night.
Boys do such things for fun, they say, but it doesn't seem honest to
make other people pay so dearly for their fun."
"I never thought of it in that way," said Fred.
"But how are you ever to have any fun if you must stop and think about
things?" Jim asked, feeling ashamed in spite of himself as he
remembered how near he had come to making one of such a crowd.
"Its being fun isn't any excuse. Suppose you thought it fun to steal
somebody's pocketbook?" said Carl.
"That is a different thing."
"What is the real difference between stealing money and ruining
something that cost money?" asked Will.
"Father says that in America people have less respect for public
property than anywhere else in the world," remarked Fred.
"I am afraid it is true," replied Mrs. Howard, "and that is why I want
you boys to think about it. Ikey, haven't you something to say?" This
young gentleman, who had been fidgeting about like some uneasy insect,
now became greatly embarrassed.
"I don't know whether it will count or not, and it is as much Carl's
as mine," he began.
"It isn't at all; you thought of it--go on."
Aunt Zelie nodded encouragingly at him, though she had no idea what
was coming, and after several beginnings Ikey managed to tell the
story of the cat. Louise had found the poor thing, and had come in
great distress to the boys. Ikey remembered seeing his father kill a
pet dog with chloroform, and so volunteered to try it on the cat. Carl
bought the chloroform, and, putting some cotton saturated with it in a
paper bag, they drew this over the animal's head, covering all with a
box made as air-tight as possible.
"But," said Ikey comically, "I don't know whether cats are neighbors."
"Indeed, they are most useful ones, and frequently unappreciated. It
was a kind thing to do, and, now you know how easy it is, I hope you
will all be ready to put any poor animal out of its misery when you
find it hopelessly hurt."
"We had a beautiful funeral, Cousin Zelie, and are going to take up a
collection for a tombstone," said Aleck.
They grew so merry over Ikey's story that it was difficult to come
back to such commonplaces as writing on fences and walls, and
scattering papers around.
"Everybody does such things, so what difference will our not doing
them make?" asked Jim.
"Everything has to begin, and you don't know how contagious a good
example is," replied Mrs. Howard.
"Let's have a penny fine for each time we do a thing of the sort,"
Carl suggested.
Last of all, Will Archer told about the little lame boy, son of the
minister at the church on the corner.
"I think perhaps it would be a pleasure to him if some of us would go
to see him occasionally. He hardly gets out at all in the winter, and
he is a bright little fellow."
"That is a beautiful suggestion," said Mrs. Howard. "I am glad that
you have thought of so many things good neighbors should and should
not do. Taken all together it amounts to this: To be thoughtful for
the rights of others, and ready to help. Now, what of our club? Shall
we try this plan?"
It was unanimously adopted, and they all wrote their names under the
text in a new blank-book which was handed over to Jim, who offered no
objection to being made secretary.
"And now for our work," said Mrs. Howard. "Some years ago, when I
spent a summer in Maine, I learned from an Indian woman to make
baskets of sweet grass. This year I had a friend bring me some of this
grass, and it occurred to me the other day that it would be just the
work for you boys."
Carl brought in an armful of the fragrant material, and his aunt
showed them how to fasten it to the frame she had had made for the
purpose, and then braid it. Their fingers were awkward at first, but
they soon learned to do it evenly, and found it pleasant work.
"What are we to do with them when they are done?" Ikey asked.
"Sell them, and help somebody with the money," was the reply.
The thought of making anything good enough to sell was inspiring, and
they worked with a will till it was time to adjourn.
Talking it over with her brother after the boys were gone, Aunt Zelie
said: "Perhaps our club is too comprehensive: a sort of Village
Improvement, Humane and Missionary Society combined, but the boys
thought of these things themselves. If we can only cultivate the
spirit of helpfulness, perhaps it will find its own natural channel in
each."
"You can't specialize in everything, life is too short," answered Mr.
Hazeltine, laughing.
"I don't know what you mean by channels, and specializing, and all
that," said Carl, looking in the door, "but I can tell you, Aunt
Zelie, the boys like it, and Jim thinks you are tiptop. Hurrah for the
G.N.C.!"
CHAPTER XI.
PLANS.
"Suppose we ask the boys to help us," said Bess, threading her needle,
and carefully making a nice little knot.
"Oh, no!" objected Elsie, "let's do it all by ourselves."
"If the boys can help us to do something better than we can do without
them, I think we ought to have them," said Dora wisely.
"It will be more fun too," said Louise, whose motto was "The more, the
merrier."
"We haven't much time either," Bess continued; "but Aunt Zelie will
help us, and you too, won't you, Miss Brown?"
"I'll be glad to do anything I can," replied that lady, looking up
from the feather-stitching she was showing Constance.
Christmas was coming. The fact could no longer be overlooked, and as
usual everybody was feeling surprised at its nearness.
It was not a bit too near, the children thought, though even they had
a great deal to do, and found the days all too short.
Miss Brown was full of suggestions for Christmas gifts, and most
patient with awkward fingers, and the M.Ks. were very happy over the
things she was helping them to make. Now, on top of all this they had
found something else to talk about and work for.
One day when Bess and Louise were in the corner confectionery, the
wife of the proprietor, as she handed them their package, held out a
small bundle of edging, asking them to take it home and show it to
their aunt. It was made, she said, by a young Italian girl who, though
a cripple, was trying to support herself and some younger brothers and
sisters.
As the trimming was pretty and strong, Mrs. Howard bought some for the
children's aprons, and finding the girl worthy, gave her other work,
which was carried back and forth by a little sister.
Louise saw this child waiting in the hall one Saturday morning, and
went down to talk to her. Tina was pretty, with great black eyes and
short dark curls, but Louise found her rather silent, for she was in
fact rather awed by her surroundings. The wide hall with its polished
floor and soft rugs seemed very grand to her unaccustomed eyes.
"I wish I could sew and embroider like your sister, then I could make
some money," said Louise.
Tina wondered why she wanted money, but only answered, "So do I."
"Bess and I have never enough money for Christmas. Is that what you
want it for?"
"No; I would give it to my father."
"Why, he wouldn't want it, would he? Hasn't he any money?"
Tina shook her head, and after some questioning she explained that her
father was a member of a small string band. He played the harp, she
said, and sometimes earned a good deal, but he had been sick, so he
lent his harp to a man who promised to keep his place for him and pay
him something besides. "But he was a bad man!" she exclaimed
vehemently, "for he broke the harp, and then ran away and would not
pay to have it mended; and now my father does not want to get well, he
is sick with sorrow."
"But can't he get it mended himself, or find the bad man and make him
pay for it?"
"It would cost a great deal of money,--fifteen dollars the music man
told my sister,--and the man who broke it has gone away to the South."
"I am so sorry," was all Louise could say, for their talk was
interrupted; but she ran upstairs immediately to tell Bess.
"Don't you wish we could have it mended for him?" she asked.
"Yes, indeed, but we haven't any money to spare from our Christmas
things, and if we used it every bit it would not be enough."
"We might get somebody to help us; still that wouldn't be as nice as
doing it ourselves."
"Perhaps we could have a fair, like the one Aunt Zelie had when she
was a little girl. Let's ask her," proposed Bess, jumping up.
But their aunt thought it too great an undertaking. "I was several
years older than you are," she said, "and we worked for six months to
get ready. However," she added, seeing the disappointed faces, "you
might do something else, tableaux or charades."
This idea pleased them, and they decided to talk it over at the club
that afternoon.
There was no difficulty in interesting the M.Ks. They were all
enthusiasm.
"We may not make enough," said Louise, "but that ought not to keep us
from trying to help."
"If we could only give them the money for a Christmas gift," said
Dora.
"I don't see how you could manage that, but a New Year's gift would be
almost as good, would it not?" asked Miss Brown.
"There is Ikey now! I'll call to him to find the other boys and bring
them over." Dora rapped on the window-pane with her knitting needle as
she spoke.
Ikey, who had just vaulted over a hitching-post on his way down the
street, came to a sudden halt.
"Find Carl and Aleck, and bring them here, that's a good boy; we want
to consult you about something," she called.
He obeyed with soldierly promptness and was across the street in a
second. A few minutes later Louise announced, "Here they come, and
Aunt Zelie with them."
"I am one of the boys now, you know," said Mrs. Howard as she entered.
"How cosey you look! I believe I should like to join your club too."
"Oh, do! Please do, Mrs. Howard!" came in a chorus from the M.Ks. as
she sat down in the midst of them.
"We'll talk about that another time; at present we have something else
to discuss. Sit down, boys, and listen while the girls tell you what
they want. I already know about it."
Bess then told the story of the broken harp, and explained how anxious
they were to earn money enough to have it mended.
"We intend to give an entertainment, and we want you to help," said
Dora.
"What are you going to have?" Carl asked cautiously.
"We want you to help us to decide."
"We can help in one way, can't we?" Ikey exclaimed ecstatically,
whereupon the other boys looked daggers at him, for the basket-making
was kept a profound secret.
"I didn't tell anything, did I?" he inquired in an aggrieved tone.
"What does he mean, Aunt Zelie?" asked Louise.
"It is something we are not ready to tell just yet, but I have a plan
to propose. I shall need all of you to help carry it out, and if you
are willing to do a little work I am sure we can have a charming
entertainment."
Profound interest reigned in Miss Brown's sitting-room for the next
half hour, as Aunt Zelie unfolded her plan and explained what she
wanted of each one. "And in the meantime you must not breathe a word
about what we are to have, but excite every body's curiosity as much
as possible," she said in conclusion.
"Won't it be lovely!" cried Elsie, clapping her hands.
"A great deal better than a fair, and more fun," said Louise.
In the pretty room which belonged to Bess and Louise sat a busy group
one afternoon. Its owners were occupied with a tall scrap basket that
was intended for Uncle William and Aunt Marcia. Aunt Zelie had donated
the ribbons to trim it, and they were anxious to have it as handsome
as possible. Helen and Carl were there too, the one making a bonnet
for her doll, the other pasting in his scrap-book, sitting on the
floor with a newspaper spread out before him. Dora had received a warm
welcome when she came in with her work, as she often did. They all
agreed in thinking that she could not come too often, and to Dora life
in that house was a sort of enchantment. It seemed brighter, roomier,
pleasanter there than anywhere else.
Her young friends did not dream of the cares already resting on her
shoulders: the effort to cheer her mother, who was fast becoming an
invalid, the life in the large boarding-house that neither of them
liked.
"Do you think it will be pretty?" Bess asked, holding her basket at
arm's length to see the effect of the golden-brown ribbon she was
weaving in and out through the straw.
"It is a beauty," answered Dora admiringly.
"Yes, it _is_ pretty, really," said Louise, whose fingers were trying
to fashion what she called a stylish bow.
"Girls are funny, always sticking bows on things," observed Carl.
"If it is funny to like to make things look pretty, I am glad I am
funny," said Dora severely.
"Dear me! Of course, I was not objecting in the least," replied the
young gentleman, who rather enjoyed being taken to task by Dora.
"I am sorry to break up this pleasant party, but I am afraid I must,"
Aunt Zelie said, coming in.
"Why, Auntie?" asked Louise, looking up with three little wrinkles
between her eyes, for the stylish bow would not be quite as she wanted
it.
"Because I am in danger of losing my roses," answered her aunt,
pinching Bess's cheek. "Yesterday they had no fresh air worth
mentioning."
"Oh, please don't make us go!" cried Bess in a tone that was almost a
wail. "We have so much to do!"
"I must finish my bow," Louise said positively.
"I shall not _make_ you, but Joanna is going to Aunt Marcia's with a
note, and I want you to go too because you need the air. I am sure
Dora will take the walk with you, and on the way back suppose you stop
and ask Mrs. Warner to let her stay to dinner. So fly now and get
ready." She spoke so energetically that Dora began at once to roll up
her work, and Bess dropped her scissors with a sigh of relief, but
Louise held on to her bow desperately.
"I _will_ finish it," she said to herself.
"Louise," her aunt said gently, "the reason you cannot make the bow to
please you is because you are tired. Now, which will you do, put it
away till to-morrow--when I am sure you will not have any trouble with
it--and go to walk with the others, or stay here and grow more and
more tired and cross, till you are not fit to come to dinner with the
rest of us?"
She had a struggle with herself before she answered in a choked voice,
"I guess I'll go, but I did want to finish it."
"Of course, but you will be glad by and by that you chose to do what
was right, instead of what you wanted to do," and Aunt Zelie sent her
off with a kiss.
The walk to Aunt Marcia's was not such a hardship after all, and when
they reached home there was at least an hour for studying lessons
before dinner, and that was followed by a grand frolic with Carie,
lasting till it was time for Dora to go.
"I am sorry I was cross this afternoon," Louise said when she came for
her good-night kiss.
"It was because you were tired, dear, I know. You and Bess must take
care not to be too much occupied with Christmas. It will not do to
neglect every-day duties even for that," replied her aunt.
CHAPTER XII.
CEDAR AND HOLLY.
One Saturday afternoon, about three weeks before Christmas, the boys
marched triumphantly into Miss Brown's sitting-room with a large
tissue-paper parcel. When this was undone, before the eager eyes of
the M.Ks., there were four beautiful fragrant little baskets with tops
of bright-colored silk.
"How pretty!"--"How lovely!"--"Where did you get them?"--"Surely you
did not make them?"--"What are you going to do with them?"
"Why didn't we make them, I'd like to know?" asked Ikey proudly.
Certainly the boys had reason to be satisfied at the praise their work
received.
"I know you did not sew on the silk," said Dora, examining one
closely.
"Oh, well, Aunt Zelie and Cousin Helen did the sewing, of course, but
we did all the rest," said Carl.
"And what do you mean to do with them?" asked Elsie.
"Sell them and give the money to the harp man."
They were so pretty there proved to be no trouble in disposing of
them. Aunt Marcia, who was superintending a Christmas bazaar, offered
to put them on one of her tables, where they sold the first evening
for a dollar and a half apiece.
After this the meetings of the G.N. club had to give way to rehearsals
for what Cousin Helen called "The Harp Man's Benefit," which was to
occur on New Year's eve. In the meantime Uncle William had interested
himself in the matter, and, through a friend who was a music dealer, a
harp was lent to Mr. Finnelli till his own could be repaired.
"So we feel more comfortable about it now," said Louise, "and we think
we'll make at least ten dollars at our entertainment."
Late in the afternoon of the day before Christmas Aunt Zelie sat alone
in the library taking a moment's rest.
The sound of happy voices came through the open door. It was a custom
in the family to decorate the hall on Christmas eve, and the children
had been making wreaths and festoons of cedar, and having any amount
of fun. They were now having a merry time over Ikey's suggestion to
hang a holly wreath above the Big Front Door. From the top of the
ladder Carl began:
"'Twas the night before Christmas,"
and the others chimed in:
"and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse."
A moment later Aunt Zelie's quiet was invaded.
"Nothing makes me feel more like Christmas than that old rhyme," she
said, as the laughing children gathered around her.
"Talk to us about Christmas, Auntie, please," said Louise.
"Could you possibly talk about anything else?" she asked. "What is it
that makes this such a happy time?"
"Why," answered Carl, "it is because it is such fun to give presents
to people, and know you are sure to get a lot yourself."
"Yes, it is because every one tries to make some one else happy. Why
do we keep Christ's birthday in this way?"
"Because he came to make us happy, I suppose," said Bess.
"Don't you wish you could have heard the angels sing? I like that part
of the story best where the shepherds are out in the fields," said
Louise.
"I like the wise men seeing the star and bringing gifts," said Carl.
"It is beautiful from beginning to end, and it is a true story, that
is what makes it so dear to us," Aunt Zelie said, looking into the
fire.
"I wish it came oftener, a whole year is so long to wait," sighed
Bess.
"Dear me," laughed her aunt, "I don't. It would take all my time to
get ready. I have ever so many things to do after you are snugly
tucked in bed."
"I think I'll not go to bed to-night," remarked Carl.
Even he was tired, however, after they had helped their father and
Uncle William trim the hall. So many small fingers were sometimes a
hindrance, but then it was "such fun."
"Christmas belongs to the children, so let them have a good time in
their own way," said their uncle.
To the older people the season was full of memories of those who used
to take part in the happy festival, but were there no longer; for the
children's sake, however, no difference was made in the old customs.
All was done at last, even to fastening the mistletoe in the
chandelier, and it only remained to hang the stockings beside the
nursery fireplace. Carie's was already there and she herself safe in
dreamland.
"I just can't wait till morning," said Bess, as she put up her own.
"It is nice to know it is coming, I think," and Louise twirled around
on her toes and dropped her stocking into the grate.
"What will Santa Claus put your things in now?" laughed Carl.
"It is only scorched," she said, snatching it from the fire, which was
fortunately low.
After some laughing and whispering over a plan for waking before any
one else, they separated and were soon so soundly asleep that even
Christmas was forgotten.
It was beginning to be light next morning when Louise opened her eyes
to find Carl standing beside her.
"How hard you are to wake," he said. "It is daylight, and everybody
will be up directly."
They aroused Bess, and the three ran first to their father's door,
then to Aunt Zelie's, giving half a dozen hearty raps, and calling
"Merry Christmas" at the tops of their voices.
When Mrs. Howard opened her door she saw three airily attired figures
flying up the third-story stairs.
Hurrying into her dressing-gown, she followed. She found them in the
star chamber with the window wide open, shouting themselves hoarse at
Ikey, who had been awakened by the telephone bell.
"You crazy children, you will take cold! Put the window down at once."
"Oh, Auntie, it was such fun! Ikey was so surprised!" they cried.
"I should imagine so," severely.
"You needn't pretend to look cross, Aunt Zelie, for you just can't,"
laughed Carl.
"Now for our stockings!" cried Bess, and there was a rush for the
nursery.
Such laughing, such squeals of delight, such cries of admiration, as
were to be heard there for the next half hour!
Carie in her long night-gown pranced wildly around a wonderful white
bear, which moved its head and growled in a most natural manner when
Carl wound it up. Helen hugged in one arm the beautiful doll Cousin
Helen had dressed for her, while she dived into the toe of her
stocking. Bess and Louise sat on their new sled and turned the pages
of a story-book. Carie brought matters to a climax by backing into her
bath-tub, which Aunt Sukey had just brought in and placed by the fire.
She was rescued, dripping and somewhat aggrieved, amid great laughter.
Such an every-day matter as breakfast was hardly worth thinking of,
there was so much else in prospect. All the uncles and aunts and
cousins were coming to dinner, and after that the tree! There was
enough to keep them in a gale of excitement.
Bess and Louise had a plan of their own which no one else knew about,
and after breakfast they stole off together.
Going into her little study not long after, Aunt Zelie found them
there. Bess stood on a chair holding a vase which she had just filled
with white roses; Louise stood beside her with some others in her
hand.
"Oh, Auntie!" they both exclaimed, "we didn't want you to come till it
was all done."
"Shall I go away?" she asked, smiling.
"We'll tell you about it now, shan't we, Bess?" said Louise. "You
know," she continued, as her sister nodded approval, "we thought
perhaps Uncle Carl would be glad if we remembered him on Christmas,
and we couldn't think of anything but flowers."
Bess had placed the vase on a bracket beneath her uncle's portrait,
and now came down from the chair, adding anxiously, "You like it,
don't you, Aunt Zelie?"
"The vase wouldn't hold them all, so you must wear the rest," and
Louise put them into her hand.
Aunt Zelie silently kissed them both.
There was something about this kiss that for a moment clouded the
brightness of the day for Bess. "I wish people did not die," she
exclaimed with almost a sob, as they went downstairs.
"What makes you look so sober, I should like to know?" demanded Uncle
William, who, with Aunt Marcia, was the first of the guests to arrive.
"I was just thinking," she replied, and then, as Aunt Zelie came in
with her usual bright face and the roses on her breast, she felt
reassured and danced away to be as merry as anybody.
Dora and Ikey were the only outsiders invited to the tree, which was
much like other trees, and so does not need to be described. It was
perfectly satisfactory, however, and they all had exactly what they
wanted. Dora was amazed at the number of things that fell to her
share, most of all at a small gold bracelet with a daisy on the clasp,
from Aunt Marcia.
"You may be sure she likes you after that," whispered Aleck.
"Let's go over and wish Miss Brown a Merry Christmas," proposed Carl,
when the candles began to burn low.
"We will storm Nottingham castle!" cried Ikey. "Come on!"
They received a cordial welcome. "What good children you are to think
of me to-day!" she said, laying down her book.
"We have had such a beautiful time we thought we would finish it by
coming to see you," said Dora.
"And thank you for our work-bags," added Bess.
"You need not think you have had all the Christmas on your side of the
street," said Miss Brown, pointing to a rose-bush in bloom in the
window and to some new books on her table. "And I should like to
know," she continued, "how five little girls happened to guess what
would please me most."
The M.Ks., after much discussion about their gift to Miss Brown, had
accepted Aunt Zelie's advice and had themselves photographed in a
group.
"I shall never be lonely again with these bright faces to look at,"
she said, lifting the picture from the floor beside her sofa.
"Did you have Christmas trees when you were a little girl, Miss
Brown?" Louise asked.
"No, my grandmother used to celebrate New Year's day as the great
holiday; we had gifts then, but not a tree."
"I haven't had one since I was a very little girl," said Dora; and
Ikey added, "And neither have I."
"Did you have one when you were a little girl, Ikey?" asked Aleck
gravely, making everybody laugh.
After they were gone Miss Brown sat alone in the firelight, thinking
that of all the blessings the year had brought her, not the least was
the friendship of these girls and boys.
Of all the young people invited to Uncle William's party, no one was
in such a flutter of delight as Dora. Affairs of this kind were new to
her, and as the Hazeltines had talked so much about it, it was no
wonder she felt eager and excited as she dressed next evening.
"I suppose Elsie wouldn't go if she had to wear such plain things as
mine," she thought as she took out her white dress. "Louise said they
were going to wear white. Oh, dear! I should like to have nice
clothes, but I can't bother mamma about it." Dora sighed, for she
liked pretty things as much as anybody.
All trace of anything like discontent had disappeared when she stood
before her mother to have her sash tied.
"You should have had a new dress, poor child," Mrs. Warner said sadly.
"No, Mamma dear," was the cheerful answer, "you must not mind. It does
not matter what I wear; I shall have a good time."
"How fortunate it is that Dora cares so little about dress!" her
mother thought as her daughter kissed her and ran down to the parlor,
where Carl was waiting with a bunch of roses which he presented with
much grace. The girls were in the carriage outside, and the drive
through the streets, where the electric lights were just appearing,
was no small part of the pleasure. Helen said it was like grown people
going to a party. "But it is more fun to be children, I think," said
Dora, burying her face in her flowers.
It was not quite like a grown-up party, for Uncle William's guests
were invited to come at the sensible hour of six o'clock, but the
beautiful house was all thrown open for their entertainment.
Dora forgot her dress as they went up the steps and were ushered into
the brilliantly lighted hall.
They were the first arrivals, for the Hazeltine children were to
assist in receiving the others, so when they came downstairs there
were only Aunt Marcia, handsome and stately as usual, and Cousin
Helen, looking exceedingly pretty in her pale-blue gown. The next
comer was a tall gentleman whom Bess and Louise seemed to know very
well. They called him Mr. Caruth, and were evidently delighted to see
him.
"I am glad you came home in time for the party," Louise said to him;
and Carl with an eye to business added, "You must come to our
entertainment on New Year's eve, Mr. Caruth."
"What do you charge for reserved seats?" asked the gentleman,
laughing.
"Suppose we give him an arm-chair and make him pay a dollar for it,"
suggested Miss Hazeltine.
"He is a very nice man," Bess whispered to Dora. "We wish he would
marry Cousin Helen, for then he would be related to us."
"Upon my word!" Miss Hazeltine exclaimed, so suddenly that Bess gave a
guilty start, "I have forgotten my office; come here and be decorated
before any more arrive." From a basket she took a handful of badges.
"What are these for?" Louise asked as her cousin pinned one on her
shoulder.
"You will find out by and by," said Uncle William, coming in with a
red rose in his buttonhole.
And now the fun began. The children came in so rapidly that Cousin
Helen had to have an assistant to fasten on the badges, and Mr.
Hazeltine was here, there, and everywhere, seeing that no one was left
out of the good time. They played games and danced, grown people and
all, and later in the evening Mr. Frank Hazeltine actually induced
Aunt Marcia to take part in "Tucker," to the delight of her young
relatives.
It was particularly exciting when Uncle William was "Tucker." They
came through the grand right and left positively breathless, and
everybody was glad of a few minutes' rest before supper.
"Isn't it strange that Dora does not have prettier dresses?" Elsie
Morris whispered to the girl next her. "I like her ever so much, but
she wears the plainest clothes."
As she spoke Dora passed to join Bess, who was beckoning to her from
the other side of the room. She heard enough of what was said to make
her color deepen as she went straight on.
"Elsie, she knew you were talking about her," cried Constance Myer.
"No, she didn't," Elsie insisted, feeling very much ashamed.
"She won't have any use for you after this," remarked Jim Carter, who
was standing near. He found that he was mistaken, however. When they
were decorating themselves with the tissue-paper caps and favors found
in the bonbons, Elsie, who was a most fastidious little mortal,
exclaimed, "I wish my cap was not green. I can't wear it with a blue
dress."
"I'll change with you, for mine is blue and I like green quite as
well."
It was Dora who stood beside her, holding out the cap. Poor Elsie was
greatly abashed and couldn't say a word, but Dora insisted.
"Please take it; I want you to have it, you will look so pretty in
it."
She was exceedingly surprised when Elsie put her arms around her neck
and kissed her, saying:
"You are the best girl in the world."
It was a small thing, for Dora had spoken truly when she said that she
liked one as well as the other, but it made a deep impression upon two
people. Elsie began from that moment to be more careful and kind in
her criticisms, and Jim rather reluctantly came to the conclusion that
this was better and finer than showing resentment.
When supper was over the company was pervaded by a feeling that
something interesting was about to happen.
"What is on hand, Louise, do you know?" Aleck asked, and at that
moment Uncle William was heard making an announcement. He had had an
interview with Santa Claus, he said, as the old gentleman was passing
through the city in a hurry to get home, and after some persuasion he
had prevailed upon him to wait over and receive any of the young
people present who cared to call on him.
This occasioned great applause, and all were eager to pay their
respects to jolly St. Nicholas.
Half a dozen at a time, according to the numbers on their badges, were
conducted to a curtained doorway and told to enter. They all seemed to
enjoy the interview, for they came out with smiling faces, and not
empty-handed either.
The children of the family were, of course, the last to go in, and
Dora waited for them.
The room was one which Uncle William called his den, and the figure in
the arm-chair would have been recognized anywhere by his rosy
countenance and long white beard. He wore his fur great-coat, and his
cap and gloves lay on the table.
He gave them a friendly greeting, saying, "So you are the last? It is
a fortunate thing, for if I wait much longer I shall miss my train."
"I did not know you travelled in that way," said Carl mischievously.
"Dear me, boy! How could I manage with a sleigh and reindeer in this
mud? I save those for colder climates. Now, before I am off, I think I
have something left in my bag."
Opening a large satchel, he brought out half a dozen packages, and
then taking up his cap and gloves and wishing them a Happy New Year,
he was off before they could say "Jack Robinson."
"He is a fine old fellow," said Carl, examining the gun he had been
wishing for.
"Indeed he is!" echoed Dora, taking a peep at the beautiful
illustrated copy of "Little Women," and then she was called to lead in
the closing Virginia reel with Uncle William.
"Well, how did you like the party?" Carl asked her as they drove home.
"I have had the best time I ever had in my life," she answered with a
happy laugh.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE HARP MAN'S BENEFIT.
"Where is my wig?"
"I have lost my banner!"
"Tell Ikey to hurry, he has to go on first. Do you think that chimney
will stand?"
There was such confusion behind the scenes on New Year's eve that
Cousin Helen put her hands over her ears when she came in.
"It is time to begin," she said. "Ikey and Helen are first."
The performers had advertised their entertainment very thoroughly, and
as a result a large and interested audience of young people had
assembled before eight o'clock.
When at length the curtain rose in response to vigorous clapping, it
brought to view a fine stage, on which was a cottage with a window and
door and a lifelike chimney, and everything was covered with
glistening snow. After the audience had had time to admire this scene
sufficiently, a boy and girl entered, dressed in outdoor costume. They
looked sad, and the girl took her handkerchief from her muff and held
it to her eyes. Her companion begged her not to cry, for Father Time
would surely help them. Then he knocked at the door of the cottage. It
opened at once and out came a veritable Father Time, leaning on his
staff. His long white beard, his scythe and hourglass, all proved his
identity. Looking at the children he asked:
"Who is it knocks at my door to-day?
Speak to me quickly, I cannot stay."
The little girl replied:
"Dear Father Time, we've come to you,
Perhaps you'll tell us what to do.
Our teacher says that in the year
Too many holidays appear.
She says we must at least drop one,
And she'd be glad if there were none."
And the boy added:
"It is hard to know what day to choose,
When there isn't one you care to lose."
In great astonishment Father Time exclaimed:
"To drop a holiday! Absurd!
Impossible! Upon my word!
Affairs like this belong to me,
As I'll soon let this teacher see."
He rapped on the ground with his staff and a small page appeared,
wearing a pointed cap and carrying a tin horn. Bowing low before
Father Time, he was instructed to call the Holidays together. He
withdrew and was heard blowing his horn in the distance. Presently
music sounded, and the eight Holidays came marching in, with banners,
singing:
"Joyous Holidays,
Full of gayety,
Bringing happy hours,
Merry days are we.
"Children love us well,
Surely they have reason.
Happiness and mirth
Bring we every season.
"Father Time, we've come,
Answering to your call,
Glad to do your will
Are we one and all."
After marching twice around the stage they took their stand in a
semicircle before Father Time and the children.
Father Time: "These children have come to me in deep distress, because
their teacher (a most singular person) says there are too many
Holidays, and one of them must be given up. I have sent for you to
reassure them; speak for yourselves."
The Holidays looked at each other in dismay, and exclaimed:
"Holidays are we,
And we've come to stay,
Caring not a whit
What such people say."
Boy and girl (clapping their hands): "Oh, dear Holidays, we are so
glad! But are you _sure_ she can't send any of you away?"
New Year's day now stepped forward. It was Jim Carter, whose suit of
cotton batting, decorated with tinsel and cedar, was most becoming.
Banner in hand he recited:
"First upon the list,
I'd be greatly missed.
Pages fresh and new,
Resolutions true,
Wishes for good cheer
In the coming year,
Where would these all be,
Were it not for me?"
Both children:
"No matter what the teachers say,
We can't give up our New Year's Day."
Next came Elsie, looking exceedingly like a valentine in her gauzy
dress, her fair hair waving over her shoulders. In her own airy way
she recited:
"Surely you know, if you are not quite stupid,
That I belong to that gay god Cupid.
Send me away and I very much fear
You'll find him infesting each day of the year."
Both children:
"We never could endure to part
From you who lie so near our heart."
The next Holiday excited great laughter and applause as he came
forward. It was Aleck, in powdered wig, velvet coat, knee breeches,
silk stockings, and shining shoe-buckles. In one hand he carried a
small hatchet. The occasion was almost too much for him, and he spoke
his lines with difficulty:
"My very great importance
To see you cannot fail,
I point a useful moral
And adorn a thrilling tale.
And with my honored hatchet
I'm sure you'll ever find
I make a good impression
Upon the youthful mind."
Girl and boy:
"Indeed, we do not doubt you;
We could never do without you."
Washington's Birthday was of course followed by April Fool's Day. This
part was taken by Fred Ames, in a suit of figured chintz, with cap and
bells. He recited:
"Don't think I'm the one to be laid on the shelf;
I have a few words now to say for myself.
To nonsense each one at some time must give vent;
To furnish you with an excuse I am sent.
To give you a day without precept or rule,
In which you may each be a gay April Fool."
The children:
"Though not the most important on the list,
We know, dear April Fool, you would be missed."
Next came Constance, with a garland of roses on her head, and her
white dress trimmed with flowers. She recited:
"When first the flowers begin to show
Their happy little faces,
And tiny leaves begin to grow,
To make us shady places,
'Tis then I sing in merry tune--
Sweet Summer's coming very soon."
The children:
"Pretty May-Day must not go,
We have always loved her so."
After Constance came Louise, who made a charming Goddess of Liberty,
dressed in stars and stripes, with a flag in her hand. She said:
"I come to tell the story
Of the birthday of our land,
To remind you of her glory,
And to help you understand
How by good men, brave and true,
This great land was won for you."
The children:
"Dear Fourth, we love your fun and noise,
You're ever dear to girls and boys."
Thanksgiving Day was represented by Dora, dressed as a Puritan maiden,
carrying a basket of apples and a sheaf of wheat. She made a pleasant
picture as she recited:
"When wintry days once more appear,
I come well laden with good cheer.
You can't lose _me_ at any rate,
For I'm appointed by the State."
The children:
"As long as we're living
We'll keep dear Thanksgiving."
Last of all came Christmas Day. This was Carl, in white, like New
Year's, with trimmings of holly and mistletoe. A brave young Holiday
he looked, as he repeated:
"Last comes to you the merry day
O'er which St. Nicholas holds sway;
A day that's sent your hearts to fill
With peace and joy and glad goodwill.
And down through all the centuries long
Echo the angel words and song,
And every year again I tell
The old sweet story, loved so well."
As he finished, the children said eagerly:
"Dear Holidays, we love you all;
You're good and true and gay,
And we hope, as you have said,
That all have come to stay.
But though we value all the rest,
'Tis Christmas Day we love the best."
At this the other Holidays stepped out, and bowing to Christmas, said:
"We all unite in words of praise,
And crown him king of Holidays."
Then New Year's Day placed a crown on his head, May-Day gave him a
rose, Fourth of July, a flag, Thanksgiving, an apple, Washington's
Birthday offered his hatchet, and St. Valentine gave him a sugar
heart; and joining hands the children and the Holidays danced around
him, singing:
"We all unite in words of praise,
And crown him king of Holidays."
The curtain fell on a tableau: the Holidays, with their flags and
banners, old Father Time, and the happy children.
The applause was so vehement it had to rise again for a moment, and
then there was an intermission while some of the actors changed their
costumes.
When the curtain went up for the last time the cottage was gone, and
in its place appeared a row of high-backed chairs on which were seated
five little ladies in the quaintest of short-waisted gowns, each with
a reticule on her arm, from which she took her needles and began to
knit. Then Bess, who sat at one end of the line, looked up, and said
in her own sweet little way:
"We're learning to knit, you see, because
We wish to be nice grandmammas;
You would not care, I'm sure, a bit
For a grandmamma who couldn't knit."
Dora, who came next, continued:
"How daintily warm, how soft and sweet,
The tiny socks for baby's feet.
Nothing you'll find in all the land
Fashioned like these by grandma's hand."
Here Elsie took it up:
"All the older children too can tell
How grandma's stockings wear so well,
And how she makes, with greatest pains,
Comforters, afghans, balls, and reins."
Louise had just made a discovery that surprised her, and with shining
eyes she recited:
"There's nothing so good, the children know,
As grandmamma's stories of long ago.
Empty-handed she could not tell
All the dear old stories half so well."
Constance sat at the end of the row, and looking at the others she
said:
"When she was a girl like you and me,
'Twas then she learned to knit, you see.
So like her now we must begin
Carefully putting the stitches in."
Then together they recited:
"Our shining needles we gayly ply,
Getting ready for by and by.
Aren't you glad to know there'll be
Five old ladies as nice as we?"
At the last line they rose, each dropped a profound courtesy and
marched from the stage. The enthusiastic audience recalled them half a
dozen times, till Mr. Hazeltine was obliged to announce that the
entertainment was over.
No one had enjoyed it more than a person who sat in an easy-chair,
where without any effort she could see all that went on.
Here the children gathered when it was over, exclaiming, "Why, Miss
Brown, we did not know you were coming! How did you get here, and how
did you like it?"
It was of no use to try to answer so many questions, so she only
laughed and said she had enjoyed herself immensely.
Then they must rush off to see how much money had been taken in.
Mr. Caruth, who had been pressed into service as doorkeeper by Cousin
Helen, was in the hall with Aunt Zelie.
"Here are nine dollars and a half for you, Grandma," he said, putting
a box into Louise's hands.
"Oh, thank you! Then that will be enough with the basket money. Don't
you think our entertainment was pretty good, Mr. Caruth?" she asked.
"Delightful! I was just telling Mrs. Howard that it was a star
performance," he answered.
"I don't know what that is, but Aunt Zelie and Cousin Helen made it
all up, every bit," Bess said proudly.
The performers were so enchanted with the evening's fun that they
refused to take off their gay costumes, and declared one and all that
they meant to see the old year out.
The Father of his Country forgot his dignity, and cut up all sorts of
antics with April Fool's Day. Even Father Time joined in the fun, and
Christmas and New Year bestrewed the floor with cotton batting as they
danced with the old ladies.
But they were tired out before midnight, and when the city bells rang
in the new year they were all sound asleep and heard not a bit of it.
And this is what came of it:
Of course in the first place the harp was mended and paid for, and its
owner was able once more to earn something for his family. With her
burden thus made lighter, Marie worked away cheerfully at her
embroidery, and Tina went happily to school in the warm dress Mrs.
Howard gave her. Many were the blessings invoked on the heads of the
young people who had helped them!
"But after all," said Bess, "it was only fun for us."
In the second place Uncle William was so pleased with the five old
ladies that a charming idea came into his head. After a consultation
with Miss Brown, he sent them one Saturday afternoon a note and a big
bundle. Here is the note:
MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS: I was delighted the other night to find
that your small fingers were already learning to be useful, and I
take the liberty of giving them some more work to do. I know an
old colored woman who, after spending most of her life in taking
care of little children, is now paralyzed, and can only lie in
bed. Nothing pleases her so much as bright colors, so I want you
to make her a gay afghan. She will not mind any uneven stitches
if they happen to put in, and will be very proud of it.
I send the yarn of which to make it. There are to be five
stripes, one for each of you.
Hoping that you will enjoy the work, and at the same time the
thought that it is to please a poor old invalid, I am
affectionately your friend,
WILLIAM S. HAZELTINE.
The bundle when it was unrolled was found to contain some of the
oddest-looking balls of yarn that ever were seen.
"I think he must have wound them himself," remarked Louise, shaking
her head over the lumpy, unsymmetrical ball she held.
However, Miss Brown said the shape did not matter, and work was begun,
with great interest. Dora was the first to make a discovery, perhaps
because she could knit more rapidly than the others. One of the lumps
in her ball proved to be caused by something rolled in tissue paper.
Feeling sure that this was the key to one of Uncle William's
surprises, they looked on eagerly while she pulled the paper off and
found a gold thimble with her name on it. Not long after Elsie found a
tiny pair of scissors. Never had any work been so delightful! It
usually happened that some one of the gay balls yielded a prize each
Saturday afternoon. Sometimes only a big sugar plum, but oftener
something pretty and useful. A tiny book of texts, a dainty
handkerchief rolled into smallest compass, rings of twisted gold with
the letters M.K. on bangles attached to them,--these were some of the
things found in the wonder balls, for that is what they are called in
Germany, where Mr. Hazeltine first heard of them.
"It is so exactly like him, I thought he must have invented it
himself," said Dora.
CHAPTER XIV.
CLOUDS.
The beautiful snow-storm which came two weeks after Christmas seemed
to be the cause of all the unhappiness, though the real reason for it
was to be found in quite another quarter.
A deep snow followed by a week of clear cold weather seldom came more
than once during the winter in this part of the country, and the
children were wild with delight. Aunt Zelie was obliged to do a little
of the curbing that Aunt Marcia so often advised, and Bess and Louise
thought it hard that they were not allowed to hitch their sleds behind
wagons as Carl and Ikey did.
The boys first got into trouble. They began at once building forts in
their playground at school, and were soon divided into two opposing
forces, each with one of the older boys for captain.
For a time things went very well, and Carl and Ikey, though they
belonged to different sides, could discuss their battles
good-naturedly. But this did not last. One day the cry of "Not fair"
arose; someone was hurt and resented it, his friends took it up, and
all good feeling went to the winds. When the bell called them in there
were some bad bruises, and, worse still, angry looks and accusations.
On the way home the dispute ran high between Carl and Ikey. The
first-named in particular was very much excited, and declared he
wanted nothing more to do with cheats. Ikey retorted warmly, with
natural indignation, and so they parted.
About the same time discord arose among the girls.
Mr. Hazeltine had had a slide made for the children in the back yard.
It was built from the top of the stable loft, and was as good a
substitute for a hill as such an affair could be. Here they had a
grand time till one day when Elsie insisted it was her turn to slide.
"No, it is Dora's," objected Louise. "Isn't it, Constance?"
But Constance, always devoted to Elsie, was not sure. Bess and Helen
both agreed with Louise.
"I am sure it is my turn to slide," said Dora, "but if Elsie thinks it
is hers, I'd rather have her take it."
Bess had very positive ideas of fairness, however, and would not give
up. "No," she declared, "it is her turn, and we must play fair or it
isn't any fun."
"But I know it is my turn," said Elsie, equally stubborn; "Connie
thinks so too."
"Never mind, Bess," pleaded Dora.
"I _shall_ mind; for when Louise and Helen and I all say it is your
turn, and only Constance thinks it is Elsie's, you have a--a
majority, and she ought to see it."
"Yes," added Louise, admiring her sister's big word; "I think you
ought, Elsie."
"And it is _our_ slide," put in Helen very unwisely.
"That doesn't make any difference," Bess hastened to say; but the
mischief was done.
"Then keep your old slide," Elsie cried angrily. "I wouldn't be so
selfish. Come, Constance, let's not stay where they don't want us."
"Don't go, Elsie; it is not worth quarrelling about," urged Dora; but
she wouldn't listen and walked off with an air of offended dignity,
followed rather reluctantly by Constance. Dora wanted to go after her,
but Louise held her fast.
"Don't go, Dody; it won't do a bit of good. If she is mad, she can
just _be_ mad."
They took a few more slides, finding it not half so much fun as
before. Dora looked very sober, for quarrelling was something she was
not accustomed to, and after a visit to Carie, who was sick with a
cold, she went home feeling exceedingly uncomfortable. Perhaps it
would be all right to-morrow, she thought, but that did not prove to
be the case.
When they met at school Elsie entirely ignored Bess and Louise, who in
their turn treated her with a lofty indifference wonderful to behold.
"I am not at all mad at you, Dora," Elsie said to her; "but I am at
Bess and Louise, for they were impolite. I am not going to speak to
them till they say they are sorry."
"Oh, dear! I feel as though it were my fault in some way. It will
spoil our club and everything," sighed Dora.
How long this unhappy state of affairs might have continued had not
the Big Front Door taken matters in hand, it is impossible to say.
On the afternoon of the quarrel Elsie had a story book with her, which
in her hasty departure she forgot. She remembered it before she
reached home, but did not like to go back. The next day she planned a
very cold note which was to be carried by one of the servants. Mrs.
Morris, however, saw no reason why her daughter should not do her own
errand, and all arguments were in vain. Finding that it was of no use
to plead, after some rebellious tears she decided to go for her book
herself.
Bess, Louise, and Dora were studying their history lesson together,
when Joanna came in to say that Elsie was downstairs and wanted the
book she had left.
"I wonder," said Bess, when it had been found and sent down, "if she
will come to the club."
After they went back to their lessons Dora's thoughts kept wandering
off to that miserable quarrel, and she said, as she put on her hat,
"If Elsie were willing to make up, you would be, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, yes," they both answered readily, Louise adding, "but she doesn't
want to."
Elsie felt rather uncomfortable as she sat in the library. She hoped
that none of the children would come in and find her there. She could
not help remembering the pleasant time she had had in that very room a
few weeks ago, getting ready for the New Year's eve entertainment, and
for a moment she was sorry about the quarrel.
When Joanna brought her the book she hurried away, and, opening the
front door for herself, pulled it to behind her with a bang, when to
her dismay she found herself held fast. The door had closed on her
dress. She pulled and twisted, but it was of no use--she was a
prisoner. She could not reach the bell, and only a dead latch-key
would open it from the outside. It was late in the afternoon and few
people were passing; then too she did not like to call for help. The
poor child felt herself to be in a somewhat ridiculous position, and
if she dreaded anything it was being made fun of.
Suppose Carl should come in and find her! He was such a tease he would
tell the other boys, and they would think it a great joke. The wind
was so cold and penetrating that after a little Elsie forgot her fear
of being laughed at, and began to long for anybody who would release
her. All the passers-by seemed to be on the other side of the street.
Once she called to a colored boy, but he only looked at her stupidly
and went on.
"Oh, dear! what shall I do!" she cried, sinking down on the cold
marble step. "I wish I had never thought of my book."
She wondered what Bess and Louise would think if she were found frozen
to death on their doorstep. Her mother would be sorry she had not
allowed one of the servants to take her note. There was some comfort
in this thought. Then--was that really someone coming down the walk at
the side of the house? She held her breath. Yes, it certainly was. She
immediately returned to life.
It was Dora on her way home, so busy thinking that she started when
Elsie called her.
"Why, Elsie Morris," she exclaimed as she caught sight of the forlorn
figure on the doorstep.
"Oh, Dora, please help me. I am caught and can't get out."
"Have you been here all this time?" Dora asked, running up the steps
in great surprise. "Shall I ring the bell or go around?" pausing with
her hand on the knob.
"You'd better ring. I don't want to see the girls."
Dora's hand still rested on the bell, but she hesitated. "Elsie," she
said, "I just believe this has happened so we can make up. Won't you?
I know that Bess and Louise will if you will. Think how unhappy we
are! We can't have any more good times." Dora felt that she had the
advantage.
"No," said Elsie crossly; "and I wish you would ring that bell; I am
as cold as I can be. It was my turn, and it was selfish and mean in
them not to let me have it."
"Oh, Elsie, they are not selfish; they are always ready to do what we
like, but they thought it was my turn. That is why I feel so badly
about it; for if it had been her own turn I think Bess would have
given up. Please, _please_ promise to make up."
That Dora cared a great deal was plain, for her eyes were full of
tears, and those tears did much towards gaining the victory.
"I am not the least bit mad with you, Dora," Elsie hastened to say,
"but I am with Bess. Please ring the bell."
"In one minute, if you will only promise to make up."
"Dora Warner, I tell you I _can't_," stamping her foot. "I can't say
it wasn't my turn, for that would be a story."
"That won't make any difference, for you need not say anything about
it, only that you are willing to make up. You think you were right,
and Bess thinks she was right, so all you have to do is not to say
anything about it. _Please_, Elsie."
Dora's logic may not have been altogether convincing, but her
earnestness was not to be resisted.
"Well," began the prisoner, "I suppose I shall freeze to death if I
don't, so I will only--"
Dora waited for nothing more, but gave the bell a joyous pull.
Louise, who was on her way upstairs, ran back to see who was at the
door.
"Why, it is Dora!" she exclaimed, opening it.
It did not take long to explain, and Elsie was glad to sit down by the
register in the hall and make it up in earnest.
Bess, who heard them talking and ran down, was quite ready to meet her
more than half way, and no one would have guessed, seeing their
friendliness, that an hour ago they were not on speaking terms.
Elsie was pitied and petted to her heart's content, while Dora beamed
on them like a genial little sun which had at last made its way
through the clouds.
Aunt Zelie heard the whole story that night.
"Wasn't it funny, Elsie's getting caught?" said Louise. "I believe it
is really a magic door; Dora thinks so too."
"I don't know. It seems to me if the rest of you had been as anxious
for peace as she was, the door need not have come to your relief. If
you had each been trying to help," said her aunt.
"I believe I have been forgetting the text," Bess said gravely.
If only the quarrel between Carl and Ikey could have been settled as
quickly. A week passed and matters did not mend. The walk to and from
school was now taken alone, and neither made any sign of recognition
when they met. Ikey was miserable at the sight of Carl's intimacy
with Jim, and he imagined, too, that Mrs. Howard took her nephew's
part, and this was hardest of all.
The fact was Aunt Zelie knew little or nothing about it. She had a
house full of company, and Carie was sick besides.
In spite of appearances to the contrary, Carl was no happier than his
friend, and quite as keenly missed the daily companionship in lessons
and play. It had its effect in making him overbearing and
fault-finding in an unusual degree. The family began to wonder what
had happened to merry, good-tempered Carl, when one Saturday morning
matters reached a climax. As he came upstairs from the library where
he had been copying a composition, his father called to him from the
hall below. Running into the girls' room, he laid his paper on the
table there, with strict injunctions to them not to touch it.
Some minutes passed before his return, and Helen, who was apt to be
attracted by forbidden fruit, could not resist going over to look at
it. "I only want to see if I can read it," she said in reply to a
warning word from Bess, who passed through the room on her way to the
star chamber, where she and Louise were busy.
Helen, left to herself, was seized with a desire to make a capital S
like Carl's. Finding a pen and some ink, she set to work, forgetting
everything else till Bess, returning for something, exclaimed, "Why,
Helen, what are you doing? Here he comes."
Very much startled, she looked around quickly, and the pen fell from
her unaccustomed fingers upon the composition, scattering ink in every
direction. At this moment her brother entered the room, and at one
glance took in Helen's frightened look and the blotted paper.
"Didn't I tell you not to touch that?" he thundered, all the stored-up
anger of weeks coming to the surface, and, springing forward, he
caught her by the shoulder, gave her a furious shake, and pushed her
from him with all his strength. With a frightened scream she fell
backwards, striking her head against the edge of the half-open door.
"You wicked boy!" cried Bess, greatly shocked; "perhaps you have
killed her."
But Helen's cries told that it was not so bad as this. Everybody came
running to see what the matter was, and Joanna picked her up and
carried her into Aunt Zelie's room, where it was found that a large
lump on her head and a bruise on her arm were the worst of her
injuries. Bess told how it happened.
"I can't think what ails Carl lately," said Louise.
"He is a mean, hateful boy," sobbed Helen; "I don't care if I _did_
spoil his composition."
Feeling that it would be of no use to talk to her then, Aunt Zelie
left her to the tender ministrations of her sisters and Joanna, and
went to seek the chief offender.
He was still in the girls' room, standing his ground defiantly.
The moment's fright lest he had hurt Helen badly had passed, and the
sight of his composition stirred his anger afresh.
"Is it true that you threw your sister down?" His aunt stood before
him with a look in her dark eyes which it was not pleasant to meet.
Carl glanced down, but answered, "Yes, and here is what _she_ did!"
holding up the blotted paper.
"Does that excuse your unmanliness, your--you might have killed her,
you know. I can't talk to you now, Carl; you'd better go to your room.
I can't tell you how disappointed I am."
He never thought of not following her suggestion; indeed, he was glad
to get away from those indignant eyes.
"Of course," he muttered to himself, "I am all to blame and nothing is
said to Helen about spoiling my work. Boys are always found fault
with, but girls can do anything."
Down in his heart he knew this was not true, but he chose to think it.
He flung himself into a chair by the window. It was a gloomy, thawing
day; the snow, as if aghast at the trouble it had caused, was melting
sadly away. There was nothing in the prospect to make him feel
cheerful. After awhile he went to work on his composition again, and
as he wrote he felt more and more like a martyr. When it was finished
he folded it and put it away, and began to think it must be near
lunch-time. With the door closed, there in the third story he could
not hear the bell; however, he would not go down; if they wanted him
they might send for him. By two o'clock he was feeling deeply injured.
Nobody cared whether he starved or not. Then he remembered that Uncle
William was to take them to see Hermann that afternoon. By this time
they must have gone without him. Carl threw himself on the bed and
shed some tears of vexation and disappointment. All the while
something was whispering to him that he deserved to be unhappy. The
afternoon dragged slowly; he grew very hungry, and at last saying to
himself that he would go and get some biscuit, and "Tom Sawyer," one
of his favorite books, he went softly downstairs.
The house was so quiet that the sight of Mr. Smith asleep on a hall
chair was a positive relief. After visiting the pantry he went to the
library for his book. The door was half open, and when he reached it
he suddenly stopped, for there was Aunt Zelie by the table with her
head bowed on her arms. Evidently she had not heard him, and Carl
almost held his breath. He thought she was crying; he was not sure,
but certainly she was unhappy. It came to him in that moment, as it
never had before, how tender and sweet and helpful she was. She had
sorrow of her own, he knew, and who was there to comfort her as she
comforted others? And he had disappointed her--had behaved shamefully.
As he stood there it seemed to him that he must have been crazy. He
could not endure the sight of that sorrowful figure, and turning to go
away, instead; the next minute he was kneeling beside her saying,
"Aunt Zelie, I am _so_ sorry."
She was startled, for she had not heard him; but she turned and put
her arms around him for a moment, without speaking.
"Aunt Zelie, I know how contemptible I am; you ought not to have
anything to do with me," Carl exclaimed in a great burst of
contrition. She took his hand and held it fast as she answered, "I
can't throw stones at you, dear, but perhaps I can help you to learn
the lesson I have had to learn many times."
He never forgot that afternoon. How he sat beside her with his head on
her shoulder, while she talked to him as she had never talked before.
How his face glowed with mingled shame and pride as she said that, of
all the children, he was, if possible, the dearest to her.
"But I have more fear for you than for the others. I long to have you
grow up a strong, true man--master of yourself in every sense. If you
do not, I shall feel that in some way it is my fault."
"I will try to be what you want me to be--like Uncle Carl--if I
can; and nobody in the world could help me as you do."
[Illustration: "HE TOLD HER ABOUT THE TROUBLE AT SCHOOL."]
"I shall not leave you till you leave me," Aunt Zelie said, smiling
rather wistfully at the tall boy.
"That will be never, and I will always take care of you," answered
Carl, laying his cheek against her hand. He told her about the trouble
at school too, finding it a relief to confess everything and she
listened gravely.
"For a little misunderstanding like this, a little hateful pride,
pleasant friendships are given up, and the good times we expected to
have in the club this winter! Have my Good Neighbors forgotten their
motto already?"
"I'm afraid so," Carl said, thinking how hard it would be to make
things right again.
"Have you told Father?" he asked.
"No, he did not come to lunch."
"Then I shall have to tell him," with a sigh.
This was not an easy thing to do. That they were the best of
companions and friends made it all the harder, for he felt he had
forfeited the right to this good-fellowship.
Carl told his story with such evident shame and repentance that,
though he listened with a grave face, Mr. Hazeltine could not find it
in his heart to be very severe.
"I did not think," he said, "that my only son could be guilty of such
a cruel and ungentlemanly act."
Carl winced at this.
"You see," his father continued, laying his hand on his shoulder, "I
always had such a tender feeling for my little sister that it is hard
for me to understand how you could be so unkind."
It was Carl's private opinion that Aunt Zelie could never have been so
trying as Helen, but he did not say so. They had a serious talk, and
for a week after, Carl was seen only at the table, for he and his
father decided that as he had sinned against the happiness of the
family, he must forfeit the privileges of the family life for a while.
Everybody was glad when the week was over, Carl most of all.
No one else knew how lonely those evenings were, spent in his room, or
how he longed to join the group around the library fire.
Helen was deeply impressed by her brother's humble apology, and
decided that after all she wasn't glad she had spoiled his
composition, but very sorry she had been so meddlesome.
Carl lost no time in starting out to find Ikey and make friends.
It was on Monday morning, and they met just outside the gate.
"Hello!" said Carl.
"Hello!" replied Ikey.
"Know your Latin?"
"Hope so, I have studied it a lot," and they walked down street
together as if nothing had happened.
"Where were you going this morning when I met you?" Carl asked when
his neighbor came in, in the old way, with his books that afternoon.
"I was coming over for you. I was tired of it."
"Were you? Why, I was going for you!"
CHAPTER XV.
DORA'S BRIGHT IDEA.
One thing troubled Carl. It was that Dora knew all about it. She came
to lunch that dreadful Saturday to go with the others to see Hermann,
and of course Helen's bruises and his own absence had to be accounted
for.
On his way home from school one morning he saw her and her mother
coming towards him on the other side of the street. When they were
within speaking distance, Mrs. Warner bowed, but Dora looked in
another direction as if she wished not to see him.
Carl was hurt and mortified, for he was sure he knew the reason.
"I don't care, it is mean to be so hard on a fellow. Aunt Zelie
isn't," he said to himself.
He did care, however, and was silent and gloomy at lunch. As he left
the room on his way upstairs to study he heard Bess say, "Dora had
such an accident to-day." But he did not wait to hear what it was.
An hour later, having an errand to do up town, he went off alone
instead of asking Ikey to go with him as usual.
The clear, cold air was making him cheerful in spite of himself, when,
as he drew near home after a long walk, he saw two familiar figures in
front of him. His spirits immediately fell, for they were Ikey and
Dora chatting together most sociably. Carl suddenly felt jealous.
He knew they were great friends, and he never had dreamed of objecting
till now that he was himself out of favor. He began to walk slowly
that he might not overtake them, his pride keeping him from turning
back and going home some other way.
They paused a moment when they reached the corner; then Ikey, with his
politest bow, left her and crossed the street. Dora stood waiting.
Carl advanced, trying to look unconscious and indifferent.
Her smile changed to a puzzled look, and then became positive
astonishment when he was passing without a word.
Always straightforward, she exclaimed, "Why, Carl! Aren't you going to
speak to me? I am on my way to your house."
"I thought you would not care to speak to me, you didn't this
morning," he answered somewhat loftily.
"Not speak to you? I don't know what you mean."
"You would not this morning," he persisted.
"Oh, I know now! How absurd! Didn't the girls tell you about my
glasses getting broken? It must have been when I was going to have
them mended. You know I am so near-sighted I can't see across the
street without them."
Carl looked rather foolish. Dora had worn glasses only a short time,
and he had not noticed their absence.
"You knew I would not do such a thing; how could you be so silly?" She
was decidedly vexed with him.
"I thought perhaps you really did not care to have anything to do with
me after--"
"You thought I would stop speaking to you for that!" she exclaimed.
"Why Bess told me how sorry you were, and at any rate it would have
been acting as if I never did wrong myself."
"You wouldn't do anything so horrid."
"I _was_ a little surprised at you," Dora, acknowledged, "but it is so
disagreeable not to be friends with people. I am glad you and Ikey
have made up; he was telling me about it."
By this time they had reached the gate, and Carl said, "I don't think
the girls are at home; they were going out with Aunt Zelie, but you
might come in and wait, if you don't mind talking to me while I look
over some books for father."
"I don't mind talking to you," she answered, laughing, "but I can't
stay long. I want 'Water Babies.' Louise said I could have it to
read."
"Come in, then, and I'll find it for you."
They went up to the star chamber together, and Dora sat down in the
west window, where a little wintry sunshine still lingered, while Carl
looked for the book.
"I can't see how you could be such a goose as to think I would not
speak to you," she said presently.
"I suppose I knew I deserved it." Carl laid "Water Babies" on her lap,
and, kneeling on the floor with his elbows on the window-sill and his
chin in his hands, looked thoughtfully out at the bare branches of the
maples.
"I'll tell you what it is," he said after a minute's silence, "Aunt
Zelie is a trump."
"I know that, only I'd call her a prettier name," said Dora, smiling.
"You can't know really till you have been very had. She was so good to
me. It makes a fellow feel awfully when somebody like her cares a lot
for him and he goes and disappoints her."
"But you won't again, I'm sure."
"You see," Carl went on, "she cares for me particularly because I am
named for Uncle Carl. Has Bess or Louise ever told you about him?"
Dora shook her head.
"He was Mamma's brother, you know, and he was splendid. I thought
there was nobody like him when I was a little fellow. He used to be
here a great deal, and we were glad when he married Aunt Zelie because
we were so fond of them both. The only thing we did not like about it
was that Aunt Zelie went away to live, but they came to see us very
often. Then Uncle Carl died. He was skating with some people, and a
friend of his went where the ice wouldn't hold, and broke through.
Nobody knew just what to do, it was so hard to get to him on the
broken ice, and the man couldn't swim. Uncle Carl saw that he would
drown before help came, so he went right into the freezing water and
held up his head till they brought ropes."
"He wasn't drowned, was he?" Dora asked in an awestruck voice.
"No, but he was in the water so long that it made him ill. The other
man got well. It happened not long before Mamma died. Then, you know,
Aunt Zelie came back to us."
"You must be glad you are named for him."
"Yes, I am, only I am not good enough. I am afraid I shall never do
anything brave like that."
"I think, perhaps, little things have to come first," said Dora
wisely, adding, "He was helping, wasn't he?"
"I had not thought of that," said Carl.
As she walked home an idea came into Dora's head, which interested her
so much that "Water Babies" lay unopened on her lap for half an hour
that night. Next day she confided it to Bess and Louise, who highly
approved.
"Why, Dora, you are very clever. When you are grown up you will be as
good at thinking of things as Aunt Zelie," said Bess.
"You think of pretty good things yourself, Bess," added Louise.
"And so do you, for you first thought of trying to help the harp man,"
said Dora merrily.
"The G.N. Club meets to-night, and we'll ask the boys to let us in.
You come over to dinner," Louise suggested.
"They won't do it," said her sister positively.
"Oh, perhaps they will if we are very polite; we will try."
The weekly meetings of the G.N. Club had begun again with great
interest. No one enjoyed them more than Aunt Zelie, and nothing was
allowed to interfere with this engagement with the boys if she could
help it. However, it happened this evening that some old friends of
the family who were passing through the city on their way south
called, and it was impossible to excuse herself, so the boys were left
to their own devices.
Though the star chamber looked as cheerful as usual and Carl did his
best as host, it was not quite the same without her.
Jim recalled with wonder that first evening when he hoped she would
not come. The rehearsals for the harp man's benefit had made them all
feel very well acquainted with her and one another.
They were beginning work on some screens for the Children's Hospital
when there came a knock at the door. Ikey opened it and Carie walked
in.
"I came to bring you a letter," she announced, handing Carl a folded
paper, and shyly surveying the rest of the company from behind him.
He read it aloud.
To the G.N.C.:
We should like to come to your meeting this evening, if you will
let us. We have a splendid plan to tell you. Dora thought of it.
Send reply by bearer.
Yours truly,
$1$2.
"Shall we let them come?" he asked.
"Of course," said Jim, and as nobody was actively opposed, Carl
scribbled, "Come on," on the back of their elegant note.
Within five minutes the girls were established in their midst, quite
as if they belonged there.
When the screens were duly admired and their offers of help politely
declined, Bess explained the object of their visit.
"We think it would be nice, now that we haven't secrets any more, and
because you helped us with the harp man's benefit, for our clubs to be
friends and meet together sometimes. Dora has thought of a beautiful
plan. Won't you tell about it yourself, Dora?"
"It is nothing very great," she began modestly. "You know in the days
of chivalry how all the knights belonged always to some order,--like
the Knights Templars in 'Ivanhoe,'--and perhaps there are some now; I
don't know."
"There is the Independent Order of Odd Fellows," suggested Will, and
Carl added, "Joanna's young man belongs to the Ancient Order of
something."
"Then I don't see why we shouldn't have one," Dora went on, laughing.
"My idea was to unite our two clubs in an order, and call it the Order
of the Big Front Door. We both have the same motto and are trying to
help, so it would not be anything really new, except that we could
have a badge to remind us, and have meetings together sometimes. The
story of the Magic Door put it into my head."
"Good for you, Dora! I'm
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