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Brenda, Her School and Her Club

by Helen Leah Reed · English · Gutenberg #34944 · 454,749 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Brenda, Her School and Her Club

Author: Helen Leah Reed

Illustrator: Jessie Willcox Smith


        
Release date: January 13, 2011 [eBook #34944]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34944

Credits: Produced by Heather Clark, Mary Meehan and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
        book was produced from scanned images of public domain
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRENDA, HER SCHOOL AND HER CLUB ***




Produced by Heather Clark, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)









                               Brenda,

                       Her School and Her Club

                         BY HELEN LEAH REED

                   AUTHOR OF "MISS THEODORA," ETC.

                 ILLUSTRATED BY JESSIE WILLCOX SMITH


    BOSTON
    LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
    1900

    _Copyright, 1900_,
    BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

    _All rights reserved._


[Illustration: "THE CHILD HIMSELF, SURROUNDED BY A GROUP OF CURIOUS GIRLS, CLUNG TO NORA'S HAND"]




CONTENTS


I. FOUR FRIENDS

II. JULIA'S ARRIVAL

III. THE RESCUE

IV. A CLUB MEETING

V. MISS CRAWDON'S SCHOOL

VI. MISUNDERSTANDINGS

VII. VISITING MANUEL

VIII. PLANNING THE BAZAAR

IX. A MYSTERIOUS MANSION

X. A SOPHOMORE

XI. THE COOKING CLASS

XII. CONCERNING JULIA

XIII. GREAT EXPECTATIONS

XIV. THE FOOTBALL GAME

XV. A POET AT HOME

XVI. AN HISTORIC RAMBLE

XVII. THE ROSAS AT HOME

XVIII. MERRY CHRISTMAS

XIX. NORA'S THOUGHTLESSNESS

XX. FIDESSA AND HER MISTRESS

XXI. MISS SOUTH AND JULIA

XXII. BRENDA'S SECRET

XXIII. ALMOST READY

XXIV. AN EVENING'S FUN

XXV. THE BAZAAR

XXVI. GREAT EXCITEMENT

XXVII. A MISTAKE

XXVIII. EXPLANATIONS

XXIX. AFTER VACATION

XXX. BRENDA'S FOLLY

XXXI. THE SHILOH PICNIC




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


"THE CHILD HIMSELF, SURROUNDED BY A GROUP OF CURIOUS GIRLS, CLUNG TO
NORA'S HAND"

"'OH, I'LL TELL YOU WHAT, GIRLS,--LET US WORK FOR--MANUEL!'"

"SHE WAS ABLE TO RUSH ON AND PICK THEM UP AS THEY WERE DASHED AGAINST A
LAMP-POST"

"NOW AS JULIA SAT THERE DRINKING TEA FROM THE QUAINTEST OF OLD-FASHIONED
CHINA CUPS"

"'WHY, BRENDA BARLOW, WHY ARE YOU LYING IN THIS DOWNCAST POSITION?'"




BRENDA, HER SCHOOL AND HER CLUB




I

FOUR FRIENDS


"What do suppose she'll be like?"

"How can I tell?"

"Well, Brenda Barlow, I should think you'd have _some_ idea--your own
cousin."

"Oh, that doesn't make any difference. I've hardly thought about her."

"But aren't you just a little curious?" continued the questioner, a
pretty girl with dark hair.

"No, Nora, I'm not. She's sixteen and a half--almost a year older than
we are. She's never lived in a big city, and that's enough."

"Oh, a country girl?"

"I don't know that she's a country girl exactly, but I just wish she
wasn't coming. She'll spoil all our fun."

"How?" asked a third girl, seated on the bottom step.

"Why, who ever heard of _five_ girls going about together? If three's a
crowd, five's a perfect regiment. I agree with Brenda that it's too bad
to have her come. Now when there's four of us we can pair off and have a
good time."

The last speaker had a long thin face with a determined mouth and large
china blue eyes. She was the only one of the four whom the average
observer would not call pretty. Yet in her little circle she had her own
way more often even than Brenda, who was not only somewhat of a tyrant,
but a beauty as well.

    "Brenda and Belle
     They carry a spell,"

the other girls were in the habit of singing, when the two _Bs_ had
accomplished something on which they had set their hearts. Edith, the
third of the group, in spite of her auburn hair, was the most amiable of
the four. I say "in spite" out of respect merely to the popular
prejudice. Nobody has ever proved that auburn hair really indicates
worse temper than hair of any other color. Edith almost always agreed
with any of the plans made by the others, and very often with their
opinions. Dark-haired Nora was the only one of the group who ever
ventured to dissent from the two _Bs_. Now she spoke up briskly,

"I know that I shall like your cousin."

"Why?" the other three exclaimed in a chorus.

"I can't tell you _why_, only that I know I shall."

"You're welcome to," said Brenda, tossing her head, "but I guess if you
had just begun to have your own house to yourself you wouldn't like
somebody else coming that you'd have to treat exactly like a sister."

"Why, Brenda!" said Nora, with a look of surprise, and then the others
remembered that Nora had had a little sister near her own age whose
death was a great sorrow to her.

"Why, Brenda!" repeated Nora, "I wish that I had a sister."

Now Brenda Barlow was not nearly as heartless as her words implied. She
had two sisters whom she loved very dearly. But they were both much
older than Brenda, and by petting and spoiling her they had to a large
extent helped to make her selfish. One of them had now been married for
four years, and had gone to California to live and the other was in
Paris completing her art studies. When Janet married, Brenda had not
realized the change in the family. But when Agnes went to Paris, Brenda
was older, and she fully felt her own importance as "Miss Barlow."

"It's the same as being 'Miss Barlow,'" she said to her friends, "the
servants call me so, and I've moved my things down into Janet's room. I
can invite any one I want to luncheon without asking whether Agnes has
any plans,--and I shouldn't wonder if I could have a dinner-party once
in a while--of course, not a _very_ late one, but with raw oysters to
begin with--sure--" and the other girls laughed, for they knew that
Brenda had been practising on raw oysters for a long time, and that she
felt proud of her present prowess in swallowing them without winking or
making a face.

Mr. Barlow was generally absorbed in business affairs, and Mrs. Barlow
had so many social engagements that Brenda did as she wished in most
respects. She ordered the servants about when her mother was out, and
they were as ready to obey her as her friends were to follow her lead,
for when Brenda wanted her own way she never seemed ill-natured. She
simply insisted with a very winning smile--and nobody could refuse her.

She had found it very pleasant to rule her little world. It was even
pleasanter than being the spoiled and petted child that she had been
when her sisters were at home. Her father and mother had never seen how
fond she was growing of her own way until they announced the coming of
her cousin Julia.

"She is older than you, Brenda, and I hear that she is far advanced in
her studies. I dare say that she will be able to help you sometimes."

"Oh, papa! I _hate_ to have any one help me. She'll be an awful bore, I
suppose, if she thinks she knows more than me----"

"Grammar, Brenda," said her mother with a smile.

"Well, then, more than _I_," repeated Brenda.

"I'm sure she won't be a bore, Brenda, but her life has been very
different from yours. She has led a quiet life, for you know she was her
father's constant companion until he died."

Here Mrs. Barlow sighed. Julia's mother was Mrs. Barlow's sister, and
had died when the little Julia was hardly five years old.

"Uncle Richard was always delicate?" ventured Brenda.

"Yes, dear, and he spent his life trying to find a place where he could
gain perfect health. Boston was too bleak for him, and that is why you
have not seen Julia since she was very little. Your uncle did not care
to undergo the fatigue of traveling East even in the summer, and he
could not bear to be parted from Julia. But she was always a sweet
little thing."

"I hope you won't be disappointed in her," cried Brenda, half in a
temper. "I believe you are going to care for her more than you do for
me."

"Nonsense, Brenda," exclaimed her mother in surprise.

"Well, you can't expect me to feel the same about her,--a strange
girl--who knows more than I, and is just enough older to make every one
expect me to look up to her. Oh, dear!"

Since Brenda had not concealed her feelings from her mother, it was
hardly to be expected that she would be less frank with her three most
intimate friends.

After Nora and Edith had bade Brenda good-bye that afternoon when they
had talked about the unknown cousin, they walked rather slowly up the
street.

"Do you suppose Brenda's jealous?" said Nora, in a half whisper.

"Oh, hush," answered Edith, to whom the word jealousy meant something
dreadful. "Of course not."

"Well, don't you think it's strange for her not to feel more pleased at
the prospect of having her cousin with her. I should think it would be
great fun to have another girl in the house."

"Oh, well, Brenda can always have one of us. Her mother is so good about
letting her invite people--and of course she can't tell how she'll get
along with her cousin. No, I really shouldn't like it myself."

As Nora and Edith walked away, Brenda turned to Belle, in whom she
always found a ready sympathizer.

"You know how I feel, Belle."

"Yes, indeed; I think it's too bad. I'm sure it will spoil half our fun.
It's horrid anyway to have some one older than yourself ordering you
round."

"Oh, I don't suppose she'll do that exactly."

"Well, it's just the same thing. If she's such a model, as your mother
says, she'll make you feel uncomfortable all the time. Then if she's
wearing mourning, she can't do the things that you do, and you'll have
to stay at home and be polite to her. Yes, I'm really sorry for you,
Brenda."

With sympathy like this, Brenda began to regard herself as almost a
martyr.

"Oh, dear," she sighed, "why couldn't she have waited until next winter?
Come, Belle," she continued, "you'll stay to dinner, won't you?"

Belle hesitated for a moment. "I suppose I _ought_ to go home."

"Oh, why?"

Belle was silent. She knew that certain unfinished lessons awaited her,
and that her grandmother objected to her dining away from home, unless
she had first asked permission. She fortified herself, however, by
saying to herself, "Oh, well, mother won't care." For her mother was
what is commonly known as easy-going, and seldom interfered with her
daughter's goings and comings.

Belle always enjoyed dining with Brenda. The dining-room was so
attractive with its great blazing fire, its heavy draperies and cheerful
oil-paintings on the wall. At home she sat down in a large, severely
furnished room, with her solemn grandmother wrapped in a white knitted
shawl at one end of the long table, her half-deaf uncle James at the
other end, and her brother Jack on the side opposite her. Her delicate
mother often dined upstairs. Uncle James usually had some story to tell
of misdeeds that he had heard some one ascribe to Jack ("and how a deaf
person can hear I don't see," Jack would say crossly to Brenda). Her
grandmother generally read Belle herself a lecture on paying proper
respect to one's elders, or some similar subject, while Belle and Jack
exchanged glances of mischievous intelligence, which often drew strong
reproofs from their grandmother, and sometimes from her mother when she
was present.

No wonder, then, that Brenda's invitation was a strong temptation to
Belle.

"Come, silence gives consent," laughed Brenda. Dragging Belle by the
arm, she touched the door-bell, and in a moment the two girls were
inside the house.

"What room is Julia going to have?" asked Belle, as they ran up the
front stairs.

"Well, you _will_ be surprised; that's one of the things that makes me
so cross. Just _think_ of it, Agnes's rooms in the L--that sweet little
studio that I wanted mamma to let me have--it's all fitted up for Julia.
Don't you call that mean?" Belle pressed her friend's hand.

"You poor thing!"

"Yes, it seems Agnes is sure not to come home for two years, and so
mamma thought the studio would be a good place for Julia to practice in,
and so there's a piano and--well--let's come and see. We've got time
before dinner."

Pushing open a door on the second floor and going down a step or two,
Brenda and Belle found themselves inside a little reception-room. The
walls were a deep red, there was a cashmere rug on the polished floor, a
clock and two bronze figures on the mantelpiece. An open bookcase in one
recess, a short lounge in the other, a low wicker tea-table, and two or
three small chairs made up the furnishing.

"This is just the same as it was," said Brenda, "and so is the
bedchamber," pointing to a door on the left of the reception-room, "but
see here!" and she turned to the right. Belle followed, and they found
themselves in a long, narrow room, with a bay window at one end and a
skylight overhead. On the walls were several large unframed sketches in
black and white, together with water colors and a number of fine
photographs and engravings in gilt or ebony frames. Against the wall
near the bay window stood a small upright piano with an elephant's cloth
scarf over the top. The groundwork of the scarf was of a deep yellow,
harmonizing with the tint of the painted walls. There were two or three
comfortable chairs covered in yellow-flowered chintz, and in the centre
an inlaid library table with a baize top and an assortment of writing
utensils. There were several rugs of a prevailing yellow tint on the
polished yellow floor, and one side of the room was occupied by rows of
low open book-shelves which held, however, only a few books.

"I believe Julia's going to have her father's library brought here,"
said Brenda, in explanation of the empty shelves. "Don't you _hate_
book-worms?"

"Yes," responded Belle, "but how _lovely_ this room is! What a _shame_
that you couldn't have it yourself! Why, I thought your mother said that
they were going to leave the studio just as it was until Agnes came
home."

"Well, so they were, but she won't be home for two years, and then
she'll probably have a studio down town, and so they've put most of her
things away and fitted up this room just for Julia. _She_ has to have
everything."

"I know just how you feel," and Belle pressed Brenda's hand
sympathetically. "But then, your own room is lovely."

"Oh, yes, of course; but it isn't the same thing as a studio. A studio
is so--so artistic."

The girls were standing in the bay window, bathed in a flood of sunshine
from the setting sun. They glanced across the broad river toward the
roofs and spires of Cambridge. A tug-boat went puffing along the stream
towing a schooner loaded with lumber.

"Oh, my, it must be late! the sun is just dropping behind those
Brookline Hills. Come up to my room."

The room on the floor above the studio which had formerly been Janet's,
also overlooked the river. It was in the main house and its windows
looked down on the roof of the L containing the studio. In fact, the
studio to a slight extent impeded the view of the river which was
obtainable from this upper room. But the room itself was large and
cheerful, with a carpet and paper of bluish tint, a large brass bedstead
canopied with blue, comfortable lounging chairs, a dainty little sofa,
dressing-table, desk, and all kinds of pretty ornaments. A half-open
door showed the adjoining dressing-room with its long pier-glass, and a
coal fire blazed in the open grate.

"Make yourself comfortable," said Brenda hospitably, "for if you don't
mind, I'm going to write a note that I want to send out by Thomas before
dinner. It won't take me ten minutes."

Brenda sat down at her little desk, while Belle sank in the depths of an
easy chair near the fire.

Just as Brenda finished her note, a white-capped maid came into the
room.

"Oh, Jane, just give this note to Thomas, please. I want him to take it
to Mrs. Grey's and bring back my new coat. I can't go to school
to-morrow without it."

"I don't hardly think Thomas can go, Miss Brenda."

"Why not?"

"Well, he's got to go to the station for your cousin."

"My cousin?"

"Yes, miss. A telegram came this afternoon that she'd be here at
six-thirty, and your mother left word when she went out that they
wouldn't be much later than that getting back from the train."

"Well, I never! The idea of her coming without any one's expecting her.
Why didn't she write?"

"I don't know, miss. I heard something about a letter that got lost, but
anyway your mother's gone to meet Miss Julia, and she left word she
thought you'd better give up going to the tableaux this evening, for she
wouldn't like you to leave your cousin alone."

"There, Belle, that's the way it's always going to be. Everything for
'Miss Julia.' I don't care, I'm going out just the same. The idea of
losing those tableaux."

"But, Brenda," began Belle.

"No, it isn't any good arguing with me. I never _could_ bear to be
interfered with, and mamma knows perfectly well that I want to see 'The
Succession of the Seasons.'"

"But it's to be repeated to-morrow evening. You know I'm going then."

"I don't care. I hate to go the second night to anything."

Belle did not reply, though as Jane left the room, she turned to Brenda.

"I'd better not stay to dinner to-night."

"Oh, do. I don't want to sit alone with Julia. I shan't know what to say
to her. No, really you can't go home."

Then running to the stairs and calling after Jane, Brenda cried,

"See that there's an extra place at the table for Belle."

After this she began to open the drawers of her bureau, tossing their
contents about, and she ran in and out of her closet to bring out one
gown after another for Belle's inspection.

"Which would you wear if you wanted to make a good impression on a new
cousin? I want to look as old as I can, and I believe I'll do up my
hair."

"Oh, Brenda!"

"Yes, I will. Now see, if I put a string on the band of this skirt it
will almost touch the floor. There, help me."

When the skirt was lengthened, Brenda regarded her reflection in the
pier-glass with great satisfaction. Brushing her waving brown hair to
the top of her head, she gathered it in a soft knot, and thrust a long
gold pin through it.

"Tell me the truth, Belle, wouldn't you think me sixteen years old--if
you didn't know," she cried to her friend, who could hardly conceal her
mirth at Brenda's changed aspect.

"I don't--why, yes, of course," as she saw a frown stealing across
Brenda's face.

Brenda strode around the room with all the dignity she could command,
her pretty face somewhat flushed by her exertions in giving her hair
just the right touch. As a matter of fact she looked rather odd, but
Belle did not dare tell her that her skirt hung unevenly, and that two
or three short locks of her hair stood out almost straight behind.

"Hark, I believe they've come," Brenda exclaimed.

Certainly there was a noise in the hall below.

"Where's Brenda?" she heard her mother call.

"Well, I suppose we'll have to go down," she said reluctantly to Belle,
and the two girls slowly descended the stairs.




II

JULIA'S ARRIVAL


As the two girls went downstairs, Brenda politely urged Belle to go
ahead of her. She, herself, lingered a moment to look over the
balusters, and thus, when they reached the broad hall at the foot of the
stairs, she was several steps behind her friend.

Belle, with a quick eye, before she reached the bottom of the stairs,
noticed a little group near the fireplace,--an elderly woman with a
shawl over her arm, who looked like a maid; Mrs. Barlow, holding the
hand of a slight girl in black, and last but not least, a large Irish
setter which lay at the young girl's feet. All this Belle had hardly
time to notice when the young girl rushed forward and throwing her arm
around her neck, cried,

"Oh, Cousin Brenda, I'm so glad to see you." Belle for a moment looked
disconcerted, and Mrs. Barlow, without showing any surprise at Belle's
presence, relieved the latter by saying:

"This isn't Brenda, Julia, but one of her friends."

Julia, still with her hand in Belle's, smiled pleasantly.

"I'm glad to see you," she said, and just at that moment Brenda came in
sight.

Julia was hastening forward to greet her cousin as she had greeted her
friend, but something in Brenda's face forbade her. Brenda could not,
perhaps, have explained why she felt so annoyed at Julia's mistake. She
was not unduly vain, yet it annoyed her that her cousin had mistaken
Belle for her. For well as she liked Belle, she knew that all the other
girls considered her not especially good-looking. Though she could not,
probably would not, have put it into words, the thought flashed through
her brain that Julia was stupid to have made such a mistake. The thought
took form in a rather repelling glance as her eye met her cousin's.

"Come, Brenda, you should not make Julia go more than half-way to meet
you," called her mother from her place near the fire.

"No'm," replied Brenda, hardly knowing what she said, for really she
felt a little shy about the new cousin, who was more than a year her
senior. "With her hand outstretched, she stepped toward Julia, moving
with the dignity that her lengthened skirt demanded.

"Dear me! What can it be?" she thought, as she felt something hindering
her progress. It could not be that the skirt was _too_ long. She stooped
a little to raise it from beneath her feet, and then, how mortifying!
she felt a string snap. She clutched wildly at her skirt with both
hands. But it was too late, and making the best of the situation, she
stood before her cousin in her short ruffled petticoat, instead of her
long, grown-up gown.

"There, Brenda," cried her mother, comprehending the situation at a
glance, for this was not the first time that Brenda had tried to
lengthen her skirts. "There, Brenda, I hope you won't be as foolish as
this again. Speak to your cousin, and then go up and put on your skirt
properly."

Poor Brenda! What a loss of dignity! She hardly knew what she said to
Julia, or what Julia said to her. She resented Belle's offer of help,
for had she not heard a decided giggle from her friend at the moment of
the catastrophe? So rushing to her room, she locked the door and did not
leave it until called to dinner.

Now Brenda, though by no means perfect, was not ill-natured, and she
seated herself at the table with the intention of making herself
agreeable to Julia.

But there are times when nothing seems to go exactly right, and this
evening was one of them. In the first place it disturbed Brenda to see
her father's glance of amusement as his eye fell on her new style of
hair-dressing.

"Which is it now?" he laughed, "Marie Antoinette or Queen Elizabeth?
Dear me, Brenda, it's a long time since we've seen you masquerading in
this fashion."

Brenda reddened. In spite of the mishap to her dress, she wished her
cousin to believe that she always wore her hair on the top of her head.
Vague hopes were floating through her mind that she could persuade her
mother to let her give up her childish pigtail altogether.

"Why does papa always say things like that?" and she reddened still more
as Julia's eyes fell on her. She remembered, however, her duties as
assistant hostess.

"Did you have a pleasant journey?" she asked politely.

"Yes, indeed," answered Julia. "That is, I was just a little tired, but
it was so delightful to look out of the car window and know that I was
really in Massachusetts. It seemed too good to be true."

Mr. Barlow looked pleased. "Ah, Julia, it gratifies me very much to have
you say this. Sometimes when people have traveled they lose their love
for their early home."

"Yes, Uncle Robert, I've always loved to think of Boston as my real
home. Although it's so long since we lived here."

"Why, what do you really remember of Boston?" asked Mr. Barlow.

"Well, the State-House, Uncle Robert, and the Common--of
course--and--and Brenda."

"Oh, you can't remember Brenda?"

"Yes, indeed I can. She was the dearest little thing! You see when I was
five years old, Brenda seemed almost a baby--a year and a half between
two girls makes a good deal of difference,--when they're little."

But even this last saving clause did not prevent Brenda's heart from
giving a sudden thump, especially as she caught a sympathetic glance
from Belle which seemed to say,

"Ah, she's reminding you how much older she is than you."

Brenda straightened herself up. She tried to think of something to say
that would show that though younger, she at least had some knowledge of
the world.

"Can you eat raw oysters, Julia?" were the rather strange words that
came to her lips. Julia, unable naturally to follow the train of thought
leading to this question, answered brightly,

"I've never tried. You see we don't have very good oysters in the West,
and some way I've never thought I'd like them raw."

"Oh, if you want to seem really grown-up you'll have to eat oysters off
the shell," said Mrs. Barlow. "I believe Brenda has practised so that
she can eat them without wincing."

Then Belle, who prided herself on her tact, hastened to change what she
knew might become a sore subject with Brenda.

"Were there many people you knew on the train, Miss----"

"Oh, please say Julia," broke in the young girl. "Every one always does.
No, there wasn't any one I knew in the cars between here and Chicago. If
I had not had Eliza I should have been very lonely."

Brenda had subsided into an unwonted silence. She was wondering how she
could excuse herself to her cousin--whether her mother would really make
her give up the tableaux for that evening. She heard, without really
listening, an animated conversation between her father and Belle on the
best way of learning history. Belle believed that more could be learned
by general reading than by studying a text-book. "Belle always has so
many theories," Brenda was in the habit of saying.

"I wish Jane would hurry with the coffee," she cried.

"Why, Brenda," and her mother looked surprised. "You are not going to
have coffee."

"Of course, you know you always let me have a little cup when I'm going
out."

"But you are not going anywhere to-night. Didn't you get my message?"

Brenda understood well enough that her mother did not wish to discuss
the question of her leaving her cousin when Julia herself was present,
yet she persisted.

"But, mamma----"

Mrs. Barlow shook her head. "There is nothing to be said. You know,
Brenda, when I mean a thing I mean it."

Julia looked a trifle embarrassed, realizing that in some way she was a
hindrance to a full discussion between her aunt and cousin.

Brenda's face was twisted into a curious scowl. She was forgetting her
duty to her cousin.

"Oh, mamma, I've made up my mind to go."

"No, Brenda, it is impossible. Let us hear no more about it."

"What is it, Brenda, that you wish to do?" asked Mr. Barlow, who while
talking with Belle had only half heard the conversation between Brenda
and her mother.

Mrs. Barlow shook her head. She did not care to enter into a discussion
before Julia likely to make the young girl feel that her arrival had
interfered with any plan of Brenda's.

Then Belle, who realized that she was not always in favor with Mrs.
Barlow, saw her opportunity.

"If Brenda will change with me, she can have my ticket for to-morrow
evening."

"Why, that is very kind in you, Belle, but have you time to get ready?"

"Oh, yes, if you'll excuse me now," and before Brenda could remonstrate,
she saw Belle receive the tickets from Mrs. Barlow's hands and heard her
hasty words of good-bye as she started home under the escort of Thomas.

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Barlow took any notice of the cloud on Brenda's
face. Fortunately they could not read her reflections on the duplicity
of Belle, who after pitying her so in the afternoon, had now begun to
side against her. This at least was the form which Brenda's thoughts
took. Rightly or wrongly she considered herself an ill-used young
person.

Just then the maid entered with a letter on a salver. Mrs. Barlow
glanced at it and then laughed.

"This explains the mystery, Julia, you wrote 'New York' instead of
'Boston,' and so your letter has been two days longer than it should
have been in reaching us."

"Oh, did I, Aunt Anna? How stupid! Well, you have treated me much better
than my carelessness deserved."

"Well, I'm only glad that I happened to be at home when your telegram
came. It would have been a little cheerless for you had you happened to
arrive when we were all out. But come, you must be tired."

"Oh, not very." Then, as they left the room, Julia threw her arm around
Brenda.

"I know that we shall be great friends."

Already Brenda had begun to return to herself. She hoped that Julia had
not noticed her ill-temper. Perhaps after all she should like this new
cousin better than she had expected.

"If I were you, Brenda, I'd take Julia to her room now," said Mrs.
Barlow.

"How lovely!" exclaimed Julia, as they entered the pretty bedroom near
the studio. "Am I to have this all to myself?"

"Yes," replied Brenda.

"I never saw so pretty a room! How I _shall_ enjoy it! Whose used it to
be?"

"Oh, it was Agnes's room. She had it decorated to suit her ideas. You
know she's an artist."

"Oh, yes. How delightful to be an artist. I wish that I had some special
talent."

"I thought you had. Some one, mamma I think, said that you were
musical."

"So I am in a way. I've given more time to music than to anything else.
But that was chiefly to please papa."

Here Julia sighed, while Brenda hardly knew what to say.

"You must miss him very much," she ventured.

"Oh, don't speak of it, Brenda. I can't bear to think that he is really
gone." And Julia's tears began to fall.

"What shall I say?" thought Brenda, and as her words of sympathy were
beginning to take shape, her mother entered the room. Wisely enough, she
made no comment on Julia's tears, believing that they would flow less
freely if she seemed to take no notice of them.

"I have come to see if you are perfectly comfortable. To-night Eliza
will sleep on the lounge in your room, and after this we will arrange a
bed for her in the room across the hall. In either case you will not
feel lonely."

When Julia had thanked her aunt for her kindness, Mrs. Barlow drew
Brenda one side.

"Now, Brenda, we must bid your cousin good-night," and then, with a
final word or two of advice to Julia, Mrs. Barlow with Brenda left the
room.

"I'm going to bed now, mamma," said Brenda, as they reached the hall.

"Very well, I haven't time myself to tell you that I think you have
behaved very foolishly this evening. I hope you will be more sensible
to-morrow."

"Good-night," cried Brenda, without making any promises.

When she was within her own room she flung herself down on her bed.

"I know just how it will be," she said to herself. "I can never do what
I want to. It will always be 'Julia, Julia.' She isn't so bad herself,
but it's the way every one will treat me that I hate."

With these confused words on her lips she began to get ready for bed.




III

THE RESCUE


Brenda started for school a little later than usual the morning after
Julia's arrival. As she walked up Beacon Street she saw Edith and Nora
ahead of her, half-way up the slope on the sidewalk next the Common.

"Oh, dear, they might look back," she said to herself. But they neither
looked back nor paused on their way, and Brenda was prevented from
hurrying by a line of wagons and street cars which blocked Charles
Street. She was kept standing for two or three minutes at the street
crossing, and when she continued her way Edith and Nora had turned into
the side street leading to the school. When Brenda reached the school
door, Belle was the centre of a group of girls seated on the steps.

"Why didn't you call for me, Belle?" cried Brenda petulantly.

"Oh, I had to do some errands on the way, and I thought, too, that you
would stay home with your cousin."

"Well! I should say not. I shall see enough of her."

"Tell us about her, Brenda," cried Nora who came out from the house for
a moment. "Belle says she has come. What _is_ she like?"

"Like? Why, like any girl. There's nothing special about her. She wears
black and I think she feels kind of superior. It's going to be awfully
hard for me."

"Yes, Brenda," said a thin-faced girl in the group back by Belle. "You
don't think any one could be superior to you, do you?"

Brenda, with her back to the sidewalk, was ready with a sharp reply,
when a warning look from one of the girls closed her lips.

"Why, girls," said a cheerful voice behind her, "ought you not to go
inside now? You should be in your seats by twenty minutes past nine. I
have said many times that you were not to wait for me."

The girls all respected Miss Crawdon, and they were just a little afraid
of her. Her authority was not always agreeable, when she chose to make
them feel it. Miss Crawdon was tall and blonde, with eyes some one said
"that saw everything." These were the right kind of eyes for the
principal of a girls' school. She had a pleasant voice with a tone of
decision in it that no one dared dispute. At her words the girls seated
on the steps slowly arose, and in a very short time they were at their
desks, getting out books and preparing for the day's work.

Brenda and Belle occupied adjacent seats. Edith and Nora were in the
same room, though a little nearer the window. They with about ten other
girls formed what might be called the middle class of a school of forty.
There were about fifteen older girls who would stay in school one or two
years longer, while Brenda and her friends had three years before them.
At least they would not "come out" for three years.

The older girls naturally kept much to themselves. They "did up" their
hair, wore skirts almost touching the ground, and were in every way
envied by their juniors. The youngest girls of all concerned themselves
very slightly about the oldest of all. But the girls of Brenda's age
imitated in many ways the doings of these older girls, and when, as
occasionally happened, one of the graduating class invited a younger
girl to walk with her at recess, the latter for a day or two after was
treated with great deference by her companions.

These oldest girls were not ahead of their schoolmates in all their
studies. In Latin and mathematics some of them recited with the younger
girls, or it might be fairer to say that some of the brighter young
girls were in the classes with the elder. Edith, for example, was ahead
of Brenda in mathematics, and her class almost through geometry, was
planning to go into trigonometry.

The discipline of the school was not unduly strict, yet after the
opening, girls were not expected to speak to one another without special
permission. In this matter they were put rather on their honor, for no
special punishment was inflicted for disobedience. A word of
disapprobation was usually the most severe reproof, although, in rare
cases, girls had been kept after school. Nora, whose intentions were
always good, was, of the four friends whom we have been observing, the
most likely to break some of the unwritten laws of the school. She
always saw the funny side of things, and it was very hard for her to
keep still when she wished to share her fun with somebody else. Belle
was no more scrupulous than Nora about observing rules, but she could
whisper to her neighbor in a quiet way without attracting attention.
Edith was really a conscientious, painstaking girl. On this account some
of those who did not know her well called her a "bore." Brenda was good
or bad by fits and starts. Sometimes for a week she devoted herself to
her lessons. She would then put her finger to her lips when Nora, in
passing her desk, bent over her to tell her some bit of news. She would
pretend not to understand when Belle laid a small piece of folded paper
on her desk, and she would keep her eyes fixed on her books when any
other girl tried to distract her attention. To-day, however, it was
different. In the first place she did not know her lesson very well and
did not feel like studying. In the half-hour in which she was supposed
to be doing her Latin exercise her mind constantly wandered, and she
could not help seeing that Belle was anxious to tell her something. At
length the little wad of paper fell on her desk.

"The tableaux were perfectly splendid! You ought to have been there."

Brenda nodded sadly. Surely this was not kind of Belle, who knew that
only stern necessity had kept her at home.

"I suppose the tableaux will be as good to-night," and a second note
fell on Brenda's desk, "but there won't be half as many people you know.
Everybody was there last night. Shall you take Julia?"

Again Brenda nodded, but by this time she was growing impatient. Leaning
forward toward Belle's desk, "Keep still, can't you, Belle," she
exclaimed in a voice intended to be a whisper. Unfortunately her voice
was louder than she thought, and she was recalled to herself by Miss
Crawdon's voice, "Be careful, Brenda," and Brenda applied herself to her
books until the hour arrived for the Latin lesson.

At recess Belle, pretending not to see Brenda, joined two of the older
girls and walked with them for the half hour, while Brenda and Nora and
Edith sat on the steps.

"Why didn't you know your Latin lesson?" asked Brenda of Edith. "I never
knew you to stumble so, and you couldn't give a single rule."

"Well, you know I didn't study yesterday afternoon. I meant to, but it
was too lovely to go in the house, and then last evening I went to the
tableaux. It seemed hard to have to stay home to study though I suppose
I should have. You didn't know your own lesson very well, Brenda,
although you stayed home all the evening."

"But, you see, I had company----"

"You'll find it hard to do your lessons if you make company of Julia.
Isn't she coming to school too?"

"Oh, I guess so. Won't it be hateful to have her in the class above us?"

"Perhaps she won't be. Didn't you say she hadn't been at school much?"

"Oh, girls who have studied at home always think they know more than any
one else. Oh, there, there!" and Brenda paused in her speech as a little
child playing on the opposite sidewalk ran out into the street in front
of the very wheels of a passing wagon. For a moment all held their
breath, then Nora with a leap and a run was down the steps and in the
street. Before the child realized its own danger she had snatched it
from in front of the horses, and had dragged it to the sidewalk. The
teamster, a rather stupid-looking man, had dismounted from his place.

"Waal, now, the child ain't hurt, I guess," he said to the girl, "I
pulled up as soon as I heard you holler, but it was such a little mite
of a thing that I couldn't hardly see it."

"Oh, it wasn't your fault," Brenda and Edith exclaimed. "It ran out so
quickly, but if you hadn't stopped your horses, it might have been
killed."

After assuring himself that the child was not really hurt, the teamster
went on, the child himself, surrounded by a group of curious girls,
clung closely to Nora's hand--a forlorn little thing--with bare feet and
a torn pinafore. The mud spattered over his face did not show very
distinctly on his dark skin. One small hand he had thrust into his eye,
and behind it the tears were slowly trickling down. Nora held the other
hand, and the child clung to her as if never intending to let go.

"What's your name, little boy?" cried one of the girls.

The child only sobbed.

"Here, Amy, give him a piece of your banana. He looks like an Italian
fruit-seller's child. He'll eat a banana."

But the little boy was not to be tempted.

Just then the noon bell sounded from the schoolroom.

"There, Nora, let him go, he'll find his way home," suggested one of the
girls.

"Oh, no, I'm sure he's hurt. Where do you live, little boy?"

Still no reply. The other girls went back into school, while Nora walked
irresolutely toward the door, holding the child's hand. As she stood at
the foot of the steps wondering what to do, Miss Crawdon appeared at the
door with Brenda and Edith who had hurried to tell her about the child.

"Is the little fellow hurt?" she asked with interest.

"Not really hurt, perhaps, but awfully frightened, and I'm sure he
doesn't live anywhere around here. I don't want to leave him when I go
into school, what _shall_ I do?"

"Don't look so distressed, Nora," said Miss Crawdon smiling. "I'm not
sure myself what is best." Then, after a moment's reflection, "You may
send him down to the basement with the janitor, and later I will see
what can be done."

So Nora, saying all the reassuring things that she could to the child,
left him with the janitor, Mr. Brown, although this separation was
accompanied with loud cries and shrieks on the part of the little boy.

It was very hard for Nora and the others to remain perfectly quiet
during the hour and a half that remained of school. They were anxious to
exchange questions about the child, to speculate about his home, and I
am sure that the little boy was more in the thoughts of Brenda, Edith,
and Nora than their lessons.

Belle had missed the excitement of the morning, for at the moment of the
accident she and the two older girls whom she had joined, were out of
sight of the school walking in another street.

She had returned to the schoolroom hardly half a minute before the end
of recess, when there was really no time to ask a question. She did not
dare to ask a question of Brenda, who still wore an unamiable
expression.

When half-past one came, however, Brenda and Belle forgot their little
disagreement, and hastened after Nora to learn what she was going to do
with her protege.

"Now, I'll tell you girls, just what I'm going to do. Miss Crawdon says
it will be all right. Brenda and I are going with Mrs. Brown to see
where Manuel lives--we have found out that his name is Manuel. We can
get some luncheon here, and please, please, stop at my house, Belle, and
tell my mother, and you, Edith, at Brenda's."

"Why don't you let Mrs. Brown go alone?"

"Oh, it will be so much more fun to go too."

"You can't find his house."

"Oh, yes; it will be somewhere down Hanover Street. Mrs. Brown knows. If
we take him there, he'll lead us on. Oh, it will be great fun."

"I don't believe your mother would like you to go without letting her
know."

"Well, I just have to go. I'm sure she won't care."

Though Nora was so confident, Brenda had some misgivings. She knew that
she really ought to be at home, but the temptation to go with Nora was
too strong to resist.

So, soon after two o'clock the strange procession began its march toward
Hanover Street, Manuel walking between Nora and Brenda, while Mrs. Brown
brought up the rear. Manuel was still silent.

"If he were a girl he'd talk more," said Nora.

Manuel showed very little interest in the whole proceeding. In fact he
seemed so tired that Mrs. Brown would have carried him had he not
resisted her efforts to take him in her arms.




IV

A CLUB MEETING


The strange procession had not gone very far when Nora heard some one
behind calling her name. It was Miss Crawdon, who, as Nora turned
around, signalled her to stop.

"Oh, Brenda, Miss Crawdon wishes to speak to us."

In a moment their teacher had overtaken them.

"I must reconsider my promise to you, or at least, Nora, you partly
misunderstood what I said. It will not do at all for you to go home with
this little boy. Your mother would blame me very much."

"Oh, Miss Crawdon," pouted Brenda. Nora, too, showed her disappointment.

"Now, Brenda, consider what it means. In the first place it is uncertain
whether or not you could find his home. In the second place you might
have to go into some dirty street or alley. With your mother's consent I
should have nothing to say, but as it is----"

"Well, can't we go as far as Scollay Square? We could get a car there
and go straight home."

Miss Crawdon hesitated a moment.

"As it happens," she replied, "I have to go in that direction myself. We
will walk together, and I will see you safely on your car. Mrs. Brown
and Manuel may lead the way."

"Isn't he cunning!" exclaimed Brenda, as the little boy looked over his
shoulder at the girls, with one little hand doubled up against his eye,
and his other clutching Mrs. Brown's skirt.

"I wish he would talk to us," responded Nora. "Where do you live, little
boy?" Manuel smiled knowingly. "There," he said, waving his hand
indefinitely toward the Square, across which the electric cars were
whizzing.

"Oh, no," cried Nora, "nobody lives there; there are shops and a hotel,
and----"

"Birdies, birdies, there," cried Manuel.

Even Miss Crawdon smiled as Manuel ran up to a shop window, and pounded
the glass, somewhat to the dismay of the parrots exhibited there in
their cages.

"Well, he seems to know this shop," said Mrs. Brown. "We might wait here
for a minute."

At the other side of the shop around the corner was a doorway in which
sat a woman with a basket of fruit for sale. Manuel himself was the
first to catch sight of her, and rushing forward with a flying leap, he
almost knocked her basket over. The little boy had found his tongue, and
chattering like a magpie, he pointed toward the ladies. The woman,
rising from the step on which she had been sitting, came toward the
little group. In broken English she explained that Manuel was her
youngest boy, and that sometimes she let him go with her on her round of
fruit-selling. Lately she had had her stand near this bird store, and in
some way on this particular day, Manuel had wandered away from her.

"You must have been worried," said Nora.

"Oh, no," she answered philosophically; "me thought him gone home."

Then Brenda, who had hitherto kept silent, broke in with a graphic
account of the fate Manuel had escaped through Nora's bravery. The
mother probably only half comprehending the young girl's rapid flow of
words, smiled and showed her white teeth. "T'ank you, t'ank you," she
said. "You come and see him some day," she added, in a general
invitation to the group.

"Come, girls, we must hasten," said Miss Crawdon. "Mrs. Brown will take
down Manuel's address. Then, if your mothers are willing, you may go to
see him some day."

Rather reluctantly Nora and Brenda bade good-bye to black-eyed Manuel
and his mother. They gave Mrs. Brown many injunctions to make no mistake
about his house and street. On Saturday they both hoped to be able to go
to see him.

To them the whole thing presented the aspect of an adventure.

"I never spoke to a foreigner before in Boston, did you?" said Nora, "I
mean except French teachers," she added.

"No, not a poor foreigner," responded Brenda. "Wasn't that woman
picturesque, with her shawl over her head?"

As they drew near home both girls began to feel a little doubtful as to
the wisdom of what they had done.

"Well, your mother never scolds," said Brenda, as she bade good-bye to
Nora at the door of the latter.

"Why, yours doesn't either," exclaimed Nora.

"Oh, you don't know," and Brenda shook her head. "There's Julia now----"

"Nonsense," laughed Nora, running up the steps. "Good-bye, now. I'm
coming to see Julia this afternoon. You know I expect to like her."

"Your lunch is waiting, Miss Brenda," said the maid as Brenda started up
the front stairs toward her room.

"Oh, I've had my luncheon," replied Brenda. "You don't think I'd wait
until this time."

"Brenda," called her mother from the library, "it's half-past three.
Where have you been since school?"

"Oh, dear!" grumbled Brenda to herself. "I don't see why I have to give
an account of every step I take. I'll be down in a minute," she called
out, as she continued her way upstairs. When she descended to the
library, she hastened forward with a polite "Good-afternoon" to Julia,
who was seated before the fire with a book in her lap.

"Julia has been reading to me," said her mother.

"We have had a very pleasant hour," added Julia.

"But tell me where you have been," said Brenda's mother. "You know that
it is a rule that you should come directly home----"

Brenda tossed her head.

"Oh, I asked Belle to come and tell you."

"She may have left word that you were not coming, I think that Thomas
gave me some message, but let us hear where you have been."

Mrs. Barlow spoke pleasantly, for she knew by the cloud on Brenda's face
that there might be a storm if for the present she said too much about
her absence from luncheon.

"Yes," added Julia, "do tell us where you have been. I have an idea that
you have had an adventure."

"How could you guess?" exclaimed Brenda, and then, with the ice broken
by these words of Julia's, she gave her mother an animated account of
Nora's bravery, Manuel's beauty and the fruit-woman's picturesqueness.

Mrs. Barlow and Julia were interested. Brenda had a graphic way of
telling a story, and the events of the morning lost nothing by her
telling. But Mrs. Barlow shook her head when Brenda spoke of visiting
Manuel in his home.

"It might not be at all a proper place," she said, "and besides,
Manuel's mother may not care to have strangers visit her. Poor people
sometimes are very sensitive about such things."

Before Brenda had time to argue this point with her mother, the portiere
was pushed aside and Belle and Edith came into the room. Julia rose to
shake hands with Belle, while Edith with a very sweet smile, stepping
toward her, said:

"I am glad to see you. I am one of 'the Four.' Brenda's told you about
us. I am Edith."

Julia felt strongly drawn to the pleasant-faced girl. She liked her
better than Belle, although on the two occasions of their meeting the
latter had been markedly polite to her.

"Yes, we're all here now except Nora. We ought to be ready to give her a
serenade, or something like that when she comes. She's really a kind of
a heroine, isn't she?"

"Oh, nonsense, Edith," said Belle. "She did not actually do so very
much. Those horses were not running away, and a little paddy like that
child has as many lives as a cat."

"He _isn't_ a paddy," interrupted Brenda, "but a Portuguese,--a dear
little Portuguese--and Nora was very brave. It's just like you, Belle,
to think that a thing isn't of any account unless you have had something
to do with it."

Belle was silent. In the presence of a stranger she never forgot her
good manners, and Julia was still sufficiently a stranger to act as a
check on the sharp reply which otherwise might have risen to her lips.
Edith now came in as a peacemaker.

"Well, it was great fun to have anything out of the ordinary happen at
school. You can't imagine," turning to Julia, "how stupid it is to have
things go on in the same way day after day. Last week there was a fire
alarm about two blocks away, and just think, the engines passed scarcely
five minutes after recess was over, and Miss Crawdon wouldn't let us run
out to see where the fire was."

"Naturally not," said Mrs. Barlow, as she left the room, adding, as she
passed out,

"By the time you are ready, Julia, the carriage will be here."

"Yes, Aunt Anna," answered Julia, and she, too, after a few pleasant
words with Edith, excused herself with the explanation that her aunt had
promised to accompany her to do some important errands down town.

"Come upstairs with me," said Brenda, with an air of relief, as Julia
left. "There's Nora, now, I know her ring of the bell."

Nora soon joined the other three in Brenda's pretty bedroom.

"Here we are, all four together again," exclaimed Brenda, as she threw
herself down on the chintz-covered sofa. "It's so much pleasanter not to
have any strangers about."

"Do you call your cousin a stranger?" asked Nora.

"Why, yes, any one can see that she's terribly serious, and that she
won't take a bit of interest in the things we do."

"Aren't you going to ask her to join the Four Club?"

"Well, then it wouldn't be a Four Club. Besides five is a horrid number.
You never can plan things together when there are five."

"But you can't leave her out."

"I don't see why not. She'll have other things to do in the
afternoon--like to-day. We needn't tell her about the Club at all, need
we?"

Edith and Nora, to whom Brenda seemed to appeal, said nothing. Belle was
looking out of the window, and though she usually would have agreed with
Brenda, they had lately had so many little disagreements, that she would
not gratify her friend by assenting to her words.

Brenda, however, perceiving that her views were not shared by the other
three girls, decided to avoid discussing Julia any further.

"Let us come to order like a club," she exclaimed, "and decide what we
shall work for this winter."

In the preceding spring the four friends had decided that it would be
very interesting to give their occasional meetings a club form. Instead
of passing their afternoons in mere idle talk, they would have some
object. They would all do fancy work, and perhaps have a sale in the
spring for some charity. Each of the girls had already spent all her
spare pocket-money on materials for needlework, although as yet they had
made but little headway in their work. Nor had they decided for what
object the sale should be held.

"It's a good deal like counting your chickens before they are hatched,"
Mrs. Barlow had said when Brenda consulted her on the subject. "It would
be better to wait until you have enough work for a sale, before deciding
what to do with your money."

In her heart Mrs. Barlow doubted that the girls would make enough money
to be worth giving to any institution. She doubted even that they would
persevere in their work, and have a sale. Brenda, herself, was too apt
to begin with enthusiasm some undertaking which after a while she would
let languish until it came to nothing. In this case Brenda was indignant
at her mother's want of faith.

"Now you know that I'm older than I used to be, and I'm perfectly in
earnest about wanting an object to work for."

"Very well, Brenda," said Mrs. Barlow smiling, "I certainly will not
interfere, only you must give me time to think of a beneficiary for your
money."

Now if the girls had started with a definite object to work for, their
club meetings would have lost much of their interest. As it was, more
than half their time was spent in earnest discussions of the merit of
different institutions. Edith thought that a hospital was the noblest
object of charity, although the others objected that the City or the
State usually looked after hospitals. Nora hoped their money would be
given to some orphan asylum, or a home for old persons, Belle believed
that there was nothing so worthy as the Institution for the Blind, and
Brenda changed her point of view from week to week.

"What are we to work for _this_ week, Brenda?" asked Belle, somewhat
derisively, as she opened her sewing-bag.

"Oh, I don't know. We're not working for anything in particular." Then,
as her eye met Nora's, a new idea came.

"Oh, I'll tell you what, girls,--let us work for--Manuel!"

[Illustration: "'OH, I'LL TELL YOU WHAT, GIRLS,--LET US WORK FOR--MANUEL!'"]




V

MISS CRAWDON'S SCHOOL


A girl's first day at a new school is very trying to her. The scrutiny
which two or three dozen pairs of sharp young eyes give her is hard to
bear. This ordeal is often more dreaded by a girl than many of the
important events of her later years. Now Julia, although she was to go
to school in her cousin Brenda's company, looked forward to her first
day with considerable anxiety. In the first place she was naturally shy,
and in the second place she had never regularly attended school. For the
most part her lessons had been given her by her father. But at times
when they had stayed long enough in some place to make this possible,
she had had special instruction from private teachers. Her father had
been very fond of books and had bought many expressly for Julia's
benefit. She was, therefore, much better read than most girls of her
age. Her education, too, was ahead of that of the average girl of
sixteen. Of this fact Julia herself was unaware. She fancied that
because she had gone to school so little, she would be found far behind
her cousin Brenda and Brenda's friends. Before going to school she had
had an informal talk with Miss Crawdon, in which she had revealed more
to the keen mind of the latter than she had suspected. For Miss Crawdon
never wasted words, and she did not tell the young girl that in some
studies she was far ahead of many of her pupils of the same age. The
teacher's questions had been far-reaching, and she felt pleased at the
prospect of having among her pupils one evidently so fond of books as
Julia.

The young girl, on the contrary, on the way to school with her cousin,
expressed to the latter her fear at the prospect before her.

"Oh, you needn't worry," said Brenda, more patronizingly than she really
intended, "Miss Crawdon won't be hard with you, she knows you haven't
been at school much, and even if you have to start in one of the lower
classes, you'll probably be able to push on rather quickly."

But even this did not reassure Julia. She was thinking less of her
standing in the classes than of the reception she should meet from the
girls. It was by no means comforting to feel the many strange eyes that
followed her as she walked up the stairs with Brenda to enter the main
schoolroom. Miss Crawdon was busy in another room, and Brenda who always
had a great many things on her mind, rushed off to speak to one of the
girls, leaving Julia alone near the door. There were perhaps a dozen
girls standing about in little groups of three or four. They did not
mean to be unkind, but when they saw Julia, they not only glanced
curiously toward her, but for the time ceased their conversation. When
they began to talk again it was not in the loud tone they had used
before, and Julia would have been less than human if she had not
received the impression that they were talking about her. Every one
knows how uncomfortable it is for a girl to feel that she is in the
presence of people who are making comments upon her. As a matter of fact
what they said to one another was almost harmless.

"Is she Brenda Barlow's cousin?"

"What is she in mourning for?"

"How old is she?"

"Do you suppose she is coming here to school?"

This was the kind of question exchanged by the girls, with here and
there a less good-natured comment.

"I don't call her so very pretty."

"She doesn't look like Brenda."

"Wouldn't you say that dress was made in the year one. I never saw such
sleeves."

Unluckily the girl who made this last remark was standing rather nearer
Julia than she had realized. It happened that Julia herself, who usually
cared little for fashion, was sensitive about these very sleeves. They
had been made a little smaller than the prevailing mode required by a
dressmaker whom Julia had employed in a spirit of kindness without
regard to her skill. She had not remembered when dressing that this was
to be her first day at school. When she did recall this fact she had not
thought it worth while to change her gown. She flushed a little when she
overheard the criticism, and walked farther away from the groups toward
Miss Crawdon's desk.

As she stood there looking more serious than usual, she was more than
pleased to hear Nora's well-known voice exclaiming,

"Why, Julia, are you here all alone? Where's Brenda? Dear me, is this
really your first day of school?"

Julia smiled. "I can't answer all your questions at once, but I _don't_
know where Brenda is, and this _is_ to be my first day of school."

"Is that why you look so mournful? Now we're not such a bad lot. Come,
let me introduce you to some of your companions in misery." Then before
Julia could object, she found herself receiving introductions to most of
the girls in the room, even to the very one whose criticism had annoyed
her. She was a thin girl with light hair and eyes and eyelashes. Her
chin was long and her face was somewhat freckled.

"This is Brenda Barlow's cousin Julia," said Nora, pleasantly.

"Yes, I thought you were Brenda's cousin," said the light-haired girl
turning toward Julia. "Brenda's been dreading your coming to school."

Julia flushed as any girl might at a remark of this kind, even while she
realized the unkindness of the speech.

"Nonsense, Frances," said quick-witted Nora, "I'm sure you never heard
Brenda say anything so disagreeable."

But the light-haired girl had turned away. She was in the habit of
making thoughtless remarks without caring whom they hit. Nora gave
Julia's hand a gentle squeeze. "Brenda's just as glad as I am that
you're coming to school," she whispered to Julia. But Julia shook her
head, half sadly. She had already begun to see some of her cousin's
peculiarities.

By this time many girls were rushing in from the dressing-rooms laughing
and chattering as if they must say as much as possible before school
began.

A few curious eyes were turned toward Julia, but most of the girls were
so absorbed in their own affairs that they took no notice of the tall
slender stranger in her black dress.

When Miss Crawdon returned to the room she welcomed Julia very
cordially.

"I have arranged a seat for you here at the side near me," she said. "I
had to have an extra desk brought in as there was no vacant place. But I
dare say that you will not mind being by yourself here."

The seat to which Miss Crawdon pointed was in a little alcove at one
side of her desk. It was so placed that it commanded a view of all the
other desks in the room, yet it was not as conspicuous from the other
desks as it seemed to poor Julia. When she took her seat she felt as if
every one was looking at her. Whereas, in fact, only the girls in the
very front rows could see her plainly. Between Miss Crawdon's desk and
the front seat there was a row of settees where those girls who formed
Miss Crawdon's special classes, sat during recitation. There were other
class-rooms in various parts of the house, but the more advanced girls
recited either to Miss Crawdon or to teachers in the small adjoining
room.

Although Julia was less conspicuous than she imagined, it was not long
before the whole school realized that a new girl had arrived. Most of
them were too polite to show any surprise, but as each class filed
through the room on its way to the recitation-room, many curious glances
were thrown in her direction.

Miss Crawdon had told Julia that she would require no regular work from
her that day.

"Perhaps you would like to look over this history," she had added,
giving her a book, "and after recess, you may like to join the class. By
listening to the other classes this morning you will get an idea of the
kind of work I expect."

So Julia divided the two hours before recess between listening to the
recitations and glancing over the history. It happened to be a history
of France, and the special chapter was one dealing with the reign of
Louis XIV. Julia paid much less attention to the book than she did to
the girls who were reciting. It was all so new to her, for it was really
true that she had never been in a school before. She admired the skill
with which Miss Crawdon asked questions, and she wondered if she would
ever be able to give replies herself, as clear as those of some of the
girls. Yet not all the girls, she observed, knew their lesson, and some
of them showed great cleverness in concealing--or trying to conceal this
ignorance from Miss Crawdon. The latter was unusually proficient in
reading girls, and she generally recognized the evasive answer that was
intended to conceal lack of knowledge. The second class of the morning
was one in English history, the period, the beginning of the reign of
Mary. Julia had been engaged with her own book, but she looked up to
hear Miss Crawdon saying, "So Mary succeeded one of the Princes murdered
in the tower, at least I understood you to say Edward V."

"Yes," answered a voice which Julia recognized as that of Brenda's
friend Belle, "yes, she succeeded her brother, the murdered prince, who
had been beheaded by Katharine of Arragon."

Miss Crawdon did not smile, and Belle could not see the look of surprise
on the faces of some of her classmates. But unfortunately she could see
Julia's face and the involuntary smile on the latter's lips. She turned
very red, and while Miss Crawdon proceeded to set her right, she
registered a vow of dislike against that "prig of a Julia" who evidently
knew more history than she did. Julia, too, caught the disagreeable look
that flashed from Belle's eyes, and she greatly regretted that smile.
Belle was one of those girls who seldom study a lesson thoroughly. She
always had vague general ideas of the topic under consideration, gained
by a rapid survey of the pages assigned for a lesson. When she could do
so unobserved, sometimes during recitation she would look between the
covers of her book to refresh her lagging memory. Nora and Edith and
Brenda were also in the class with her, and sometimes one or the other
of them would prompt her to save her from disgrace. Nora occasionally
had pangs of conscience, and announced that she considered looking in a
book or prompting, dishonorable. But sometimes she yielded to Belle's
signals for help over a hard place. Belle did not often signal, for she
relied as a general thing on her own fluency of language to conceal her
lack of knowledge. Miss Crawdon, however, had what Belle called an
aggravating way of making her repeat her words until her mistakes were
displayed in all their nakedness to the rest of the class.

"It's bad enough," she said to a group surrounding her at recess. "It's
bad enough to have Miss Crawdon always down on one, but really I can't
stand it if Julia is to sit where she can watch everything I do when I'm
reciting to Miss Crawdon. I shouldn't think that you girls would like it
either," she concluded.

"Oh, we're not afraid; we generally know our lessons," answered Frances
Pounder, the girl whose careless remark had hurt Julia's feelings
earlier in the day.

"Well, it doesn't matter whether you know your lessons or not, you can
see for yourself that it's very funny for Miss Crawdon to put any girl
in so conspicuous a place, right beside her, almost. I hate favoritism."

"Why, how you talk, Belle. This cousin of Brenda's hasn't been in school
a day yet, and you talk of favoritism."

"Well, why shouldn't she have been in the history class with us? She
told me she was going to have French history with the older girls. Just
think of it, she's only a little older than we, and she's going to
recite with girls nearly eighteen."

"She isn't so very pretty, is she?" said another girl, and so a
conversation went on which luckily Julia could not hear. She spent the
recess walking up and down with Nora, who was rapidly becoming her most
intimate friend.




VI

MISUNDERSTANDINGS


Little by little Julia accustomed herself to the routine of school. At
first it was much harder for her than any one suspected. Even after she
had become fairly well acquainted with the girls in her classes, she
dreaded each recitation. It was no easy task to put her knowledge into
the definite form needed in answering questions. She had much more
general information than many of her classmates, but nearly all were
better skilled in reciting lessons. Although in history, Latin and
literature she was two classes ahead of Brenda and the three other
inseparables, she was with all but Edith in mathematics, and, rather to
Brenda's delight, a class below them in French. Julia's father had been
much less interested in modern than in ancient languages, and Julia had
had limited opportunities for learning French. Belle, on the contrary,
was a really fine French scholar. She was fonder, indeed, of introducing
French words and phrases into her conversation than should have been the
case with a girl who really understood the French language. Edith
excelled in mathematics, Nora, strange to say, Nora, who was so careless
about most of her lessons, had a real gift for English composition.
Brenda did well in all her studies "by fits and starts," as the girls
said. She had fine powers, her teachers often told her, which she seldom
exerted to the utmost. But Brenda and her friends formed only a small
part of the school, and Julia soon found that in every class she had one
or two competitors whose proficiency spurred her on.

To be perfectly frank, however, it must be said that the majority of
Miss Crawdon's girls were not hard workers. Miss Crawdon, herself, often
felt greatly discouraged that girls with the opportunities of most of
her pupils, should appreciate these opportunities so little. With most
of them attending school was a mere duty, a way in which several months
of each year must be spent until they should "come out." Miss Crawdon
tried in vain to arouse in most of them something more like a passing
interest in their work. Occasionally she found a spark of earnestness in
one of her pupils which she was able to fan into ambition. But more
often she had to give up the attempt to induce a bright girl to become a
genuine student. There were too many distractions out of school, and
parents were apt to be slow in seconding her efforts. Miss Crawdon was
pleased, therefore, to find in Julia a girl who loved study and who was
inclined to persevere.

One day Brenda came home from school in a state of considerable
excitement.

"What do you think, mamma, Julia is going to study Greek! Did you ever
hear of such a thing?"

"Why shouldn't Julia study Greek?" said her mother. "Why are you so
excited about it?"

"Oh, it's so foolish. No girl at Miss Crawdon's ever studied Greek
before. Julia says she's going to college, _is she_? Oh, dear, I think
it's horrid."

"Why, Brenda, really----"

"Well, it makes me so conspicuous."

"How can that be?"

"Why every one will point me out and say, 'Oh it's her cousin who
studies Greek.' It sounds so strong-minded to talk of going to college.
The next thing she'll want to be a teacher."

"It seems to me you are very unreasonable, Brenda. You ought to be glad
that your cousin is so ambitious. I only wish that you were half as fond
of study."

"There, that's it. I knew there'd be comparisons. Oh, dear! It never was
so before Julia came."

"Daughter," said Mr. Barlow from behind his paper. Brenda trembled, for
her father's "Daughter" was generally the introduction to a lecture.
"Daughter, I fear that you are jealous."

Brenda shook her head. "Oh, papa!"

"Yes, Brenda, I have noticed in several ways that you are less kind to
Julia than you should be. How does it happen that you and she never
start off to school together?"

"Brenda is never ready when Julia is," said Mrs. Barlow.

"Ah, Brenda, your habit of tardiness is a very bad one."

"I'm hardly ever late at school. Belle and I get there a full minute
before the bell rings."

"That may be, but it would be better if you and Julia started together."

"She does not have to go alone. Nora is generally with her."

"Ah, Brenda, the point I am trying to make is this; you do not spend
nearly as much time with your cousin as I had hoped you would, and you
are too ready to find fault with what she does!"

"You always blame me, and you never find any fault with Julia. Why
didn't she tell me that she was going to study Greek? The girls all
asked me to-day if I knew about it, and I had to say that I hadn't heard
a word."

"You and Belle have been very much occupied with your own affairs this
week. Julia consulted us about her plans and----"

"Well, _is_ she going to college?" interrupted Brenda.

"I cannot say positively," smiled Mrs. Barlow. "It rests with Julia
herself."

"I never saw anything like it," pouted Brenda. "Julia isn't two years
older than I, and you let her do whatever she wants to. Oh, dear!" And
Brenda pushed aside the portiere and left the room.

"That is just what I feared for Brenda," said Mr. Barlow. "Julia's
coming makes her even a little more suspicious than she was before. She
constantly has the idea that something of importance has been concealed
from her which she ought to know."

"Yes," replied Mrs. Barlow, "I am afraid that Brenda is hopelessly
spoiled. We did not realize the danger when she was little. The other
two girls were so different."

"It would not surprise me," responded Mr. Barlow, "if after all some
change should come to Brenda's point of view from having to consider her
cousin more or less."

"If only she _would_ consider her," sighed Mrs. Barlow.

If Julia felt at all slighted by Brenda, she did not say so. Indeed she
was too well occupied with her lessons and her music to be disturbed by
trivial things. What her object was in studying Greek she did not
disclose fully to any one, but she studied diligently the difficult
declensions and conjugations. The serious looking man with eyeglasses
who came to the school three times a week, was an object of much
interest to most of the girls.

"Doesn't he look learned? Oh, Julia, I should think that you would be
frightened to death," said Edith. But Julia smiled.

"I wish myself that Greek were just a little easier. I've got to the
verbs and it seems to me I never shall know them."

"I don't wonder," responded Edith. "I don't see how you ever learn
it,--all those queer letters and marks and things. Well, I should feel
just as though I were standing on my head if I tried to study Greek."

Edith had no vanity about herself, at least in the matter of lessons.
Her special talent was for drawing and mathematics but although she was
conscientious about her school work, she rarely distinguished herself in
her recitations. Like Nora, she had begun to have a great admiration for
Julia. The latter shook her head when Edith spoke of the difficulty she
had in learning Greek.

"It's like everything else," she said, "you can learn it if you make up
your mind to try hard enough."

"I wish that had been the way with my German, for I really did try. Papa
is disappointed, because he wanted me to speak by the time we go to
Europe again."

"Then why don't you persevere? It would please him and it would do you
good. If I were you I would take it up now."

"Well, perhaps I will after Christmas. Miss Crawdon won't let us make
any changes until then."

As Edith watched Julia's diligence and perseverance she really became
ashamed of her own rather indolent way of treating her lessons.

When Nora or Brenda came for her to go to walk early on some bright
October afternoon she was very apt to say, "Oh, I cannot go now, I must
finish studying."

"Well, Edith, I never knew anything so funny," Brenda exclaimed one day
when she and Belle had vainly tried to persuade Edith to walk with them
over the mill-dam. "You never used to make such excuses and I consider
it a perfect waste of time myself to spend such a lovely afternoon
studying. I should think your mother'd want you to have some exercise."

"Oh, I shall have plenty this afternoon. I am going to the gymnasium for
an hour with Julia, and that will answer for to-day. We took a walk
before school this morning."

"You and Nora are too provoking, Edith," exclaimed Brenda rather
pettishly. "Ever since Julia came you seem to prefer spending your time
with her. You never used to be such a book-worm."

"Well, I'm trying to make up for lost time. I wish that I could
accomplish as much as Julia."

"Oh--Julia, Julia, I'm sick and tired of the name," exclaimed Belle.
"Why in the world does she study so much, Brenda?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"You ought to--you're her cousin. I believe myself that she's going to
be a teacher."

"Belle, it is not nice in you to say that," interposed Edith.

"Why isn't it nice to be a teacher. I thought that you liked them more
than anything else. I am sure that Julia does."

"I dare say she does, but it doesn't follow that she's going to be a
teacher herself."

"Oh, anybody can tell that she's a poor relation--isn't she, Brenda?
Just see how plainly she dresses, and working so to get into college. I
think that your mother and father are very good to give her a home."

Now all this was very presumptuous on Belle's part, but she spoke so
pleasantly and smiled so sweetly at Brenda as she talked that the
latter, though a little irritated, never thought of taking offence at
her. But Belle's words had sunk deeper even than she had intended.
Brenda had a certain kind of pride which was easily touched. She felt
that in some way it was a source of discredit to her to have a cousin
who might be a teacher. For in what other way could she interpret
Julia's intention of studying Greek.

Julia, unconscious of Brenda's feeling, went on quietly without heeding
the disagreeable little remarks that sometimes were made in her hearing
by Brenda. Belle was as polite and agreeable toward Julia as to others
whom she liked better. For it was a kind of unspoken policy of Belle's
to be apparently friendly with all girls of whom she was likely to see
much. If accused of this failing she would not have admitted that she
was two-faced. She merely liked to be popular, and if she sometimes made
ill-natured remarks about a third person, she trusted to the discretion
of those to whom she talked. She did not realize that in time she might
come to be regarded as thoroughly insincere. She had not measured the
relative advantages of "To Be" and "To Seem."




VII

VISITING MANUEL


Two or three weeks after their adventure with Manuel passed before
Brenda and Nora were able to visit him. They talked several times of
going, but something always interfered. Sometimes it was the weather,
sometimes it was another engagement, more often they could not go
because they had no one to accompany them. For it was evident that two
young girls could not go alone to the North End. At length one morning
one of the under teachers in the school offered to go with them that
very afternoon. She had overheard them at recess expressing their sorrow
that they could not go alone.

"Really," pouted Brenda, "I think that mamma is very mean. We could go
as well as not by ourselves, and why we should have to wait for her or
some older person to go with us I cannot see."

"Don't call your mother mean," Miss South said laughingly in passing,
and then as Brenda explained the cause of her rather undutiful
expression, she had added, "Your mother is perfectly right. It would
never do for you to go alone. But I have an errand down near Prince
Street this very day. If you get Mrs. Barlow's permission I shall be
happy to have you go with me." So it happened that one warm, sunny day
in early November, the girls and Miss South exchanged their Back Bay car
at Scollay Square for a Hanover Street electric car. It whizzed swiftly
down a street which neither Brenda nor Nora had ever seen before, filled
with gay shops whose windows were bright with millinery or jewelry--or,
I am sorry to say it--bottles of liquor, amber and red. There was more
display here than in the streets up town.

"Sometimes," said Miss South, "I call this the Bowery of Boston. It is
the chief shopping street of the North End, and on Saturday nights the
poor people do most of their buying. I came here one evening with my
brother. It was really very amusing."

They had been in the car but a few minutes when Miss South gave the
signal for the car to stop.

"It will interest you," she said, "to see this quaint old street. It has
an old-time name, too--'Salem Street.'"

Brenda and Nora glanced around them in surprise. It was a narrow street,
winding along almost in a curve. Though most of the houses were brick, a
number were of wood. Some of them had gable-roofs, and nearly all of
them looked old. Shops occupied the lower part of most of these houses,
and many of them were pawn-shops. As they entered the street it seemed
as if they could hardly pass through. Hooks and poles laden with old
clothes projected from many of these shops, and the sidewalks themselves
held numerous loungers and children. Nora looked interested, Brenda, a
trifle disgusted, as they saw a woman chattering with a hand-cart man
who sold fish.

"Ugh, I wouldn't want to eat it," said the latter.

"Oh, it's probably perfectly good fish," responded Miss South with a
smile. "Only it does not look quite as inviting as it would if shown on
a marble slab in an up-town fish market."

"Are these people _dreadfully_ poor?" asked Nora.

"No," replied Miss South. "This is the Jewish section, and most of the
men here make a pretty good living. They are peddlers, and go out into
the country selling tins or fruit, or they have little shops."

"But these children look so poor!"

"If you will notice more carefully you will see that their clothes are
dingy rather than poor. Nearly all wear good shoes, and there are not
many rags. Many of these Russian and Polish Jews when they first come to
Boston have very little money, and are supported by their friends. But
they soon find a chance to earn their living, and a man coming here
without a cent, in five years sometimes owns a house. I speak of this,
girls, because I have known people to think that dirt and dinginess mean
great poverty."

Nora and Brenda made many exclamations of surprise as they looked down
some of the narrow lanes leading from Salem Street.

"It's just like pictures of Europe, isn't it?" cried Nora; "and then
these people--and the queer signs--Oh! really I think it's _too_
interesting for anything."

The signboards of which Nora spoke certainly did look strange.

Some of them had Russian names, others were in odd Hebrew characters.
Those which were English were peculiarly worded. The owner of a tiny
shop with one little window described himself as a "Wholesale and retail
dealer in dry goods," a corner groceryman called himself an "importer."
The English spelling was not always correct, and the names of the
shop-people were long and odd.

Miss South's errand took her to a large building occupied as an
industrial school. On their way upstairs they saw some boys at work at a
printing press, and Miss South told the girls a little about the boys'
and girls' clubs, which met in this building certain evenings in the
week. Miss South wished to speak to the kindergarten teacher whose
school was on the top floor. Most of the little children had gone home
for the day, and only a few remained whose mothers were out working and
had no one with whom to leave the children. Nora and Brenda exclaimed
with delight at sight of five or six little boys and girls seated in
small chairs around a low table. Nearly all had dark hair and eyes,
although there was one little blonde girl with long, light curls. They
looked at the visitors with small wonder, for they were used to seeing
strangers. Nora at once began to play with the light-haired girl, but
Brenda, after a glance or two, preferred to look out of the window.
Unlike Nora, she was not very fond of children. They did not remain long
in the building, and were soon in the street again.

"Just one block below," said Miss South, "is Prince Street, but before
we go there let us look at Christ Church. Do you realize that you are
under the very shadow of the spire where Paul Revere hung his lantern?"

The girls fairly jumped with surprise.

"Of course I knew it was somewhere down here, but I hadn't an idea it
was so near," said Brenda, while Nora began to recite,

    "Listen, my children, and you shall hear
    Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere."

They had turned the corner again into Salem Street, and following Miss
South, had crossed the street. There before them loomed the gray front
of the old church with its tall spire on which they could read the
inscription:

"The signal lanterns of Paul Revere displayed in the steeple of this
church April 18, 1775, warned the country of the march of the British
troops to Concord and Lexington."

"This is the oldest church building in the city," said Miss South, "and
some Sunday you would find it worth while to come down here to a
service, for the interior has been restored to look just as it did in
its earliest days."

"Oh, how Julia would enjoy that!" exclaimed Nora. "You know that she
just loves old things."

"Yes," continued Miss South, "you must take her, too, to see Copp's Hill
Burying Ground, up this street. We haven't time to go to-day, but if you
do not make other arrangements I shall be very glad to come with you
some Sunday."

"You're awfully good, Miss South," said Brenda. "I don't care so much
for old things myself, but still I'd like to come again."

"I know, Brenda, you like new things--Manuel for instance. Well, you
shall see him in less than five minutes--that is, if he is at home."

They had reached the corner of Prince Street. Like Salem Street this
too, was narrow with quaint old houses. One wooden house which looked as
if it might fall down at any minute bore a placard which warned
passers-by of possible danger. The placard stated that it had been built
in 1723.

"In the time of George II.,--just think of it!" exclaimed Brenda, who
when she wished, could remember dates.

"Rear of No. 11," said Miss South, and they turned down a short alley.
They had not to ask the way, however, for there, in front of the second
house, stood Manuel himself. He looked at them at first without
recognizing them, but when Nora called his name, he took his finger from
his mouth, and in a moment began to smile very broadly. But instead of
running to the girls he turned toward the house.

"Come, come," he said, and almost at the same moment Mrs. Rosa appeared
at the door. She looked very pale and thin and she had an old black
shawl drawn over her head. Nora and Brenda now found that they had lost
their tongues. They really did not know what to say, and they were very
glad that Miss South had come with them. The alley, too, was so dirty,
so different from any place they had ever seen, that they willingly
followed Mrs. Rosa into the house when she asked them to do so.

Mrs. Rosa talked very poor English, but Miss South was able to gather
from what she said that she had been ill for two or three weeks. She had
not been able to go to her fruit stand. Her eldest daughter had been
attending to it for her, a girl twelve years old.

"But why isn't Manuel at school?" asked Miss South.

"Him home for company," smiled Mrs. Rosa, showing both rows of white
teeth.

Miss South shook her head. "He ought to go every day to the
kindergarten."

"His shoes so bad," apologized Mrs. Rosa, and as they all looked at the
little boy they saw a red toe peeping out from one shoe. Nora nudged
Brenda--Brenda smiled assent. The nudge and the smile meant that in
Manuel they were surely going to have a field for their charitable
efforts.

The little room in which they sat looked very poor and bare. It had no
carpet, and the table and the two or three chairs were of unpainted
wood. The most important piece of furniture was the large cook-stove. On
the mantelpiece were various dishes, several of which were broken, and
there were the remains of a meal on the table. Altogether the room did
not look very neat. Although it was not a cold day there was a large
fire burning in the stove where something rather savory was boiling in a
pot.

While Miss South was talking the two girls realized that they had come
rather aimlessly to Mrs. Rosa's. They managed to ask her if Manuel had
run away again, and she smiled as she answered, "Every day," and shook
her head at the little boy.

"Well, he must be careful not to run under the horses' feet," said Nora.

"He won't find some one ready to pull him back every day," chimed in
Brenda, while Manuel and his mother both smiled, though I am sure that
the little boy hardly understood a word of what was said.

"Oh, them 'lectrics," said Mrs. Rosa, "they're awful bad. I whip Manuel
all the time so he won't run in front of them 'lectrics."

"Aren't you afraid whipping will make him run away more often?" asked
Miss South. But Mrs. Rosa looked as if she did not quite understand the
meaning of this question, and after a few more inquiries about the other
children who were still in school, Miss South said it was time to return
home. Before going, Nora gave Manuel a picture-book, and Brenda gave him
a top which they had bought for him.

"Come again," called Mrs. Rosa, waving an end of her shawl at them, and
"Come again" shouted Manuel as they turned from the narrow alley into
the broader street.

"Isn't it perfectly dreadful," exclaimed Nora, "for people to be so
poor."

Miss South was silent for a moment. Then she responded, "There are
different kinds of poverty. Mrs. Rosa seems very poor to you, and it is
true that she has not much money, but if you were to ask her I dare say
that she would tell you that she is better off than when she lived in
the Azores," and then, as she saw that the girls were interested, Miss
South continued, "in Boston she can send her children to good schools,
knowing that when they are old enough, they will find a way to earn a
living. When she herself is out of work, or ill, she is not likely to
suffer, for there are many people and institutions in Boston looking out
for the poor."

"But they look so awfully poor now," said Brenda. Miss South smiled. "I
would not try to make you less sympathetic, Brenda, but you must
remember that a plain uncarpeted room when properly warmed is not so
uncomfortable as it looks. The worst thing about Mrs. Rosa's way of
living is the fact that she and her children are crowded into two small
rooms. At night they bring a mattress from the little bedroom and spread
on the kitchen floor. Three of the children sleep there, while Mrs. Rosa
and the others sleep in the bedroom."

"How can they possibly live that way!" said Nora, who, as a doctor's
daughter, had pretty definite ideas on the subject of ventilation and
hygiene.

"It is indeed a very bad way of doing," said Miss South. "The best way
to help Mrs. Rosa would be to persuade her to take her family to some
country town where they could have plenty of light and air."




VIII

PLANNING THE BAZAAR


Brenda at the dinner-table that evening had much to say about the
expedition of the afternoon. Or rather, she had much to tell about
Manuel and his cunning little ways, about his mother and the poverty of
the family and what she intended to do for them. Her mother smiled, her
father looked interested and said,

"Well, I'm glad that you have found a use for your pocket money. I won't
begrudge it to you as long as it does not all go into Schuyler's candy."

Julia cried, "Oh, Brenda, how I should love to have gone with you," when
Brenda spoke of the old church and the old streets. "Do tell just what
the church was like."

But Brenda's ideas were less definite on these points. She wasn't
exactly sure what Paul Revere had done--for history was not her strong
point--and she was a little annoyed at Julia's surprise at her lack of
interest. Julia did not mean to show any surprise, but it did seem
strange to hear Brenda say rather impatiently in answer to a question
about the church,

"Oh, well, it was a brown church,--no, I think it was gray, with a
steeple, but I didn't notice much. Nora quoted some poetry, but I was in
a hurry to go on to see Manuel, and I think that it's very tiresome to
have to dig up history and things like that out of school."

Mr. Barlow frowned at this. "Before you go to the North End again I hope
you will have your history and your Longfellow fresh in mind. It is
rather a shame for a Boston girl to be ignorant of historic places in
her own city."

"Julia must go with you next time," said Mrs. Barlow, wishing to divert
the conversation from Brenda's shortcomings.

"You'll let me know, won't you," interposed Julia pleasantly, and Brenda
gave a careless "Yes" as she turned to her father and said,

"Oh, papa, I wish that you would let me buy a carpet and a lot of things
for Manuel's mother. You have no idea how poor they seem. Do give me the
money, that's a dear. You never will miss it in the world."

"How much, Brenda, does your modesty lead you to think you need?" asked
Mr. Barlow.

"Oh, I don't know," answered Brenda, whose ideas of the value of money
were very vague indeed. "You might let me buy the things and have them
charged."

"Dear me! that would be worse than giving you the money--worse for my
pocket. I suppose you'd want to do your shopping in some really
fashionable Boylston Street establishment?"

"Now, papa, you're laughing at me!"

"Perhaps I am," replied her father. "But really, Brenda, I don't believe
that Manuel's mother would thank you for a carpet. Didn't you say they
all lived in one room? A bare floor is easier to keep clean."

"Oh, well, I must buy them something, and my pocket money won't go far.
Besides, I've spent all you gave me this month."

"Well, Manuel and his mother and all those brothers and sisters have
lived in Boston very comfortably for several years without any help from
you. If you should give them a carpet they might grow discontented. The
next thing they would want might be a piano, and from what you say I
hardly think that room would hold a piano as well as the whole family
and the cook-stove."

"Oh, papa, I believe that you are making fun of me."

"No, indeed, I am not, but I wish you to be reasonable."

"If there's anything in the world I hate it's that word reasonable. It
always means that I'm not to have what I want."

"There you are _un_-reasonable," answered Mr. Barlow. "We will talk no
more about it now, but some day perhaps your mother will go down with
you to see Manuel, and then you can both tell me whether the Rosas ought
to have a piano as well as a carpet."

With this Brenda had to be content, but the next afternoon when the Four
Club had its regular weekly meeting she and Nora grew excited as they
described the poverty of the Rosas to the other two.

"At any rate we can do a lot of fancy-work this winter," said Brenda,
"and I shouldn't wonder if we were to have a very successful Fair."

"Oh, don't call it a 'Fair,'" said Belle, "that sounds so awfully
common. Bazaar, or Sale--no, Bazaar is best. Let's always speak of it as
a Bazaar."

The others assented, for really they hardly ever dared dissent from
Belle when she laid down the law in this way.

"Well, what else shall we call it, The Busy Bees' Bazaar?" asked Nora.

"Oh, no, that would be dreadful! We needn't decide about the rest of the
name just yet."

"No, I think that it would be better to wait until we have something
ready," said Edith, at which the other three looked up somewhat
surprised. They had never heard Edith make a remark that sounded so
nearly sarcastic.

"Now, Edith, you know very well that we shall have plenty to sell. Just
think how much we'll do if we meet every week ourselves. Then every girl
in school ought to make at least one thing, and we can get any amount
from older people. Really it's the duty of older people to help us all
they can. I should think we might have four large tables just loaded
with fancy-work, besides refreshments and flowers--and--oh, dear me--I
feel quite dizzy when I think of it," cried the sanguine Brenda.

"Aren't you going to ask Julia to join the Four Club?" queried Edith,
turning to Brenda.

"How silly," said the latter. "Of course not. It wouldn't be a Four Club
then."

"But don't you think it must seem a little strange to Julia. We run
upstairs past her room every Thursday, and no one asks her to come."

"Oh, she doesn't care," interposed Belle. "I don't believe that she
cares for anything but study and music."

"Yes," added Brenda, "it drives me half crazy to hear her piano going
half the time."

"Ah, _that's_ what drives you crazy," said Nora, mischievously. "I
thought you had seemed a little queer lately."

Brenda tossed her head, but before she had time to answer this, Edith
returned to the question of Julia.

"Really and honestly, Brenda, I feel very uncomfortable about Julia. We
ought at least to invite her to join us. I dare say she wouldn't come
every week, but I _do_ think that she ought to be asked. It doesn't seem
to me polite to leave her out--or kind."

Again Belle spoke for Brenda. "Really, Edith, you're awfully Puritanic;
that's what everybody says: you're always thinking about the wrong and
right of things."

"Well, why shouldn't I? I'm sure we all intend to do what is right."

"Yes, of course, in a way. But you don't have to keep thinking about it
always. People have to enjoy themselves sometimes, and if we can't enjoy
ourselves in this Four Club we might as well give it up at once."

"Do you mean that Julia would prevent our enjoying ourselves if she
came?" Nora's voice sounded ominously severe.

"I didn't say that, but--well what's the good of talking?" cried Belle,
who saw that she was getting into deep water.

"Yes," chimed in Brenda, "that's what I say too." But Edith continued in
a rather grave voice,

"Of course it's your house, Brenda, and you and Belle started the Club,
and no one can compel you to invite any one you don't want. But I'm sure
if I had my way Julia should be here this minute, and I'm not sure that
I'll stay in the Club if she isn't asked."

"Do you mean you won't work for the Bazaar?" exclaimed Nora in surprise,
thinking of Manuel, and of the dainty needlework at which Edith was so
skilful.

"I haven't said exactly what I'll do," replied the quiet Edith, with
more spirit than she generally displayed. "Only I can tell you that I'm
not going to see Julia left out of things the way she has been."

"Oh, Julia's all right," said Brenda scornfully. "She doesn't know how
to do fancy-work, and she'd just feel bored if she came to the Club. If
you want a 'cause' Edith, you'd better adopt a smaller orphan than
Julia."

"Like Manuel," said Edith, with a bright smile, for, determined though
she was when she had made up her mind about a thing, she was also a
peacemaker. Even when Brenda and Belle most annoyed her, she hesitated
to say sharp things to them, remembering that "A soft answer turneth
away wrath."

"Yes, like Manuel," said Nora, taking up Edith's words. "I won't give
Manuel up to you, for you know that I mean to adopt him myself, but he
has a sister, or two of them for that matter, and I shouldn't wonder if
either of them would give you enough to do."

"Oh, yes," said Brenda, "they both looked as if they needed lots of
clothes. But they have the _sweetest_ black eyes."

"Well, then, why shouldn't we make dresses or aprons or something like
that, before we get started on our work for the Bazaar?" asked Edith.

"Oh, how can you?" cried Belle. "Horrid calico dresses and things like
that--I should just hate them."

"There, don't get excited," said Nora. "I've thought of that myself. But
my mother says there are plenty of Societies and Sewing Circles we can
get clothes from, if the Rosas really need clothes. She says it would be
bad to begin giving them things."

"Well, then, what are we going to have a Bazaar for?" asked Brenda.

"For fun," responded Belle, so promptly that Nora looked at her a little
suspiciously.

"No," replied Nora, "not for fun, but we've got to have an object in a
Club of this kind, and besides there'll probably be other things we can
do for the Rosas."

"Send them to the country in the summer, perhaps," said Edith.

"There are the Country Week people," cried Belle. "They always do things
like that."

"Let's wait until we get the money," said Brenda, grandly. "Perhaps
we'll have enough to buy them a house--or----"

"Or a horse and carriage," laughed Edith. "Oh, Brenda, you _are_ so
unpractical."

"There, there," said Nora, who saw another cloud rising over the horizon
of the Four Club. "Let's talk of something sensible."

"What are you working at, Belle?"

Belle held up a pretty piece of blue denim on which she had begun to
outline a pattern in white silk. "This is to be a sofa cushion," she
said in answer to Nora's question. "People always like to buy them, and
this shade of blue goes with almost anything."

"Oh, it's too sweet for anything," said Nora, enthusiastically.

"Yes, indeed," added Edith, with perfect sincerity. "You do such perfect
needlework that I really envy you."

Both Nora and Edith were glad to praise Belle's skill, for although they
knew that they themselves had been in the right, they realized that
Belle would not feel very kindly toward them for not siding with her in
the matter of Julia. Nora, like Edith, was a peacemaker, and both wished
the afternoon to end as pleasantly as possible.

Belle was by no means indifferent to the praise of her friends. She
really could do very fine embroidery and she took considerable pride in
her work.

"I never _could_ have patience to do anything like that," said Nora,
whose specialty was crocheting. "I like to do something that I needn't
look at all the time. I could crochet an afghan almost in the dark."

"Yes, but an afghan is such an endless piece of work."

"Well, I don't suppose I'll make _many_ of them for the Bazaar."

"I should say not," said Edith. "What are you going to do first, Brenda?
You haven't had a needle in your hand this afternoon."

"I know it, I know it," cried Brenda, the heedless. "But I can't think
what to begin first," and she opened the bottom drawer of her bureau,
where were displayed a tangled heap of linen and floss and gold thread
and silk plush and other materials for fancy work which she had bought
at different times. There were cushion covers and doilies in which a few
stitches had been taken, only to be thrown aside for something else, and
some of them were in so soiled a condition that they were not likely to
be good for anything.

"Oh, what a wicked waste of money, Brenda Barlow," exclaimed Nora, as
she looked at the contents of the drawer.

"Well, at any rate it shows that I have had good intentions," said
Brenda.




IX

A MYSTERIOUS MANSION


At the corner nearly opposite Miss Crawdon's school stood a large,
old-fashioned mansion of brick painted light brown. It was a detached
house almost surrounded by a high wall. In the wall was a pillared
gateway, and each pillar was surmounted by two large balls that looked
as if they had dropped from the mouth of a great cannon. Behind the
fence and close to the house were two little garden beds, and there were
three or four trees in the yard back of the house. It was said that the
mansion had once been surrounded with extensive grounds that sloped down
hill almost to the river. But new streets and houses had gradually
encroached on these grounds until hardly a trace of them remained. There
was never a sign of life seen about the old house. Windows and doors
were always closed. Even the blinds were seldom drawn up, though once in
a while at an upper window, some of the schoolgirls said that they had
seen a woman's figure seated behind the lace curtains. Occasionally,
too, on sunny days they had noticed a large, old-fashioned carriage
drive up under the porte-cochere, while an old lady very much wrapped
up, and attended evidently by a maid, entered it. In taking their walks
at recess the girls always passed this house, and, as schoolgirls, they
naturally felt much curiosity about the lady who occupied it, since she
seemed to be surrounded by an air of mystery.

They knew, of course, her name--Madame du Launy--and some of the girls
had heard more about her from their parents.

"My mother," said Frances Pounder, "says that my grandmother told her
that Mme. du Launy was a very beautiful girl. She married a Frenchman
whom her family despised, and she stayed in Europe until after her
father's death."

"Was the Frenchman rich?" asked Edith, in rather an awe-stricken voice,
for the story sounded very romantic. The girls at this moment happened
to be seated on the steps leading to the school, and Frances was in her
element when she had an interested group hanging on her words.

"Oh, dear, no, he wasn't rich at all. He was a cook, or a hair-dresser,
or something like that, only very good looking. But when Mme. du Launy's
father died, she had three little children, and her father was so
proud--he was a Holtom--he couldn't bear to think of her coming to want,
so he left her all his fortune just the same as if she hadn't married
beneath her."

"That was right," said Nora approvingly. "I think it's ridiculous for
fathers to cut their children off with a penny, the way they used to."

"Well," responded Frances, "I think it's a great deal more ridiculous
for people to marry beneath them."

"Of course you'd think that, Frances," interposed Belle.

"There, there, don't begin to quarrel, children," said Nora. "Go on with
the story, Frances. What did Mme. du Launy do when she got her money?"

"Oh, she brought her Frenchman and her children to Boston, and she lived
at a hotel while she began to build this house. Some people went to see
her, but the Frenchman was a terribly ill-mannered little thing, and
nobody liked him because he was so familiar. Mme. du Launy and he were
hardly ever invited anywhere, and they spent most of their time driving
about in a great carriage which held the whole family, and a maid and
governess."

"I should think they would have stopped building the house."

"Oh, no," said Edith, "they kept on, and after a while they went to
Europe to buy things for it. They had more than a ship-load, and they
say that everything was perfectly beautiful,--foreign rugs, and
tapestry, and glass, and gilt furniture."

"Dear me, I should love to have seen it."

"Well, it's all there in the house now, but you'd have to be a good deal
smarter than any one I know to see it."

"Why Frances, do you mean that no one ever goes there?" asked Julia.

"Yes, that's just what I mean. I don't suppose any one in Boston except
the doctor, and two or three very old people, have ever been inside that
door."

"Yes, that's true," added Edith. "I've heard my mother speak of it. Mme.
du Launy is terribly peculiar."

"I should think she'd be lonely," said Julia.

"I dare say she is," replied Frances, "but it's awfully selfish to shut
up a great house like that."

"Why does she do it?"

"Oh, I believe, when she came back from Europe the second time she set
out to give a great ball. She sent invitations to every one, no matter
whether people had called on her or not. Of course very few people went,
only her relations and a few others. This made her so angry that she
vowed she'd have nothing more to do with people in Boston. Not long
afterward her husband died, then her children died or turned out badly,
and she has just lived alone ever since."

"It sounds rather sad," said Julia, when Frances had finished.

"Nonsense, Julia," said Brenda, "you're so sentimental."

"No, she isn't at all," cried Edith, "it is really sad. I wonder what
became of the children."

Here Belle spoke up. "I've heard that the boys all died. One of them ran
away to sea and was drowned. But I believe the girl married some one her
mother didn't like, and so she disinherited her. She may be living
somewhere, but she must be an old woman herself, for my grandmother says
that Mme. du Launy is about eighty."

As the girls looked toward the house they saw a figure standing behind
the curtains of the window over the front door.

"There she is now," the girls cried.

"Wouldn't you like to go inside?" said Nora to Edith.

"I don't know that I'm really anxious to," replied the latter.

"Oh, I am," said Nora, and a moment later she cried out to Frances,
"Frances, you are rather clever, can't you suggest some way by which I
can find my way inside that house? Wouldn't one of your great aunts give
me an introduction to Mme. du Launy? I'm just dying to see what is
inside those brick walls."

"No," responded Frances, rather scornfully; "if they could they
wouldn't, but I'm sure they haven't kept up any acquaintance with Mme.
du Launy."

"Well," replied Nora, "I'll find a way. Mark my words, before the
present crescent moon is old I shall have at least a speaking
acquaintance with Mme. du Launy. Poor thing, she must be very lonely."

"I don't believe she'd appreciate your society particularly, Nora, for
one thing you're pretty young," said Edith.

"No matter, I'm going to know her. Come, Brenda, I'll confide in you."

So Brenda and Nora walked down the street, leaving the other girls to
wonder what they were planning. This was by no means the first time that
the girls at Miss Crawdon's school had discussed Mme. du Launy and her
affairs. Indeed, each set of girls had wondered about her and her
beautiful furniture, and her music box that played a hundred airs, and
all her foreign treasures, and her possessions lost nothing in splendor
as the girls told what they had heard about them.

Of the four friends, Belle and Edith were most indifferent to the house
across the way. But a number of others among the schoolgirls seemed
inclined to join Nora and Brenda in whatever they were planning. One day
as they walked about at recess they saw the old lady leave the house and
enter her carriage. They were too polite to stand and gaze at her, but
some of them could not resist the temptation of staring at the carriage
as it rolled by.

The next day Nora and Brenda were seen to be very much interested in
playing ball. They tossed it from one to the other, and occasionally as
they passed the brick mansion they let it roll within the gateway on the
gravelled walks. There were half a dozen girls walking in front of the
old house and tossing the ball. As they played, the ball rose higher and
higher. Nora and Brenda were standing almost inside the gateway, when
suddenly the ball seemed to fling itself against one of the windows, and
the crash of breaking glass was heard. Some of the girls looked
frightened and hurried across the street toward the school. Brenda too,
started to go, but Nora took her by the hand. "Remember your promise,"
she said, so loudly that two of the other girls who were crossing the
street, turned about and joined them. Just at that moment the
school-bell rang, and rather reluctantly the girls turned back to
school. Nora and Brenda paid very little attention to their lessons the
rest of the morning. Some of their friends who had witnessed the
mischief done by the ball were also excited. They all more than half
expected to see Mme. du Launy's aged servant-man make his appearance to
complain of the injury done to the window. As it drew near two o'clock
and nothing of the kind had happened, they were really disappointed.

"We're not going home with you," cried Nora, as she and Brenda and the
two other conspirators walked down the steps of the school.

"Why not?" asked Edith from the dressing-room.

"Oh, we have something to attend to," replied Nora.

"Well," said Edith, "luncheon is the most important thing that I have to
attend to just now."

"What shall I say to your mother?" asked Julia, as she saw Brenda
preparing to turn in the opposite direction from home.

"Don't say anything, Julia. I'm not a baby to need looking after."

Julia had no answer for this inconsiderate speech, for indeed she had
become only too well accustomed to Brenda's little rudenesses.

"Let's wait and see what they are going to do," suggested Edith, looking
toward Nora and Brenda and the two or three others who had joined them.

"I must go on," answered Julia. "I ought to be at----"

"I'll wait," spoke up Belle. "Come, you can stay, Edith."

So the two friends waited near the school while Brenda and Nora and the
others crossed the street to Mme. du Launy's mansion. They were
surprised to see them ring the bell, and after a moment, when the door
was opened, to see them step inside.

Not many minutes later they saw the door reopen, as the girls, looking
somewhat crestfallen, turned away from the house.

"What in the world were you up to?" called Belle, rather excitedly as
they turned homeward.

"Wait till we get out of sight of the house," said Nora, "and I'll tell
you. It was this way, I had just made up my mind that I'd see the inside
of that house. Frances Pounder seemed so sure I couldn't. So I thought
and thought, and to-day when we were playing ball you see we broke the
window."

"On purpose! I do believe. Why, Nora, I should think you'd be ashamed!"

"Well, I had the money in my pocket to pay for it. That was what we went
for after school. But that queer old butler,--really I almost laughed in
his face. However, I managed to say, 'I'm extremely sorry, but I broke a
pane of glass in the window over the front door when I was playing ball
this morning.' 'We hadn't discovered it, miss,' he said, as solemn as
could be. 'Then you might go and look,' I replied, 'and if you will
please tell Mme. du Launy that I'd like to pay for it, I'll be greatly
obliged.' I thought that while he was looking at the glass and talking
to the old lady, he'd at least ask us into the reception-room, or
drawing-room. But not a bit of it. There's a little vestibule just
beyond the front door, and there he left us. He asked us to sit down,
and we did sit down on the edge of two great black settles there in the
marble vestibule. When he came back I felt sure he was going to take us
straight up to Mme. du Launy. Instead of that he merely said: 'Mme. du
Launy presents her compliments, and is greatly obliged to you for
telling her about the window. She couldn't think of letting you pay for
it, as an apology is quite enough.'"

"And you didn't see anything in the house?"

"No, not a thing; though as he opened the door into the hall we caught a
glimpse of a big gilded table and an enormous piece of tapestry over the
stairs. Wasn't it mean, after all our efforts?"

"Who has won the bet, you or Frances?" asked Belle.

"I'm not sure. I have been in the house and I haven't," replied Nora.

"I should think you'd have been frightened to death. What would you have
done if you had seen the old lady?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. There were so many of us we shouldn't have been
frightened," and Nora looked at Brenda and the other girl who were
vehemently describing the adventure.




X

A SOPHOMORE


When Edith's brother Philip came in from College to spend Saturday and
Sunday, Edith's house was apt to be a rendezvous for the other girls.
Not that Philip was likely to waste much time with mere girls. Not he!
He was a Harvard sophomore, and realized his own importance quite as
much as the girls did. But still there was always the chance that he
would come into the room just for a minute, and tell them some of the
latest Cambridge news. He would have scorned to call it gossip. If there
was any one thing in the world he hated--so he said--it was girls' talk,
this jabbering about nothing. For his part he wouldn't waste his time
_that_ way. Yet, when he had an appreciative audience,--and girls
generally appreciated what Philip said,--he would often spend as much as
half an hour talking about the fellows--how beastly it was Jim Dashaway
couldn't row on the crew, and he would grow almost enthusiastic when
describing the tussle between Ned Brown and Stanley Hooper over the
respective merits of Boston and New York in which Hooper, the New
Yorker, was terribly beaten.

"And upon my word," he concluded, "I wasn't sorry, for the New York set
is getting just unbearable. I wouldn't so much mind fighting Stanley
Hooper myself about New York and Boston. I guess I'd show him that New
York isn't the whole world."

"I should say not," exclaimed Nora; but Belle, who had some New York
cousins, was silent. Brenda, however, noticing Belle's expression, and
not feeling disposed to side completely with Nora, said,

"You're terribly narrow, Nora, to think that nobody's any good unless he
comes from Boston."

"I didn't say so," replied Nora.

"No, but that's what you mean, and I'm surprised, Philip Blair, that a
boy should be so awfully one-sided."

"Well, you'd better talk, Brenda Barlow," broke in Nora again. "Just see
the way you treat Julia. If she'd been born in Boston----"

"I don't treat her," interrupted Brenda.

"No, that's just it, you don't treat her decently."

"Oh, I say," said Philip, from his place in front of the mantelpiece,
"how queer girls are; do you always fight like this when you're
together?"

"We don't fight like you boys," answered Edith, good-humoredly. "We
don't knock each other down and run the risk of breaking one another's
noses."

Philip looked over his shoulder in the glass. There was nothing the
matter with his own shapely nose, and I doubt that he would have run any
such risk as Edith suggested. Perhaps this was the reason why Philip was
not a fighter. There was one good thing about the little disputes in
which Brenda and Belle indulged. They very seldom lasted long. In the
present instance the girls were ashamed of having shown temper before
Philip. The latter, however, did not dwell on their weakness.

"Oh, say, did you hear about the time Will Hardon had with the Dicky,
last week?" he asked.

Nora nodded. She, too, had a brother in College.

"What was it?" asked Edith. "You haven't told _me_, Philip."

"How funny you are, Edith," said Belle. "You never hear anything. Hasn't
anyone told you how the other fellows made him run blindfolded in his
shirt sleeves down Beacon Street?"

"No, really?"

"Of course, really!"

"And then they led him up the steps into Mrs. Oxford's when she was
giving an afternoon tea, and when they took the bandage off his eyes
there he was in his shirt sleeves, without his hat, and his hair all
tumbled, and everybody looking at him."

"Oh," said one girl, and "Ah," said another; and "How silly!" they all
cried together.

"If girls amused themselves like that what fun you'd make of us!" said
the practical Nora.

"I shouldn't think there'd be much fun in making anybody uncomfortable."

"Oh, it gives a fellow a chance to show what kind of stuff he's made
of," explained Philip, "whether he has good manners, and whether he's
clever--and all that."

"There must be better ways of showing bravery," said the practical
Edith. "I don't believe you know a bit more about Will Hardon's bravery
than you did before."

"We knew something about his manners."

"What?"

"Why, when he saw where he was, he didn't run away, or flunk out. He
only looked a little sheepish, the other fellows said, but he just bowed
to the ladies, and saying politely that he was sorry to have disturbed
them, he walked off as nice as you please."

"Wasn't he mad at the two fellows for taking him there?"

"Of course not; that's a part of the thing. Why, there are fellows in
Cambridge who would go through fire and water, or stand on their heads
in front of a pulpit for the sake of getting into the Dicky. I tell you
we make some of them suffer."

Philip said "we" with a rather important air, although he had belonged
to the illustrious organization a very short time.

"Well, I think you're perfectly horrid," cried Brenda, "I mean the
Dicky. I've heard about the way you make people suffer, branding them
with hot cigars, and making them run barefoot winter nights, and doing
all sorts of useless things."

"If you went to College you'd see more use in them."

"I'm glad girls don't go to College."

"Oh, some do!"

"Not girls we know."

"I'm sure I can't tell," said Philip rather crossly, "there are a lot of
girls studying in Cambridge now at the Annex, and the fellows don't like
it at all."

"Well, I declare," exclaimed Nora, "I'd like to know what difference it
makes to them."

"Oh, they hate to see these girls going about with books, and trying to
get into Harvard."

"Yes, trying to break down the walls," said Nora, sarcastically.

"Oh, see here, it would just spoil everything to have women in the
classes with us."

"Are you afraid they'd get ahead of you?" asked Edith, gently.

"Now, look here, Edith, I don't want you to talk that way," responded
Philip with brotherly authority. "There isn't any danger of girls
getting ahead of us."

"Why, I heard," said Nora, "that one of the professors----"

"Oh, yes, I've heard it too," interrupted Philip. "I've heard that some
professors say that their Annex classes do better work than ours,--but
anybody can tell that that's all rot."

"I believe it's all perfectly true," said Nora.

"Well, I wish myself that our English instructor hadn't such a fondness
for reading themes to us that the girls have written. He makes out that
they are better than ours, but I can't say that I see it myself."

"Who gets the best marks?"

"I'm sure I can't say. He gives us such beastly marks that I dare say he
makes it up with the girls. But I wouldn't let a sister of mine go to
College," he concluded inconsequently.

"It's a good thing Edith doesn't wish to go," said Nora; adding
mischievously, "but Brenda Barlow's cousin Julia is going."

Brenda blushed, for Julia's intention of going to College was still a
sore point with her.

"Does Julia wear glasses, or look green? I beg your pardon, Brenda----"

"No, she doesn't," said Nora shortly. "She's about the nicest girl I
know."

"Oh, she is lovely," added Edith.

"A matter of opinion," murmured Belle under her breath.

"You don't mean to say you haven't seen her," cried Brenda in surprise.

"No, I haven't happened to," answered Philip.

"She's invited to my cooking party next week," said Nora. "You know that
you've accepted too, so you'll see her."

"Oh, yes, by the way," said Philip, "what evening is it?"

"Friday, of course," replied Nora, "so we can sit up late without
thinking about school the next day."

"Well, you'll see me sure," said Philip. "But see here, it's five
o'clock now and I have an engagement down town."

Philip hurried off, bowing in a very grown-up way to the group of girls.
For whatever criticisms any one might make about Philip's indolence and
disinclination to study, no one could deny that he had very good
manners. Though only about four years their senior, he seemed much older
than Brenda and her friends. Years before they had all been playmates
together, but his two years in College had taken him away from them, and
it was not often that he condescended to spend as long a time in their
presence as had been the case this afternoon.

"Do you think that Philip looks very well, Edith," asked Belle when he
had left the room.

"Why, of course, don't you?" replied Philip's sister.

"It seemed to me he was just a little pale."

"He is always pale," said Edith.

"Do you suppose he sits up too late?" asked Brenda.

"I'll warrant he doesn't study too much," said Belle.

"How can you?" cried Nora. "How can you criticise Edith's brother? Don't
let her do it, Edith."

"It doesn't trouble me," answered the placid Edith. "I know all about
Philip, and he's good enough for me."

"That's right," said Nora. "Always stand up for your brother. But I do
think he might have better friends. He really isn't very particular."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know exactly, but I heard my brother talking the other day.
He says there are two or three fellows just sponging off of Philip all
the time, and Philip is too good-natured to say anything."

"I wonder how he'll like Julia," said Edith.

"Oh, he won't like that kind of a girl," hastily interposed Belle. "Boys
never like a girl who studies; especially one who is going to College."

"Well, Julia is just the nicest girl _I_ know," said Nora, repeating the
words she had used to Philip.

"And Philip is one of the nicest young men I know," said Brenda,
politely, turning to Edith. "But don't tell him I said so," she added
with a blush.

"Oh, no, of course not," laughed Edith, as the girls separated for the
afternoon.




XI

THE COOKING CLASS


Nora's cooking party was not altogether a pleasure affair. It was the
result of her father's desire that she should have some knowledge of
domestic matters before she left school. Dr. Gostar was a busy man,
having little time to spend with his children. His practice was large,
but as he gave his services as willingly to poor as to rich people, he
had not accumulated much money. Nora's home, however, was a very
pleasant one. The numerous members of the family used all the rooms with
the greatest freedom. As the four other members of the household besides
Dr. and Mrs. Gostar and Nora were boys, the furnishings of the house had
a well-worn, comfortable look. No one was kept out of any particular
room. The boys had a large play and workroom in the attic, but when they
wished to sit in the library (which other people might have called a
"drawing-room") they were not forbidden.

Mrs. Gostar, though fond of society, was never too busy to hear what her
children had to say, to read to them or hear them tell about their
school, or to sympathize with them in any way. She had agreed with Dr.
Gostar when he had expressed a wish to have Nora learn cooking.

"I am anxious," he had said, "that my little daughter shall know how to
cook. I have been so often in houses where wives and mothers have been
quite helpless when a cook left, that I should be very sorry to have
Nora grow up as ignorant as they. I know that a great deal of sickness
comes from eating badly prepared food."

Nora herself had been rather pleased at the prospect of learning to
cook. But Belle thought it very vulgar, and for a time was not sure
whether or not she would join the cooking-class.

During the first winter the girls had had lessons once a week. But
through this season of Julia's arrival in Boston, they had met to
practice cooking only once a month. The lessons always were given at
Nora's house, because, as Edith said, her cook wasn't too fashionable to
let them fuss around in the kitchen.

The first winter they had had a teacher, but this year they were
supposed to know enough to concoct certain dishes themselves. The
cooking party took place on the third Friday of the month, and from six
to eight the girls were busy cooking. At eight o'clock any guests whom
they had invited arrived, and at nine o'clock they had a little supper.
They were not permitted to have too elaborate a bill of fare. Even as it
was, Belle's grandmother protested against what she called an
indigestible supper served at this hour. As a matter of fact it was not
apt to be indigestible. Dr. Gostar himself usually made out the list of
eatables. Light salads, simple cakes, bouillon, ices, blanc-manges,
jellies, oysters or eggs cooked in various styles, and chocolate
prepared with whipped cream, were conspicuous on the list from which he
made his selection. But the girls on any given evening were restricted
to one sweet, one solid and two kinds of cake. With the assistance of a
maid each girl in turn set the table, and sometimes, besides their young
friends, their parents were present to see what their skill and taste
had accomplished.

"There, there, Edith, I'm sure your cake is burning," cried Nora on the
Friday evening after their talk with Philip.

"Oh, dear, I can't do anything about it now; I've cut my fingers," and
Edith held up her hands rather plaintively.

"Here, take my handkerchief," said Brenda; and before Edith could stop
her she was binding up the wound with a delicate lace-trimmed
handkerchief. It was Agnes's birthday present to her, sent from Paris,
and intended only for full dress occasion.

"Why, Brenda, that lovely handkerchief!" exclaimed Belle, who was
looking on.

"Oh, it won't hurt it. How does your finger feel, Edith?"

"It feels all right, for it wasn't a deep cut, but with my right hand
tied up I don't believe I can lift that cake out of the oven," and Edith
looked about helplessly, for she was not used to battling with
difficulties.

Over her dress each girl wore a long-sleeved blue-checked apron--each of
them at least except Julia. This was her first appearance at the
cooking-club, and as Brenda had forgotten to tell her about the aprons,
she was unprepared. She had on a small white apron, borrowed from Nora,
and when Edith spoke about the cake, she seized a holder, and opening
the oven door, lifted the pan out. As Edith feared, the cake was burned,
though not the whole top, but black spots here and there gave it a very
unsightly appearance, and Edith felt very much disturbed as she looked
at it.

"How provoking! That was the only cake we were to have to-night, and
there isn't time to make another."

"Oh, we can do something," cried Julia. "Let me help you."

"I don't see what we can do," half moaned Edith.

"I'll show you," cried Julia hopefully. "You have plenty of sugar and
eggs--and----"

"But really there isn't time to make anything not to speak of baking it,
and, oh, dear, I am so unlucky!" sighed poor Edith.

"Nonsense," said Julia. "You haven't any idea what I can do. I shall
just have to show you," and she began to break the eggs into a bowl,
beating them and stirring into them a liberal amount of sugar. "Run,
Brenda," she cried, "and bring me a sheet of that brown wrapping paper."

Brenda obeyed, and after buttering the paper, Julia dropped her mixture
of sugar and eggs, a spoonful at a time, here and there, on the paper.

"Oh, I know," cried Brenda. "Kisses, but I never would have thought of
it myself."

"Well," responded Julia, "there is nothing you can bake so quickly, and
almost every one likes them. There, this first batch must be ready now,"
and she opened the oven door to remove the pan with its sheet of kisses,
delicately browned and of the size and shape that a confectioner could
not surpass. Two or three other lots were baked before there were
enough. By the time they were finished Edith's finger had ceased to pain
her, and she was helping place the other eatables on the dumb-waiter.

From the floor above there came the sound of laughter, and the voices of
the boys could be heard mingled with those of the girls as they called
to the three kitchen maidens.

At last, with the help of Hannah, the maid, who had come down from the
floor above, all the kitchen work was declared at an end.

"That's all," shouted Brenda, as Belle and Philip gave a final pull on
the cords of the dumb-waiter.

A moment later Edith and Julia and Brenda entered the dining-room, with
faces perhaps a little flushed, but otherwise looking very unlike the
three cooks they had been a few minutes before.

Under Nora's direction the dining-table had been exquisitely arranged.
There was a great glass bowl of pink roses in the centre, and the plates
and cups were of china with a wild rose border. The candles in the
silver candelabra at each end of the table had pink shades.

"There, you go, Philip, and tell the others that supper is ready," said
Nora, glancing at the table and giving a final touch to one or two
dishes.

With Philip leading, the guests trooped into the dining-room. "Trooped"
is perhaps too boisterous a word to apply to the procession of young
people who came into the room two at a time with a fair amount of
dignity. To Julia, in fact, they appeared to a certain extent to be
imitating the demeanor of their elders. She could not help thinking that
the manner with which Belle let herself be led to a chair was entirely
too coquettish, and only Nora seemed to be her real self in the presence
of the guests.

But Julia was not a harsh critic, and before very long she forgot that
she had not always known these merry young people. She laughed at the
jokes made by the boys, although she did not always see the point of
them. Most of these jokes turned on something connected with college.
For every one of them was in Harvard, although some were only Freshmen.
The stories that they thought the funniest dealt with the queer things
that some of their friends had had to do when undergoing initiation into
one of the College Societies, and many of their doings seemed really
inane.

Before they had been long in the dining-room Mrs. Gostar joined them,
and later Dr. Gostar himself appeared. The presence of these elder
people lessened the laughter only a very little, for all the young
people knew that Dr. Gostar enjoyed fun as well as they.

"What was the catastrophe to-night?" he asked Nora, for it was a
favorite joke of his that at each meeting of the cooking-class some dish
suffered. When he had heard about the disaster to Edith's cake he
praised Julia so heartily for having come to the rescue that she blushed
deeply. Even without this success in cooking, Julia would have been
voted a great addition to the cooking-class. There was something very
pleasing in her gentle manners, and Belle, to her surprise, found
herself growing a little jealous of Brenda's cousin. Before this she had
not thought her sufficiently important to arouse jealousy.




XII

CONCERNING JULIA


In the meantime the Four Club held regular meetings, and every Thursday
afternoon Julia heard Edith and Nora and Belle rushing up past her door
to Brenda's room on the floor above. Of course in a general way she knew
what was going on, for the affairs of the Four Club were no secret. Yet
although from time to time Brenda and her friends dropped a word or two
regarding their doings, they never talked very freely about the club.

Nora and Edith were silent because they were sorry that they could not
persuade Brenda to let them invite Julia to the meetings. Brenda said
little about the club, because possibly she was ashamed of her own
indifference. As to Belle, she never had had much to say to Julia, and
in this case although she felt pleased that her influence chiefly had
kept Brenda from counting her cousin in the club group, she hardly
ventured to express this feeling in words. There might as well have been
five girls as four in the group working for the Bazaar and no one knew
this better than Brenda and Belle themselves.

Although Julia had a pretty correct idea of what was going on, she tried
to show no feeling in the matter. Her studies, her music, and her
exercise occupied almost all her afternoons, and she reasoned with
herself that even if she had been invited, it would have been only a
waste of time for her to spend hours at fancy-work, which might
otherwise have been more profitably employed. But after a while, when
through the half-open door she heard her friends running upstairs, she
sometimes felt a thrill of disappointment that they did not care enough
for her to stop on their way to ask her to join them. Now Julia meant
always to be fair in her thoughts, as well as in her actions towards
others. So at first when she found that she was left out of the plans of
her cousin and her friends, she reasoned with herself somewhat in this
fashion.

"Now, Julia, you know that you are a newcomer, and you cannot expect
that you will be taken in all at once, just wait."

But after she had waited a good while, she began to feel a little hurt,
although she did her best to conceal her feeling from Nora and Edith. In
the meantime the latter two girls argued warmly with Brenda, and tried
to make her see that it was mean to keep Julia out of the Four Club.

"Nonsense," said Belle, who happened to overhear them, "Julia herself
would say that it was awfully stupid to sit for a whole afternoon,
sewing."

"Well, if she did not work harder than--well than Brenda does, she would
not be very much bored; besides she could look out of the window part of
the time, the view there is perfectly fine," responded the lively Nora.

Brenda had tried to speak when Nora had made this very unflattering
allusion to her own lack of industry, and when Nora finished she said,
holding up a square of linen on which a wreath of yellow flowers was
half embroidered,

"There, I've done all this this month."

"That's very good for you," said Belle, patronizingly, "but I'd be
willing to bet----"

"Don't say 'bet,'" murmured Edith.

"I'd be willing to bet anything," continued Belle, "that you'll never
finish it."

"Why, Belle," continued the others.

"No, you won't," repeated Belle, "you never could, you'll get tired of
the pattern or of the color, or you will spoil it in some way, and throw
it into the fire, or worse into that bottom drawer of yours with all
those other specimens."

Brenda, instead of growing angry at this, only laughed.

"Well if I don't wish to finish it, I certainly won't," she replied.
"But it happens that I have made up my mind to finish it this Autumn,
before Christmas, in fact, so you can make your bet as large as you
please, and pay the money into the fund for Manuel's benefit, for I
shall win."

The girls were all a little surprised at Brenda's reply. She was more
ready usually to answer pettishly any criticism made by Belle.

"Very well," said Belle, "Edith and Nora are my witnesses, and we shall
watch to see when you finish that centrepiece."

"Yes, indeed, Brenda," laughed Nora, "indeed we shall follow the career
of this wreath with great interest, and now since you seem to be in an
amiable frame of mind, let us go back to Julia. It seems terribly mean
not to ask her to join us."

The pleasant expression on Brenda's face changed to a frown.

"I've told you often that Julia would not enjoy working with us, and it
would just spoil everything to have her come."

"Of course it's your house, Brenda, and you started the club, and Julia
is your cousin, so Edith and I have not the same right to say anything,
but it seems to me very unkind to leave her out."

"There, I don't want to hear anything more about it," cried Brenda,
"haven't Belle and I both said that Julia would not enjoy herself,
sewing with us, and it would not be a 'four club,' and I don't want to
hear anything more about it."

By this time Brenda's voice was positively snappish, and Edith looked up
in alarm. But Nora was undismayed.

"Nonsense, Brenda," she cried, "Belle said that Julia would not enjoy
the cooking class, though I'm perfectly sure that no one there had a
better time, and the boys thought that she was splendid, didn't they,
Edith?"

"Yes," returned Edith, "Philip was surprised; he said she was fine, he
always supposed that she was a kind of blue-stocking with glasses,
and----"

Here Brenda interrupted, "Well, I'm sure that I never said anything like
that to him, and I shouldn't think that you would, Edith."

"Of course, I didn't," responded Edith, indignantly, "it was something
Frances Pounder said, and well--Belle----"

"Now, Belle, I do wish that you would not say things about my cousin,"
broke in Brenda.

"Oh," cried Belle, "you wish to have the privilege of saying everything
yourself; but you might as well let other people have a chance."

"Philip did not mean that anybody said anything particularly
disagreeable about Julia, only he had a sort of an idea that she did not
like people, and that she would not join much in any fun that we might
plan."

"Oh, what nonsense, Edith!" exclaimed Nora, "she likes fun as well as
any of us, only she is just a little quiet herself. She wants somebody
else to start the fun for her."

"Well, she does not dance," said Belle, "and a girl can't have much fun
if she does not dance."

"I know that she does not care for round dances, at least her father
would not let her learn, but I'm sure that she does the Virginia Reel as
well as anybody, and the Portland Fancy. Why she was as graceful as, as
anything the other evening," concluded Nora.

But all the conversation at the meetings of the Four Club did not
concern Julia and her absence from the club. The girls had many other
things to discuss, and their tongues were often more active than their
needles. Sometimes as their merry voices floated down to Julia, the
young girl sighed. It is never pleasant for any one to think that she is
not wanted in any gathering of her friends, although in this special
case Julia had no great desire to devote even one of her afternoons to
needlework. Nevertheless she could not repress a sigh that she was of so
little consequence to Brenda and her friends.

Before Thanksgiving came, the club really seemed in a fair way of
realizing its plans for a sale. Edith had finished two or three dainty
sets of doilies, for she worked out of club hours. Nora's afghan was at
least a quarter made, a great accomplishment for Nora. Belle had several
articles to show, and even Brenda had persevered with her centrepiece
until hardly more than a quarter of the embroidery remained unfinished.
Moreover several of the girls at school had promised to help, on
condition that nothing should be expected of them until after Christmas.

"That will be time enough," the Four always answered, "for we shall not
have the sale until Easter week."

The girls at school were especially interested when they heard that the
Bazaar was to be for the benefit of Manuel, not that any one of them had
a clear idea of his needs. But they felt an interest in him because they
believed that his life had been saved by one of their number. There
were, to be sure, one or two sceptics, like Frances Pounder, who said
that of course the child had been in no great danger, for in his own
part of the city children are in the habit of playing most of the time
under the very feet of the horses passing that way. "And who," the wise
Frances had added, "ever heard of a child like that having so much as a
leg broken?"

But Frances was not infallible, and many of the girls had heard of
accidents to poor children. If they had not, the fact remained, which
Nora and Brenda and half a dozen others were ready to testify to that
Manuel had been in great danger on the memorable day of his rescue. With
his danger granted, it was plain enough that caring for him became a
duty imposed on his rescuers.

With little opportunity to show it, Julia had as much interest in Manuel
as the other girls. Strange though it may seem, he was the first very
poor person with whom she had been brought in contact. For in the
secluded life which she had led with her father, she had not seen a
great variety of people. It is true that in traveling she had often come
across miserable looking and ill-clad women and children, and she knew
very well that there were many like them in the world. With her own
allowance she subscribed to a number of charities, but her father had
not encouraged her greatly in this kind of thing. His own ill health had
had the rather unusual effect of making him unsympathetic towards forms
of misery unlike the kind which had been sent to him. He thought, too,
that young people should be as closely sheltered as possible from the
knowledge of the dark side of life. He gave liberally to hospitals, but
poverty in itself did not appeal to him. On that account Julia was not
permitted to hear or to see much of actual poverty.

But Julia, on the other hand, had always had the greatest desire to help
the less fortunate, and to know more about the conditions of their
lives. She was therefore greatly pleased when one day in a book-shop she
found a copy of "How The Other Half Lives." It was very suggestive to
her, and buying it she had read it at home eagerly from cover to cover.

Now she knew that in Boston she was not likely to see any cases of
misery as extreme as those described in that famous book, and yet in the
midst of the luxury of her uncle's house she often wished that she could
do something to help the poor. But Julia, in spite of her self-reliance
in practical matters, was rather shy, and whenever she thought of
speaking to her aunt on the subject, she hesitated in fear lest she
should be thought presumptuous. Manuel and his wants, when Brenda and
Nora came home full of what they had seen at the North End, seemed to
her an opportunity. She hoped, indeed she almost expected that she would
be invited to go with them on a second visit. Her disappointment in this
matter was even greater than that which came from being left out of the
"Four Club." There were things she knew that she could have done for
Manuel and his mother, and even if Brenda and her friends were able to
provide for all his wants, there must be others in the same neighborhood
as poor as he. Yet week after week passed away, and no chance seemed to
open for her to tell Brenda what she would like to do. At school Julia
was left much to herself. The girls near her own age were so absorbed in
their own affairs that they seldom had a thought for the lonely
stranger. They had so many things to talk about in which Julia had no
part,--the dancing class, the bowling club--and a thousand and one
harmless bits of gossip harmless for the most part, though sometimes
carrying with them a little sting. When Julia sat or walked with one of
these chattering groups she felt that she was only tolerated, and she
could seldom join intelligently in what was said, and often a dropping
of the voice, or an only half-intentional glance of significance made
her feel herself in the way. To be sure there were Edith and Nora, of
the set a little younger than the girls with whom she recited. They were
undeniably her friends, and yet Brenda and Belle had a fashion of
dragging them off at recess without giving Julia an invitation to
follow, and the latter had too much sense to care to bring herself too
often within the reach of Belle's sharp tongue. So though she sat or
walked by herself, the older girls who noticed her excused themselves
with "Oh, if she cared to go with any one she would walk with Brenda and
Nora and the others of the 'Four,'" for in school, as in the club the
"Four" had come to have a special meaning. On the other hand Brenda and
Belle would usually say to the remonstrating Edith and Nora:

"What is the use of talking, Julia is in the classes with the older
girls, and she ought to make friends with them. She really doesn't
belong with us, and there is not the least reason why we should have her
on our minds all the time." Now there is hardly any classification of
persons more definite and rigid than that which separates the girls of
one age at school from those who are a year or two older, or a year or
two younger. Nor did Julia generally repine at her own situation. She
thought it perfectly natural that the other girls should be slow in
admitting her to intimacy. If she had any feeling it was regret that her
own cousin seemed so indifferent to her.




XIII

GREAT EXPECTATIONS


For a week before Thanksgiving there was great excitement among the
schoolgirls on account of the approaching football game. The "Four" were
as excited as the others, although not so many of their own particular
friends were in the Harvard team. It was to be a game with Princeton,
one of the great University matches, and for special reasons there was
the deepest interest in the match. Those girls who had brothers in
college, or even cousins or friends, held themselves with more dignity
than any of the others, and those who had relatives in the team "were
too proud for anything," as Brenda said. The game was to be played in
Holmes' Field, and tickets were not easy to get, because the seats were
far less numerous than now on the great Soldiers' Field. The girls were
making up little groups to go to the game with youths of their
acquaintance as escorts, under the chaperonage of older people. A few
who had received no invitation were especially miserable, and took no
trouble to disguise their feelings.

Edith at this time became unusually popular, because it was known that
her mother had given her permission to arrange a large party to
accompany her to the game, and every girl was hoping for an
invitation--every girl, at least who had not been invited elsewhere to
go in some other party.

Now Edith was of a generally generous disposition, and not inclined to
limit her favors, of whatever nature, to any particular set of girls.
For this reason she had to bear many a reproof from Belle, and even
occasionally from Brenda, both of whom were inclined to be more
exclusive.

So it happened that the general harmony of "The Four" was somewhat
disturbed when Nora one day at recess exclaimed,

"Who do you suppose is going with us to the game?" For of course in the
minds of the others there could be but one "game," and that the one to
which they all wished to go.

"Why, who is it?" cried Brenda, and "Who is it?" echoed Belle.

"I know that you can't guess."

"Oh, don't be silly, Nora, it wouldn't be worth while to guess about
something you'll know all about so soon, except that you speak as if it
were some one we might not care to have, and if that's the case, I
declare it's too bad," said Belle.

"If it's anything like that," broke in Brenda, rather snappishly, "I
will just tell Edith what I think."

"_It_--_that_," cried Nora, "didn't I say that it was a person, a girl,
if I must be more definite, Ruth Roberts, if I must tell just who it
is."

"Oh," cried Belle, and "Ah," echoed Brenda.

"You need not look so surprised," rejoined Nora, "and if you take my
advice, you will not say anything to Edith; she ought to have her own
way in arranging her own party, and you know when she makes up her mind
it is of no use to talk to her about it."

"Well, I don't care," rejoined Brenda, "it's hard enough to have Julia
tagging about everywhere, but why in the world we should have Ruth
Roberts, when we never see her anywhere except at school, I really
cannot understand, and I don't see how you and Nora can like it either."

"Why Ruth Roberts is as pleasant a girl as there is in school, and yet
she would have a terribly lonely time, if it were not for Edith and
Julia; nobody else ever thinks of speaking to her."

"Well, why should we, she lives out in Roxbury or some other outlandish
place, and she doesn't even go to our dancing school or know people that
we know. There isn't a bit of sense in knowing people that we'll never
see when we're in society," responded Belle, while Brenda echoed, "Yes,
that's what I think, too."

Nora smiled pleasantly, and her eyes looked brighter than ever under the
rim of her brown felt hat, with its trimmings of lighter brown. Nora's
temper was not easily ruffled. Then Belle added a final word.

"Oh, it's clear that this is all Julia's doings; ever since Ruth went
into her Latin class they have been awfully intimate. But I don't see,"
turning rather snappishly towards Brenda, "why the rest of us have got
to take up Ruth Roberts just because your Cousin Julia is so devoted to
her."

Now this was a little too much, even for Brenda, who generally did not
contradict Belle, and she answered with vigor, "Really you are growing
perfectly ridiculous, Belle; I haven't anything to do with it, but I
must say that I think that Julia has a right to choose her own friends.
Ruth Roberts is all right, and anyway I'm thankful to have Julia take a
fancy to anybody, it leaves us a great deal freer to do as we like. I
should think that you would see that yourself."

"Oh, well," said Nora laughing, "the whole thing is not worth quarreling
about. I'm glad to hear you talk so sensibly, Brenda. If you hadn't, I
was going to tell Belle that it seems to me that Edith has a right to
ask any one she wishes. She is always very good to us all, and just
think how many tickets her father has bought for this game!"

"Yes, I know, but still----"

"The least said, the soonest mended," said Nora, though to tell you the
truth, the quotation did not sound especially appropriate. "The least
said, the soonest mended, and let us all go to the game with a crimson
flag in each hand to wave for the winners."

"Crimson," cried Belle, "I am going to carry an orange scarf, and
perhaps an orange flag."

"What for? why I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed Nora.

"Nor I!" cried Brenda, "at a Harvard game!"

"Isn't it a Princeton game, too," asked Belle, "two or three of the boys
I used to know in New York are in that team, one of them is a kind of
cousin of mine."

"Oh," said Nora, "I didn't know that you thought that people had to be
so very devoted to cousins."

Even Belle herself could not help smiling at this, which was very
appropriate, following so closely, as it did, her own remarks about
Julia.

"You can see yourself that this is different," she answered. "I should
call it very impolite if there were no orange flags shown at the game."

"Well, you have the most ridiculous ideas, hasn't she, Brenda?"

Brenda nodded assent, and Nora continued, "I never knew that people had
to think that about politeness in college games; why it's a duty to do
everything you can to help your own side----"

"I never said that Harvard was my side," interrupted Belle, "didn't I
tell you that I have a cousin on the Princeton team."

"You'd better not say anything of that kind to Philip, or to Edith,
either, they are both perfectly devoted to Harvard, and they expect
their party to give great encouragement to the Harvard team. Why, Belle,
I cannot imagine your doing anything else."

"I'm not a child," responded Belle very crossly, walking away from Nora
and Brenda, "I do not need to be told what to do."

What Nora or Brenda might have answered, I cannot say, for hardly had
Belle disappeared within the house, when Edith herself appeared, with
Julia and Ruth.

Ruth was a pretty and amiable girl, about Julia's age, and therefore a
little older than "The Four." She had been in the school for two years
before the coming of Julia, but in all that time she had had only a
speaking acquaintance with the other girls. Many of them would probably
have been surprised had any one told them that they were very selfish in
leaving their schoolmate so entirely to herself. It was not because they
did not like her. They were merely so very much wrapped up in their own
affairs, that they hardly noticed that she was often left to herself.
Ruth lived in the suburbs, and as Belle had said, outside of school the
other girls seldom saw her. At recess each little group had so many
personal things to talk about that an outsider would have been decidedly
in the way, and would, perhaps, have been a little uncomfortable in
joining them. No one gets a great deal of enjoyment from reading a
single chapter in the middle of a book, and so it is often hard to be a
mere listener when the tongues of half a dozen girls are vigorously
discussing people and events of which the listener has not the slightest
knowledge.

Ruth herself was very independent, and as she was more interested in her
studies than many of the girls at Miss Crawdon's she had acquired the
habit of studying during recess. Since after school she spent more time
than most girls of her age in outdoor sports, it did her no great harm
to pass the half-hour of recess in this way. Ruth, as well as Julia, had
undertaken to prepare for college, and it had been a great delight to
her to have the latter placed with her in one or two special classes.
Julia's liking for her had made Edith take a little more interest in her
than would otherwise have been the case, but the ball game was the first
important event in which she was included with the others of Julia's
set. She naturally was pleased at the prospect of going with the others,
for like Julia, she had never seen a great football game.

No one who saw the hearty way in which Nora and Brenda greeted Ruth, as
she came up with Edith and Julia, could for a moment have imagined that
she had been under discussion. The mercurial Brenda for the moment was
so annoyed by Belle's proposed championship of Princeton, that she was
unexpectedly cordial to Ruth, and almost to her own surprise found
herself urging Ruth to come to town early on the Saturday of the game,
to take luncheon with her and Julia.

The latter expressed her thanks in a glance towards her cousin, as Ruth
accepted very gracefully, and Nora exclaimed, "What fun we are going to
have; you know we are all invited to dine at Edith's that evening. Oh
dear! I can hardly wait for Saturday."

"I know it," replied Brenda, "it's less than a week, too, but it seems
an awfully long time."

Then they gossiped a moment in a very harmless fashion about the
prospects of Harvard, and Edith quoted one or two things that Philip had
said, and Nora told them that her father was perfectly sure that the
crimson would win, and as they trooped into the dressing-room when the
bell rang, Belle was surprised to see Brenda leaning on Ruth's arm.




XIV

THE FOOTBALL GAME


At last the wished-for Saturday arrived. It was one of those clear,
bracing days that always put every one in good-humor. Though cool, it
was not too cool for the comfort of the girls and older women who were
to sit for two or three hours in the open air. Every car running to
Cambridge carried a double load, with men and boys crowding the platform
in dangerous fashion. Carriages of every description were rushing over
the long bridge between Boston and the University City and not only were
red or orange flags to be seen waving on every side--small flags that
could be easily folded up, but occasionally some group of youths would
break out into the college cry.

Edith and her guests drove out to Cambridge in carriages, although they
all thought that the cars would have been much more amusing. Edith,
however, had had to yield to her mother's wishes, for Mrs. Blair had a
strong objection to street cars, and Edith was forbidden to ride in any
except those of the blue line in Marlborough street. But if less
entertaining, the carriage ride was probably more comfortable than a
journey by car would have been on that day of excitement.

Edith and Julia and Ruth and Nora rode in one carriage, while Brenda,
Belle, Frances Pounder and Mrs. Blair were in the other. As Frances was
a distant cousin of Edith's, her mother usually included her in her
invitations, although in general disposition the two girls were very
unlike. Belle and Frances were more congenial, and had the same habit of
talking superciliously about other people. Brenda and Frances were
sometimes on very good terms, and sometimes they hardly spoke to each
other for weeks. For Frances had an irritating habit of "stepping on
people's feelings" as Nora said, whether with intent or from sheer
carelessness, no one felt exactly sure. She was the least companionable
of all the girls of their acquaintance, but on account of her
relationship to Edith she often had to be with them when "The Four" or
rather three of the four would have preferred some other girl.

When the carriages with Edith and her party reached Cambridge they drew
up before Memorial Hall as Mrs. Blair had arranged with Philip.

"We thought," she said, "that it would be both easier and pleasanter to
leave the carriages here, and walk to the field." And the girls agreed
with her. They felt more "grown up" walking along with their escorts,
than if seated in the carriage under the eye of Mrs. Blair. Philip, of
course, was on the spot, to meet them, and one of his friends was with
him.

"I couldn't get any more fellows," he said in an aside to his mother,
"to promise to sit with us, they'd rather be off by themselves with the
rest of the men. It really is more fun, you know."

"Hush," whispered his mother, fearing lest some of her friends might
hear this rather ungallant speech.

"O, of course I don't mind it much," he continued in answer to his
mother's look of reproach, "I'm willing to please Edith this once, but I
wouldn't want to have to look after a lot of girls very often."

Then he turned around to let himself be presented to

Ruth, whom he had not met before, and Mrs. Blair introduced his friend
Will Hardon to all the others,--except of course Edith who knew him.

Belle looked a little disturbed when she saw that there were to be but
two students to escort them, and she forgot for the time being, that
girls of less than sixteen can hardly expect to be considered young
ladies by college undergraduates, who at the sophomore stage of
existence are more inclined to the society of women a few years their
senior. Belle knew, however, that she had the manners of an older
person, and she kept herself fairly well informed on college
matters--that is on their lighter aspect, and could talk of the sports,
and of the "Dicky," with greater ease than many girls of eighteen or
twenty. Therefore as she walked along beside Will Hardon, her tongue
rushed on at a great rate, bewildering the youth so that he had hardly a
word to reply. Brenda, walking on Will's other side listened in
admiration to Belle's fluency. Try her best Brenda never could have
imitated it herself, but it was one secret of Belle's influence over
her, this ability to talk and act like a real young lady instead of a
schoolgirl. Philip attached himself to Ruth and Julia, Edith and Nora
walked together, and Mrs. Blair and Frances Pounder brought up the rear,
"Just where I can keep my eye on you," Mrs. Blair had said laughingly to
them as they started.

Julia was the only one of the group who had never been on the field--or
even in Cambridge before. She was astonished when she reached the field
to see the great crowd of spectators. It was a scene that she had never
imagined. Tier above tier at one side were the benches filled with men
and women, with bright flags fluttering, or rather little banners and
handkerchiefs, all eagerly looking towards the centre. Then there was
the great throng of students massed by themselves, and the crowds of
older men, all intent on the coming game.

What cheers as the rival elevens came upon the field! For an instant the
volume of sound seemed almost as strong for Princeton as for Harvard.
From the very first moment when Princeton lined up for the kick-off
Julia's eyes eagerly followed the ball. At the beginning Princeton
seemed to lead, but when Harvard gained ten yards on two rushes by her
full-back, and her left half-back had the ball on Princeton's
thirty-yard line, the crimson scarfs fluttered very prettily.

"Say, isn't that a fine play for Roth," cried Philip, as the Harvard
fall-back tore through Princeton's centre for four yards planting the
ball on the thirty-yard line, and then a little later after some good
play on both sides, he yelled wildly as he saw that Princeton was really
driven to the last ditch, with Harvard only one yard to gain. Both made
the try, and scored a touch-down in exactly fifteen minutes' play. Then
when Hall, on the Harvard side, a great stalwart fellow brought the ball
out, and held it for Hutton to kick on the try for goal, even Frances
Pounder lost her air of indifference, and as the ball struck the goal
post, and bounded back, she watched to see whether this was a time for
applause, and finally condescended to clap her hands. The score now
stood Harvard 4, Princeton 0, and Philip and Will excusing themselves
for a few minutes leaped down to talk matters over with their classmates
standing below at the end of the benches. As the game continued Roth
distinguished himself still further. He scored another touch-down for
Harvard from which a goal was kicked, making the score 10 to 0.

"It's almost too one-sided," said Julia, "and I can't exactly understand
it, for the Princeton men seem to be playing well, and really if you
look at them, they are larger than most of the Harvard players,--_that_
ought to count in a game like this."

"Well the game isn't over yet, and there may be some surprises before it
is through."

But just here Philip and his friend returned, and when Belle asked what
the other men thought of the Princeton prospects, "Oh, they haven't a
leg to stand on," said Philip, "at least that's what every one says, and
you can see for yourself now, they can't hold out against our men."

"I'm thankful for one thing," said Mrs. Blair, leaning towards her son,
"there haven't been any serious accidents yet, although I am always
expecting something dreadful to happen."

Hardly had she spoken, when two or three ladies in the neighborhood
screamed. Princeton had just secured the ball, when one of her men who
had fallen with half a dozen others on top of him, seemed unable to
rise. He had in fact to be carried from the field, and though the girls
afterward learned that he had only broken his collar bone, like so many
other spectators, for the time being they were decidedly alarmed at his
condition. After this Princeton had a little better luck. Harvard tried
for a goal from the thirty-five-yard line, but missed. Then the ball was
Princeton's on her twenty-five-yard line, and after several rushes with
small gains, the ball was passed back to Princeton's full-back for a
kick. The ball went high in the air, and the Princeton's ends got down
the field in beautiful shape. A Harvard half-back muffed the ball, and
it was Princeton's on Harvard's twenty-yard line. Just here, Belle,
emboldened by the turn of events managed to take a large orange and
black scarf from her pocket. As yet she had not dared to wave it, though
if you stop to think, had she been truly sympathetic, she ought to have
had courage to show her colors even when her chosen side was losing
ground.

Now in spite of the improvement in Princeton's play, the score had not
changed, though Princeton had the ball on Harvard's ten-yard line when
two minutes later the first half ended.

In the second half of the game there was more excitement than in the
first. Roth, who had been the hero of the afternoon in Harvard eyes, was
carried off, and two or three Princeton men were disabled. Harvard,
contrary to what had been expected was apparently playing the fiercer
game. The yell of the Harvard sympathizers grew louder and louder.

In two downs Princeton had gained four yards. Then when the ball was
passed to Dinsmore the noted Princeton half-back, Douglass, the popular
Harvard quarter-back tore through the centre, and downed Dinsmore with
the loss of five yards, making it Harvard's ball on Princeton's
twenty-two yard line.

The wildest hurrahing--a perfect pandemonium--now arose from the Harvard
bleachers. For the crimson was within striking distance of a touch-down,
and the orange had begun to droop. The girls in Edith's party, even
those not wholly familiar with the game in its finer points, were
thoroughly worked up. Some of the rough play worried Edith, and she
buried her face in her hands with a shudder when Jefferson, the Harvard
centre was carried from the field apparently senseless.

"Don't be a goose, Edith," whispered Nora, "you know that it can't be
anything very dreadful, or they wouldn't go on playing."

"Oh, yes, they would," murmured Edith. "They'd do anything in a football
game, they haven't a bit of feeling." But she lifted her head, and was
repaid by seeing Hutton kick a goal from the field thus sending the
score up to fifteen. This especially pleased her, because Hutton's
little sister, who had a high opinion of her brother's prowess, was a
great pet of hers.

"Don't you feel much as the Roman women used to feel at the Coliseum
games?" Julia contrived to say to Ruth in one of the intervals of play.

"It's almost as savage a sport as some of those gladiator affairs,"
replied Ruth, "but I don't believe that the gladiators were more
uncivilized-looking than these players. Did you ever see such hair?"

The next moment the girls were all attention. For although the Harvard
score never went beyond that fifteen, the game was an absorbing one for
the followers of both colors.

Princeton's battering-ram proved effective more than once, and every one
could see that in the matter of strength her men were ahead of the
Harvard team. But in activity Harvard was undeniably the superior, and
at last when the game was called, the score still stood 16 to 0 in favor
of the crimson.

Then what a scene! Men almost fell on one another's necks in their
delight. The team was surrounded by a dense throng, and the 'rah, 'rah,
'rah was fairly deafening. The friends of the vanquished hurried away
from the field, and only a few of the younger and more enthusiastic
lingered about in little knots to argue the situation, and prophesy a
victory for their own men at the next intercollegiate match.

"Oh, don't let's go off right away," cried Brenda, as she saw Edith
turning in the direction of the exit from the field.

"No, we might as well wait until Philip comes back; he and Will couldn't
resist going over there on the field to talk things over with some of
their friends," said Mrs. Blair, "and I told them that I felt sure that
you would excuse them."

"Why, of course," added Julia, and Ruth followed with a polite, "Yes,
indeed." But Belle, looking a little discontented, said nothing. "What
is the good," she was saying to herself, "of having two young men in
your party, if they never stay with you, when so many of the other girls
are at the game with only their fathers, or elderly relatives."

If she had thought carefully, she would have realized that the two boys
had really sacrificed not a little fun to act as escorts to "a parcel of
girls," as some of their student friends put it. Really they had been
very polite, they had hardly laughed at the mistakes made by the girls
in the use of terms during the game, and they had been more than willing
to explain the fine points of the play. When they were with the girls,
it was not Belle whom they thought the most about, but on Philip's part,
it was Julia, and on Will's, Ruth with her bright face, and vivacious
manner.

"Did you see papa?" cried Nora, "he was tossing his hat in the air, like
a boy. I tried to make him look at us, but he would not do so. I suppose
it was harder for him to recognize us than for me to distinguish him."

"No, I didn't see your father," replied Edith, "but I did see your
brother Clifford. He, however, never looked our way for a second. He had
his hat on the back of his head, and he and two or three other men
seemed beside themselves."

"Oh, yes, I suppose he and his friends are dreadfully pleased. You know
that Jefferson is a great friend of theirs."

"But he was hurt."

"Oh, that's nothing! As long as he wasn't killed it's all the more glory
for him. He and Clifford are room-mates, and they are devoted to each
other."

Then as the crowds from the benches swept past the girls, they saw many
friends and acquaintances, and Belle's injured pride was salved by the
return of Philip and Will just as two or three girls whom she especially
disliked walked past escorted only by an uncle.

How pleasant the walk back to the Square through the college grounds
was, with a few minutes in Philip's room, not long enough for the cup of
tea which he wished to offer, but long enough to make them all
enthusiastic to accept his invitation to come out to Cambridge some
other afternoon and examine his trophies. Really there seemed to be few
ornaments on the walls that were not connected in some way with college
sports--flags, medals, certificates of membership in this society or
that, photographs of the crew, of the teams,--but some time you may hear
more about the room, and so I will leave my description of it until
then.

To Julia the whole day had been more than delightful, she enjoyed every
moment of it, and she began to feel so at home with Edith's friends,
that not even Belle could rival her in quickness of repartee. Frances
Pounder looked at her in astonishment, when some of her own little
snubbing remarks fell one side without any effect. Ruth Roberts, too,
proved herself a great acquisition to the party, especially at the
dinner at Edith's. For Mrs. Blair gave an elaborate dinner to the group
that had attended the game, increased by the addition of two friends of
Philip's; and even if, as the worldly wise Frances Pounder suggested,
the whole affair had been arranged to prevent Philip and his friends
from joining the boisterous crowd of students in their Cambridge
celebration of the victory, Philip certainly had occasion to
congratulate himself on possessing a mother who would take so much
trouble for her children. So Brenda ate raw oysters, and Belle
entertained Will Hardon with an account of her last visit to New York,
and Nora endeavored to eat and talk at the same time, and Edith smiled
placidly on her friends while trying to remove the sting from some of
Frances Pounder's sharp remarks, and Julia forgot her shyness, and Ruth
Roberts impressed Mrs. Blair as a particularly intelligent girl, and all
the boys, as well as the girls, said that they had never had a
pleasanter afternoon. So who can say that the game had not proved itself
a great success in more ways than one?




XV

A POET AT HOME


One day Julia had an adventure--not "a wildly exciting one," as some of
the girls liked to describe what had happened to them, but one that she
was always to remember with pleasure. It was a windy day in early
January, and there was a fine glaze on the ground from a storm of the
day before. As she was slipping along down Beacon street, on her way
home from school, it was all that she could do to hold her footing. One
hand was kept in constant use holding down the brim of her hat which
seemed inclined to blow away. Luckily she had no books to carry, and so
when suddenly she saw some sheets of letter paper whirling past her, she
was able to rush on and pick them up as they were dashed against a
lamp-post. Another moment, and they would have been driven by another
gust of wind down a short street leading to the river.

[Illustration: "SHE WAS ABLE TO RUSH ON AND PICK THEM UP AS THEY WERE DASHED AGAINST A LAMP-POST"]

When she had the papers safely in her possession, Julia naturally looked
around to see to whom they belonged. The owner was not far away, for
just a few steps behind her was an old gentleman, not very tall, dressed
all in black with a high silk hat. Under his arm he carried a book, and
as he held out his hand towards her Julia had no doubt that he was the
owner of the wandering manuscript.

"Thank you, my child," he said, as she held the sheets towards him.
"Another gust, and I should have had to compose a new poem to take the
place of the one that was so ready to--go to press against that
lamp-post.

"There, that was not a very brilliant pun, was it?" he asked, for Julia
now was walking along by his side.

"Why, sir," she had begun to say, looking up in his face. Then suddenly
she gave a start. Surely she had seen that face before! But where? Yet
almost in a shorter time than I have taken to tell it, she recognized
the owner of the papers. He was certainly no other than Dr. Oliver
Wendell Holmes, the famous Autocrat of the Breakfast table, several of
whose poems she knew almost by heart. All her old shyness came back to
her, she did not exactly dare to say that she recognized him, and all
she could think of was another question in relation to the manuscript.
"Were--were they some of your own poems?" she managed to stammer, "it
would have been dreadful if they had been lost."

"Not half as dreadful," he replied smiling, "as if they had been written
by some one else. As a matter of fact these were sent me by an unfledged
poet who wished me to tell him whether he would stand a chance of
getting them into a publisher's hands. He told me to take great care of
them as he had no copy. I read his note at my publisher's just now, and
I felt bound to carry the manuscript home. But I'm not sure that it
would not have been a good thing to lose a sheet or two to teach him a
lesson. He should not send a thing to a stranger without making a copy."

The poet of course did not speak to Julia in precisely these words, but
this was the drift of what he said, and it was in about this form that
she repeated it to her aunt and Brenda at the luncheon table.

"What else did he say?" her aunt had asked, with great interest.

"Oh, he thanked me again for picking up the papers, complimented me for
being so sure-footed on such a slippery sidewalk, and what do you think,
Aunt Anna, when he heard that I had not long been in Boston, he asked me
to call some afternoon to see him. He is always at home after four. I
walked along until he reached his door step. Do you know that he lives
very near here. I was _so_ surprised to find it out. Have you ever been
there, Brenda?"

"No," said Brenda, shaking her head, "I did not exactly notice whom you
were talking about."

"Why, Dr. Holmes," replied Julia.

"Oh," said Brenda, with a stare that seemed to imply that this name did
not mean much to her.

"Why, you know, Brenda, Oliver Wendell Holmes?" prompted her mother, and
still Brenda looked rather blank.

"Brenda," said Mrs. Barlow, "I am surprised. Surely you remember how
pleased you were with 'The Last Leaf' when I had you learn it last
summer, and you _must_ remember that I told you that the poet who wrote
it lives in Boston."

"I dare say," answered Brenda carelessly, "but I had forgotten. I don't
see why Julia should be so excited about meeting a poet. There must be
ever so many of them everywhere."

"Ah! Brenda," responded her mother, "I do wish that you would take more
interest in the affairs of your own city. Here is Julia who has been in
Boston but a short time, and I am sure that she knows more about our
famous men and women than you who have lived here all your life."

For a wonder Brenda did not laugh at what her mother said, nor take
offence.

"I never shall be a book-worm," she said very good-naturedly. "I am
willing to leave all that to Julia."

So when Julia asked her one afternoon, if she would not like to go with
her to call on Dr. Holmes, she declined with thanks, and left Julia free
to invite Edith.

As the two friends walked up the short flight of stone steps to the
front door, their hearts sank a little. To make a call on a poet was
really a rather formidable thing, and they pressed each other's hands as
they heard the maid opening the door to admit them.

"Just wait here for a moment," said the maid, after they had enquired
for the master of the house, and she showed them into a small room at
the left of the entrance. It seemed to be merely a reception-room, but
it was very pretty with its white woodwork and large-flowered yellow
paper. There was a carved table in the centre with writing materials and
ink-stand, and little other furniture besides a few handsome chairs.
Tall bookcases matching the woodwork occupied the recesses, and they
were filled with books in substantial bindings.

In a moment the maid had returned and asked them to follow her. At the
head of the broad stairs they saw the poet himself standing to meet them
with outstretched hand. When Julia mentioned Edith's name, "Ah," he
said, "that is a good old Boston name, and if I mistake not, I used to
know your grandfather," and then when Edith had satisfied him on this
point he turned to Julia, and in a bantering way spoke of the service
she had done him that windy day. Then he made them sit down beside him,
one on each side, while he occupied a large leather armchair drawn up
before his open fire, and asked them one or two questions about their
studies and their taste in literature. As he talked, Julia's eyes
wandered to the bronze figure of Father Time on the mantelpiece, and
then to the little revolving bookcase on which she could not help
noticing a number of volumes of Dr. Holmes' own works. The old gentleman
following her glance, said:

"They make a pretty fair showing for one man, but my publishers are
getting ready to bring out a complete edition of my works, and that,
well that makes me realize my age." After a moment, as if reflecting, he
asked quickly, "Does either of you write poetry?"

"Oh, no, sir," answered Edith quickly, "we couldn't."

"Why, it isn't so very hard," he said, "at least I should judge not by
the numbers of copies of verses that are sent to me to examine. Poetry
deals with common human emotion, and almost any one with a fair
vocabulary thinks that he can express himself in verse. But nearly
everything worth saying has been said. Words and expressions seem very
felicitous to the writer, but he cannot expect other persons to see his
work as he sees it."

"It depends, I suppose," said Edith shyly, "on whose work it is."

"I am afraid," replied the poet, "that there is no absolute standard for
verse-makers. It has always seemed to me that the writer of verse is
almost in the position of a man who makes a mold for a plaster cast or
something of that kind. Whatever liquid mixture he puts into that mold
will surely fit it. So the verse is the mold into which the poet puts
his thought, and from his point of view it is sure to fit."

Though Edith may not have grasped the full force of the poet's meaning,
Julia was sure that she understood him.

"Do you really have a great deal of poetry sent you to read?" she asked.

"Every mail," he answered, "brings me letters from strangers,--from
every corner of the globe. Some contain poems in my honor, as specimens
of what the poet can do. Others are accompanied by long manuscripts on
which my opinion is asked. I am chary now about expressing any opinion,
for publishers have a way of quoting very unfairly in their
advertisements. If I write 'your book would be very charming were it not
so carelessly written,' the publisher quotes merely 'very charming,' and
prints this in large type."

Both girls smiled at the expression of droll sorrow that came over the
poet's face as he spoke.

"And I am so very unfortunate myself," he added, "when I try to get an
autograph of any consequence. Now I sent Gladstone a copy of a work on
trees in which I thought he would be interested. He returned the
compliment with a copy of one of his books. But--" here he paused, "he
wrote his thanks on a postcard!" Again the girls laughed. "Dear me!" he
concluded, "this cannot interest young creatures like you; do you care
for poetry?"

"Oh, yes indeed we do," cried Julia, "and we just love your poetry."

"Well, well," said the poet, with a twinkle in his eye, "perhaps you
would like to hear me read something?"

The beaming faces that met his glance were a sufficient answer, and
taking a volume from the table, he began in a voice that was a trifle
husky, though full of expression,

    "This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
    Sails the unshadowed main,--
    The venturous bark that flings
    On the sweet summer wind its venturous wings
    In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
    And coral reefs lie bare,
    Where the cold sea maids raise to sun their streaming hair."

When he had finished the stanza, he looked up enquiringly.

"The Chambered Nautilus," murmured Julia.

"Ah, you know it then?" said the poet.

"Oh, yes, I love it," she answered.

Then with a smile of appreciation, adjusting his glasses, Dr. Holmes
read to the end of the poem in his wonderfully musical voice. When it
was finished, the girls would have liked to ask for more, but the poet
rose to replace the volume. "Come," he said, "you have listened to the
poem which of all I have written I like the best, now I wish to show you
my favorite view." Following him to the deep bay-window, they looked out
across the river. It was much the same view to which Julia was
accustomed in her uncle's house, and yet it was looking at the river
with new eyes to have the poet pointing out all the towns, seven or
eight in number which he could see from that window. Somerville,
Medford, Belmont, Arlington, Charlestown, Brookline, and one or two
others, perhaps, besides Cambridge with its spires and chimneys.

"In winter," said Dr. Holmes, "there is not much to see besides the
tug-boats and the gulls. But in the early spring it is a delight to me
to watch the crews rowing by, and an occasional pleasure-boat, ah! I
remember"--but what it was he did not say, for as Edith turned her eyes
toward an oil painting on the wall near by he said, "Of course you know
who that is; of course you recognize the famous Dorothy Q. Now look at
the portrait closely, and tell me what you think of that cheek. Could
you imagine any one so cruel as to have struck a sword into it? Yet
there, if your eyes are sharp enough, you will see where a British
soldier of the Revolution thrust this rapier."

When both girls admitted that they could not see the scar, "That only
shows," he said, "how clever the man was who made the repairs."

Before they turned from the window he made them notice the tall factory
chimneys on the other side of the river which he called his
thermometers, because according to the direction in which the smoke
curled upwards, he was able to tell how the wind blew, and decide in
what direction he should walk.

"Remember," he said, "when you reach my age always to walk with your
back to the wind," and at this the girls smiled, they feeling that it
would be many years before they should need to follow this advice. Yet
during their call how many things they had to see and to remember! He
let each of them hold for a moment the gold pen with which he had
written Elsie Venner and the Autocrat papers, and Julia turned over the
leaves of the large Bible and the Concordance on the top of his writing
table. Dr. Holmes called their attention to the beautiful landscape
hanging on one wall done in fine needlework by the hands of his
accomplished daughter-in-law, and he told them a story or two connected
with another picture in the room. Julia, as she looked about, thought
that she had seldom seen a prettier room than this with its cheerful
rugs, massive furniture, and fine pictures, all so simple and yet so
dignified. When the poet pointed out the great pile of letters lying on
his desk, he told them that this was about the number that he received
every day.

"But you don't answer them all," exclaimed Edith almost breathlessly.

"No, indeed," and he laughed, "my secretary goes through them every
morning, and decides which ought to be given me to read, and then--well
if it is anything very personal I try to answer it myself. Often,
however, I let her write the answer, while I simply add the signature."

Edith gave Julia a little nudge; they were both at the age when the
possession of an autograph of a famous man is something to be ardently
desired. But neither of them had quite dared to ask Doctor Holmes for
his. It is possible that he saw the little nudge, or perhaps he read the
eager expression on their faces, for almost before they realized it he
had placed in the hand of each of them a small volume in a white cover,
and bidding them open their books he said, "Well, I must put something
on that bare fly-leaf."

So seating himself at his table with a quill pen in his hand, he wrote
slowly and evidently with some effort, the name of each of them,
followed by the words "With the regards of Oliver Wendell Holmes," and
then the year, and the day of the month. As he handed them the books, he
opened the door, and with a word or two more of half bantering thanks to
Julia for her assistance on that windy day, he bowed them down the
stairs.

So impressed were they by the visit that they had little to say until
they reached home, where they found Mrs. Barlow a very sympathetic
listener. Brenda, who happened to be at home looked with interest at the
little volumes of selections from Doctor Holmes' writings with their
valuable autographs, and said, "Well, you might have taken me, too."

"Why, Brenda, I am sure that I asked you," said Julia, "but you declared
that you would not speak to a poet for anything in the world."

They all laughed at this, a proceeding which this time did not annoy
Brenda.

Mrs. Barlow admired the little books.

"But I hope that you did not stay too long," she said gently, "for I
have been told that Doctor Holmes has a way of sending off a guest who
tires him, by bringing out one of these little gift books."

"Oh, I don't think we tired him," said Julia; "at any rate he was too
polite to show it, but I'm glad that we have the books."




XVI

AN HISTORIC RAMBLE


On a bright, sunny morning just before the beginning of the Christmas
holidays, Miss South asked Julia if she would care to go within a day or
two to visit some of the historic spots at the North End.

"It is not quite as good a season," the teacher had added, "as in the
early autumn or spring, but I have learned that it is never well to put
off indefinitely what can be as well done at once. Something may happen
to prevent our going later, and so if you can go with me this week I
shall be very glad."

"Oh, thank you, Miss South," replied Julia, "I should love to go, and
any day this week would do."

"And I may go, too, mayn't I?" cried Nora, who happened to be standing
by.

"Why, certainly," replied Miss South, "the more, the better; I should be
pleased to have all 'The Four' go."

As it happened, however, on the afternoon selected for the excursion,
only Julia and Nora really cared to go. Brenda and Belle had some
special appointment which nothing would induce them to break, and Edith
expressed decided objections against going again into that dirty part of
the town.

Even a Boston December can offer many a balmy day, and one could not
wish a pleasanter afternoon than that which Julia and Nora had for their
visit to the North End under the guidance of Miss South.

She made Faneuil Hall the beginning of the trip, and if I had time I
should like to repeat what she told them about this famous building and
its donor, old Peter Faneuil, the descendant of the Huguenots.

Nora was very much impressed by hearing that the first public meeting in
the building which Peter Faneuil had given to his native town was that
which assembled to hear Master Lovejoy of the Latin School pronounce a
funeral eulogy over the donor of the hall.

For his death happened less than six months after the town had formally
accepted his gift in 1742.

"You must remember," said Miss South, "that fire, and other causes have
led to many changes in the old building, both inside and out, and yet it
may still be considered the most interesting building in the country
historically, or at least of equal interest with Independence Hall in
Philadelphia."

As they walked about and looked at the portraits of Washington, and
Hancock, and Adams, and Warren and the other great men considered worth
a place in this famous hall, Miss South told them of a political meeting
which she had once attended there, and how interesting it had been to
look down from the galleries upon the mass of men standing on the floor
below. For no seats are ever placed in this part of the hall, and with
an exciting cause, or a noted speaker to attract, the sight of this
crowd of men close pressed together is well worth seeing.

"There is one time in particular," said Julia, "when I should have loved
to look in on the people in the hall."

"When was that?" asked Miss South.

"Why, during the Siege of Boston," she answered, "when the British
turned it into a play-house, and all the British officers in town were
attending 'The Blockade of Boston.'"

"Why, how can you remember?" exclaimed Nora.

"I don't know," said Julia; "I've always remembered it since I read it
in some history that just in the midst of the play the audience rose in
great excitement at the report 'The Yankees are attacking our works at
Charlestown.'"

"Yes, that was the beginning of the end for the British in Boston," said
Miss South. "We are going to see other things to remind us of them this
afternoon. But now we must hasten on, for the afternoon will hardly be
long enough for all that we wish to see."

Then after a short walk, she said, "I am taking you a little out of your
way to show you one or two spots that you might overlook yourself. Now
just here at this corner of Washington and Union streets, where we
stand, Benjamin Franklin passed much of his boyhood. Some persons
believe that his birthplace was here. But I am more inclined to accept
the Milk street location than this. Yet, here, almost where we stand,
his father hung out the Blue Ball sign for his tallow candle business,
and here, too, he lived with his wife and thirteen children.

"Not far away," she continued as they walked along, "was the Green
Dragon Tavern where John Adams, and Revere, and Otis and the other Sons
of Liberty used to hold their meetings, and this--let us stand here for
a moment--is the site of the home of Joseph Warren. Here, where this
hotel stands in Hanover street, he lived and practised his profession of
physician, and in this old house I suppose, the news was brought to his
children of his death at Bunker Hill."

To save their strength Miss South now signalled a passing street car,
and in a very few minutes they were taken to the corner of Prince
street. On the way Miss South had said that she wished to show them
North Square, and when they left the car, one turn from the main
thoroughfare brought them within sight of this noted locality.

The little corner shops, of which there were many in sight had signs
worded in Italian, and some of the shop windows displayed all kinds of
foreign-looking pastry and confections--less tempting, however, in
appearance than the fresh green vegetables shown in the windows and
doorways of other shops. The dark-browed men and women who passed spoke
to each other in Italian, and some of the women wore short skirts and
bright kerchiefs which made their whole costume seem thoroughly foreign.

"Down this Garden Court street," said Miss South, just before they
reached the square, "used to stand the house of Sir Harry Frankland."

"Oh, yes," cried Nora, "there's _one_ thing that I remember, the story
of Agnes Surriage. I've read the novel."

"Well, Agnes used to live here," said Miss South, "at least in this
neighborhood. No trace of the old mansion remains, although when built
it was the finest house in town, three stories high, with inlaid floor,
carved mantels, and other decorations that even to-day we should
probably admire. Many other houses in this neighborhood are old, and I
have a friend who can tell almost their precise age by studying the
style of the bricks and mortar, but the only one of great historic
interest is that little old wooden house," and she pointed to one on the
western side of the square.

"It does not look so very old," said Julia.

"No, because it has been clapboarded after the modern fashion. Aside
from that, however, you can see that its overhanging upper story makes
it unlike any house built in modern times. Here Paul Revere lived for
many years, and his birthplace is near-by. I hope that in time it may be
bought by some patriotic person, to be preserved as long as it will
stand. At present it is a tenement house, and liable to destruction by
fire at any moment through the carelessness of its occupants. Now we
must hurry on, but I wish that you could come to the square some time on
a holiday, when it is a centre for all the picturesque Italians of whom
there are so many now in this part of the city."

As they turned about under Miss South's guidance, she pointed out other
old houses--(one with the date 1724 above it) almost tumbling down,--and
she told them a little about the habits of the people living in the
narrow streets and alleys which they passed.

"On the whole these people are much better off than ever they were in
their own country. They have political liberty, and their children have
the chance of acquiring a good education. In that school over there they
are taught to speak English, and they do learn it in a very thorough
manner. The older people are slow in learning our language, and even
slower in acquiring our habits. They are so anxious to make money that
they live crowded together in a very unwholesome fashion. Sometimes a
whole family and one or two boarders will live in the same small room,
and the children will go without proper food or clothes while the father
is saving money enough to invest in a house or shop which he wishes to
own."

"Cannot this be prevented?" asked Julia.

"Only by teaching young and old better habits. That is the effort which
all the charity workers in this neighborhood make. The kindergartens,
and industrial schools, and all the other organizations are gradually
accomplishing this. But it is hard work. I should like to tell you more
about their difficulties, but now I suppose we must pay more attention
to history."

While Miss South had been talking she had led them up a narrow street
which in snowy weather must have lived up to its name "Snowhill street."
At the top of the hill after a turn or two they came upon an old
burying-ground.

"Copp's Hill," said Julia.

"Why of course," responded Nora.

"I brought you here to-day," said Miss South, "because I knew that the
gates would be open. One cannot always get in during the winter months
except by special arrangement. But in summer the old graveyard is like a
park, and the little children from all parts of the North End come here
to play, and mothers with their babies are thankful enough for a seat
under the trees where they can feel the cool breeze from the harbor."

"How quaint it is!" said Julia, looking down the narrow street, just as
they entered the gate. "Why there is Christ Church, isn't it?"

"How did you know it?" asked Nora, "I thought that you had never been
here before."

"Well, I haven't, but there are ever so many photographs, showing just
this view. What is that queer little house, Miss South?"

"I am glad that you asked, although I should not have forgotten to point
it out. That is a real Revolutionary relic, General Gage's headquarters
during part of the British occupation; it is one of the most interesting
houses left standing."

Now turning their steps away from the quaint, hilly street, they were
within the enclosure of the graveyard. It would take long to tell all
that they saw. There was the old gravestone which the British had made a
target, and marked with their bullets. There were some stones with
nothing but the name and date, and neither very legible, others with
rough carvings of cherubs' heads, or the angel of death, while some of
the vaults at the side had heraldic carvings, the arms of old Tory
families.

Miss South told them of the days when this graveyard had been neglected,
and when the gravestones had toppled over, and had been carried off by
any one who wished them. Some had been found by the present custodian of
the ground in use as covers for drains, others as chimney tops, and some
in old cellars and basements. There were famous names on some of the
stones, and strange verses on others.

Julia copied an inscription or two, such as,

    "A sister of Sarah Lucas lyeth here,
    Whom I did love most dear;
    And now her soul hath took its flight,
    And bid her spightful foes good-night."

and this

    "Death with his dart hath pierced my heart,
      While I was in my prime;
    When this you see grieve not for me
      'Twas God's appointed time."

She had heard before of the Mather tomb, and looked with great interest
on the brown slab enclosed with an iron railing, under which rested the
noted Puritan preacher.

Yet while Julia took interest in the stones and inscriptions, Nora was
better pleased with the lovely view of the water to be seen from the
summit.

"It was there in the channel," said Miss South, "that the men-of-war lay
when Paul Revere started out on that wonderful ride, and not so far from
the spot where the receiving ship 'Wabash' now lies at the Navy Yard,
the British landed in Charlestown on their way to Bunker Hill."

"Oh, yes," said Julia, who had put aside her pencil and notebook, "I can
understand now what a fine view the people of Boston must have had of
the battle when they crowded to the graveyard and the roofs."

"Yes, there was almost a clear view then," said Miss South, "and it must
have been a very exciting day for the watchers on the Boston side of the
water."

    "They were making for the steeple,--the old sexton and his people;
      The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair,
    Just across the narrow river--oh so close it made us shive

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