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Brenda's Ward

by Helen Leah Reed · English · Gutenberg #36133 · 472,992 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Brenda's Ward

Author: Helen Leah Reed

Illustrator: Frank T. Merrill


        
Release date: May 18, 2011 [eBook #36133]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36133

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
        material from the Google Print project.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRENDA'S WARD ***




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's Ward

                     _A Sequel to "Amy in Acadia"_

                           By Helen Leah Reed

Author of "The Brenda Books," "Irma and Nap," "Amy in Acadia," etc.


    Illustrated from Drawings by
    Frank T. Merrill

    Boston
    Little, Brown, and Company
    1906

    _Copyright, 1906_,
    BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

    _All rights reserved_

    Published October, 1906

    THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.




[Illustration: "As Martine courtesied her thanks for this compliment,
she backed gracefully."]




CONTENTS


I. A NEW HOME

II. A STRANGE MEETING

III. PRISCILLA'S PRIDE

IV. CHANGES

V. ANOTHER PARTING

VI. ANGELINA'S COUP

VII. A DROP OF INK

VIII. A PRIZE WINNER

IX. WORD FROM BRENDA

X. THE RECITAL

XI. MARTINE'S ALTRUISM

XII. PUZZLES

XIII. AT PLYMOUTH

XIV. TALES AND RELICS

XV. TROUBLES

XVI. THE MISSING TRUNK

XVII. CLASS DAY

XVIII. AT YORK

XIX. SIGHT-SEEING

XX. THE ISLES OF SHOALS

XXI. VARIETY

XXII. EXCITEMENT

XXIII. QUIET LIFE

XXIV. PORTSMOUTH AND AFTERWARD

XXV. THE SUMMER'S END




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


"As Martine courtesied her thanks for this compliment, she backed
gracefully"

"'The real Memorial is here,' said Elinor, reverently, passing from one
tablet to another"

"'This little scarf--it is Roman, too,--is just the thing for Julius
Caesar'"

"Aunt Nabby seemed to be making little dolls of clay"

"The old captain proved very talkative"

"While Martine was sketching, Clare fluttered about"




Brenda's Ward




CHAPTER I

A NEW HOME


"It's simply perfect."

"I thought you would like it, Martine."

"Like it! I should say so, but it isn't 'it,' it's everything,--the
room, the house, you, Boston. Really, you don't know how glad I am to be
here, Brenda--I mean Mrs. Weston."

"What nonsense!"

"That I should like things?"

"No, that you should call me 'Mrs. Weston.' It's bad enough to be
growing old, so don't try to make me feel like a grandmother. Truly, I
can't believe that I am a day older than when I was sixteen, and yet
when I _was_ sixteen, eighteen seemed the end of everything worth while.
I could not imagine myself old, and serious, and--twenty."

Martine smiled at Brenda's emphasis of the last word, and as she smiled
she laid her hand on her friend's arm.

"Come," she said, "just look in this mirror. A person who did not know
could not tell which is the older, you or I."

"Again, nonsense!"

Yet even as she spoke Brenda could but admit to herself that Martine had
an air of dignity suited to one much older than a girl of seventeen. But
if she had thought Martine altogether grown up, she quickly changed her
opinion, for at this very moment Martine sank on the floor beside her,
and as her laughter re-echoed through the rooms Brenda was driven to
say:

"My dear, don't talk to me about being grown up. You act precisely like
a child of ten. What in the world is the matter?"

"Nothing, oh nothing; that is, almost nothing. Only look and you will
laugh too."

Glancing where Martine pointed, Brenda saw something really amusing.
Before a pier-glass in the hall a sallow girl with glossy black hair
piled high on her head was standing. She wore a pink satin gown that
heightened her sallowness. It was cut square in the neck, and her elbow
sleeves displayed a pair of skinny arms.

"Who is she?" whispered Martine, recovering her breath.

"Why, that, oh that is Angelina."

Martine, fascinated by the vision in the glass, continued to watch the
strange little figure, bowing, gesticulating, turning now to this side
now to that, while her lips moved as if she were talking to herself.

"Who is Angelina?" asked Martine.

"Oh, Angelina, don't you know her? She is to help me for a week while
Maggie is away taking care of her sick aunt."

"Do you call that 'helping'?" and again Martine pointed toward the
pier-glass.

"She did not hear me come in; she thought I would ring," replied Brenda.
"She thinks I am still downtown. She was to go to the door and has been
waiting to hear me ring."

"Would she go to the door looking like that?"

"Oh, I hope not. She'd probably call through the tube and hurry on a
coat, or do something of that kind. Yet no one is ever surprised at
Angelina's doings. Let me tell you about her. Years ago Nora and some of
the rest of us pulled her little brother Manuel from under the feet of a
horse, and in a few days we went to visit the family at the North End.
You can't imagine how poor they were. Then we had a club and worked for
a bazaar to raise money to get them out into the country."

"Oh, yes, Amy told me something about that, though it all happened
before she knew you, I think she said."

"Well, in the end Angelina became my cousin Julia's protegee. She has
learned a great deal about housework at the Mansion School, but she is
always yearning for something beyond. Lately she has been taking lessons
in elocution."

"That's it, then, she's rehearsing now," cried Martine. "Oh, I hope
Maggie will stay away longer than you expect. I think we might have
great sport with Angelina."

"My dear," remonstrated Brenda, "remember that for the present you are
my ward. I can't have you trifling with Angelina, although she can be
very funny."

The sound of voices had at last penetrated Angelina's ears, and she fled
to her room.

"Oh, my," she thought, "I wonder if Mrs. Weston saw me?" In her secret
heart Angelina hoped that she had been observed.

"And Miss Martine, she's almost as stylish as Mrs. Weston. I wonder what
she thought of this dress--gown," she added, correcting herself. "I
almost wish I'd been saying that soliloquy out loud. Then I could have
asked them if they thought I used just the right inflections and
gestures. Perhaps Miss Brenda would let me recite it all to her some
time. She's more sympathetic than Miss Julia was. Now I know if I should
ask Miss Julia she'd say I mustn't give that recital, and I'm sure she
wouldn't approve of this gown. But Miss Brenda, why I shouldn't wonder
if she'd go to it herself, and Miss Martine, I've heard how she spends
money like water, and she'll probably buy a lot of tickets."

As Angelina fled to her room Martine, rising from the floor, sat down on
a divan beside Brenda.

"If you wish to please me, do find another place for Maggie and keep
Angelina. She'll be so entertaining, and poor Maggie always looks half
ready to cry."

"Oh, I couldn't part with Maggie, and more than a week of Angelina would
be too much even for you."

"Well, I will tell you at the end of this week. I am going to work so
hard at school that I ought to have as much amusement as possible at
home. Still I know I am going to be perfectly happy with you this
winter, although I can remember the time when I should just have hated
to spend a winter in Boston. Even now if it wasn't for you--"

"But you had decided to spend the winter here before you ran across me."

"No, my dear Mrs. Weston, my parents had decided that a year or two of
Boston school would be the making of me. They had heard, as you know, of
a dragon who had a boarding-house on the hill, who would look after me
within an inch of my life. Wasn't it strange, though, that she should
have been taken ill this autumn? I suppose you wouldn't let me say
'providential.'"

"Certainly not! She was so ill that she had to go South for the winter."

"Then that is providential for her. How much better the South must be
for her than this bleak Boston. Besides, if she had been able to
continue her home for helpless Western schoolgirls, I should not have
had the delight of sharing your charming apartment."

"Nor should I have had the pleasure of the company of a charming ward."

As Martine courtesied her thanks for this compliment, she backed
gracefully, and neither she nor Brenda realized that she was approaching
too near a table of bric-a-brac, until it toppled over with a crash.

"Oh what have I done! No wedding presents smashed, I hope." There was a
touch of dismay in Martine's voice.

"Not a thing that could break." Brenda's smile was reassuring. "Silver
or brass, everyone of them. That's one thing I have already learned, not
to have breakable things, if one values them, within anyone's reach.
It's awfully disagreeable to have to blame anyone for what you could
have prevented by a little care, and I never can let anybody replace
what she has broken. Maggie is rather a breaker, and so my china and
glass ornaments I set on high shelves."

The noise of the falling table brought Angelina upon the scene. She had
made what Martine called a "lightning change," and appeared in a dark
gown and spotless collar and cuffs.

"Why, are you in?" she said innocently, as she entered the room. "I
didn't know but what it might be a burglar or something--" She looked
from one to the other anxiously, and then catching sight of the
overturned table, began to busy herself picking up the scattered
ornaments.

"Oh, dear," sighed Brenda, "will Angelina ever learn to be perfectly
honest?" But her only words alone were. "Yes, we have been in some time;
I thought you might have heard us." The implied reproof silenced
Angelina, and soon the three separated without a word having been said
about the private rehearsal.

That the volatile Brenda Weston should undertake the charge of Martine
Stratford for the winter at first surprised many of their friends, and
yet this had come about in a perfectly natural way. When Martine
returned from her summer with Amy in Acadia, her mother, who met her in
Boston, was so much better that it seemed almost possible for her to
spend the winter at home. But at last her physician prescribed a few
months of travel, and as Martina's school work had already been unduly
interrupted, it was thought wiser for her to carry out the plans already
more than half formed that she should stay in Boston to attend Miss
Crawdon's school. It was therefore a disappointment to Mrs. Stratford
just before school opened to hear that Mrs. Montgomery, Martine's
so-called "dragon," was ill. For several years the latter had been in
the habit of having a few girls from a distance board with her while
they attended school in Boston. When Mrs. Montgomery could not take her,
Martine's parents thought that they must altogether give up the Boston
plan. Mrs. Blair, a cousin of Martine's mother, with whom she had stayed
in the spring, was now in Europe. Mrs. Redmond, in whose charge they
would have liked to put Martine, had engaged a boarding-place in
Wellesley, to be near her daughter in college; and had there been no
other reason against Martine's living in Wellesley also, her parents
objected to her going back and forth daily on the trains. The case
seemed hopeless for Martine's staying in Boston until Brenda Weston came
to the rescue.

Brenda was for a few days at the large hotel overlooking the park, where
also Mr. and Mrs. Stratford and Martine were staying. Martine had heard
much of Brenda, though she had never met her until one afternoon when
Amy came to call. Delighted to have the opportunity, she immediately
introduced Brenda to her Chicago friends. This happened to be the very
day when Martine was feeling most discouraged regarding her school
plans. For although the young girl sometimes scoffed at Boston, she
really wished to spend the winter there. Her summer's companionship with
Amy and Priscilla had increased her ambition, and she was anxious to
study at Miss Crawdon's.

Very naturally, then, she confided her troubles to Brenda. Brenda
sympathized with her, but made no suggestion until she had talked the
matter over with her own family and with Martine's mother. When Mrs.
Stratford told Martine that Brenda had offered to take her under her
wing for the winter, Martine, overjoyed, rushed to Brenda's room to
express her thanks.

"I can't tell you how delighted I am at the thought of living with you
in that dear little flat. It will be much more fun than anything else I
could possibly do."

Brenda looked at her keenly, shaking her head in mock reproof.

"You are not coming to me just for fun. Your mother says that this must
be a very serious year for you, that you did not do so very well in
school last year, and that--"

"There, there, Brenda,--I mean Mrs. Weston, dear,--I can be terribly
serious. You will see for yourself. But still you want me to have a
_little_ fun, just a little--"

"Oh, yes; I am not a regular dragon, but I understand the importance of
work."

With a sudden movement Martine, who had been standing behind Brenda,
threw her arms over Brenda's head, placed her hands over Brenda's mouth,
thus silencing her for the moment.

"Now listen, listen," she cried; "listen, please! Of course I am only
too glad to be your ward, and I will be as good as good can be. I would
promise anything rather than go to boarding-school, or live with Mrs.
Blair, or board in a house full of girls. Lucian hopes I'll stay in
Boston because he is a little lonely sometimes at college, and I wish to
stay with you, and you are so sweet to give me the chance that I really
won't make any trouble for you."

So it was settled, and Mr. and Mrs. Stratford went home, quite satisfied
to leave Martine in Brenda's care. They would have been better pleased
had Mrs. Redmond been able to take complete charge of their daughter;
but as it was, Mrs. Redmond promised to have Martine constantly in mind
and to help her when any emergency arose.

It was Martine's one regret, when she took up her abode with Brenda,
that she had not become Brenda's ward early enough in the season to help
her furnish.

"It must have been such fun," she said one day soon after her arrival,
"to shop for all these pretty things, and decide on wallpapers and rugs,
and fit them into their little corners and nooks."

"You know I didn't have to go shopping for all my belongings; you have
no idea what quantities of things were given me."

"Oh, I can imagine, just by looking around. Wedding presents are so
fascinating."

"But still," continued Brenda, "there were certain things I had to buy,
chairs and tables, for example, and it was hard sometimes to decide
between Mission styles and mahogany, and whether the bedstead should be
brass or painted iron for the smaller rooms; and then the kitchen
furnishings were puzzling. Of course I'm not perfectly satisfied with
everything, but, on the whole, we must be contented until we have a
house."

"Oh, how can you speak of a house! This is ever so much better. It's the
prettiest flat I ever saw; don't you just love to be up here in the top?
You can see over everything, even to the river, and down the avenue and
up the avenue; it's more like Paris than anything I've seen since I was
in Europe."

"I do enjoy the view," replied Brenda. "I should hate to be shut in in a
narrow street. I don't like it here quite as well as in our old house on
the water side of Beacon street, where my room had such a broad
outlook."

"You must have hated to leave home."

"In a way I did, but though mamma tried to persuade me to stay with her
this winter, I felt that I just must begin to keep house myself."

"You ought to be very happy that you are so near your mother." Martine
spoke wistfully; although she wouldn't have admitted it for the world,
she was beginning to be homesick. Chicago seemed altogether too far
away.

"It is pleasant," replied Brenda, "to be able to run in and out there
when I please. Besides, my sister and her children are there, and I am
awfully fond of the little girls."

"Naturally. But that reminds me, though there isn't any real connection
with what we've been talking about, you haven't shown me your kitchen.
Can't we go out there now?"

"Why, yes,"--then Brenda's face clouded,--"if the cook--"

"Oh, Brenda Weston! You are afraid of the cook."

Brenda colored. "Not afraid; only you know cooks are so queer, and of
course dinners have to be just so, and she's apt to spoil things if
anything annoys her. But this is her afternoon out."

"Then we can go and look through everything," and Martine thereupon
followed Brenda through the long narrow hall to the little kitchen at
the very end of the suite.

"You see," explained Brenda, as they entered the cook's domain, "though
this is not an old house, the kitchen needed some improvements that I
learned are necessary when I lived at the Mansion. It's astonishing how
many things men forget when they build houses. Now, out here, there was
an old-fashioned closed-in wooden sink, but I had it replaced with this
open one at our expense, and this tiling put all around the walls, and
here, this was my idea and this," and one by one she pointed out many
little things that might have escaped Martine's notice.

"I learned so much," continued Brenda, "that year at the Mansion School.
You see a year ago last spring I was very low-spirited. Everything
seemed so gloomy after the war began, so I went for a while to help
Julia with her girls; and hardly anyone, hardly Julia herself, realized
that I was learning. But I was, and somehow things that I didn't know I
had noticed sank into my mind, and when we began to get this apartment
ready, I was really practical; even my mother said so. Arthur was
pleased, and my sister Anna was perfectly astonished. You know she has
lived mostly in studios, or in houses where someone else did the
planning, and this year at home with mother she has no responsibility,
so she can't understand how I know so much about housekeeping."

"It _is_ strange, it seems strange to me," responded Martine. "No one
would ever expect you to know a thing."

"Why not? Do I appear a perfect ignoramus?" There was indignation in
Brenda's tone.

"Oh, no, of course not; only kitchens are so different, so--well, I
shouldn't expect you to know about kitchen work."

"Then, I confess, there's one thing I don't understand very well. I
really cannot cook. Sometimes I think it's on account of the cooking
class we used to have; it was too much like work, and so I didn't try to
remember what I was taught. That's why I'm afraid of the cook, for if
she should leave suddenly, I don't know what I should do."

"I know what _I'd_ do," responded Martine, quickly. "I'd go to a
restaurant; it's ever so much more fun than dining at home. Why, when I
was visiting my cousin in New York, we went somewhere nearly every
evening. Of course there isn't a Sherry's or a Waldorf-Astoria here--"

"Oh, I don't want to dine at restaurants when I've a house of my own.
Besides, I'm going to learn--look!" and Brenda opened the door of a
small closet. "These are all electric things," and she pointed to a row
of silver kettles and chafing-dishes. "We have two plugs in the
dining-room wall and can cook almost anything without going into the
kitchen. But come, I've something to show you in my own room now." As
they turned away Martine exclaimed, "If you have a good receipe book,
with all those shiny saucepans, I'm sure you needn't care whether you
have a cook or not."

"I'm not so sure," responded Brenda, "and I can't help being just a
little afraid."

"Pshaw! How absurd!--as if you could really be afraid of anything,"
retorted Martine with a smile.

Now, interesting though Martine found her life under Brenda's roof, she
soon realized that her winter was not to be one wholly of pleasure. Her
studies had been carried on so irregularly for a year or two that she
now perceived that she must settle down to regular work. School had been
in session a week or two before she returned to Miss Crawdon's; this
fact was not altogether in her favor, and she found herself a little
behind the girls in her class. But Martine was resolute, and when she
once set herself at a task in genuine earnest, she was likely to go
ahead with a will. So, for the first month she studied diligently; it
was to her advantage that she had not many Boston acquaintances.

Brenda, in her new position of guide and philosopher as well as friend,
gave Martine much good advice. One day in a serious mood she expressed
the hope that Martine would not think of ending her studies at Miss
Crawdon's school.

"It's astonishing," she said, "how many girls are beginning to fit for
college, though when I was in school many of us thought my cousin Julia
queer because she studied Greek and wished to go to Radcliffe; yet
really she wasn't queer at all, only rather more interesting than most
people."

"I should like so much to see her, everyone seems so fond of her,"
responded Martine. "When will she come back from Europe?"

"Not before summer, I think. She worked so hard at the Mansion School
last year that we all hope she'll get all she can out of this journey.
She's studying, of course, for she never can be perfectly idle; but I am
glad to say that she has gone back to her music, for that is the thing
she has the most talent for."

"Oh, dear," sighed Martine, "how delightful it must be to know that you
have a talent for anything. It seems to me sometimes that I haven't a
particle of talent. I can do several things passably well, but no one
thing better than another. Mother thinks that the Boston air is going to
develop some special talent of mine, but which or what, nobody knows.
For my own part, as I said before, I am sure that I have no talent."

"Don't be so severe toward yourself," expostulated Brenda. "I am sure of
one thing--you have a talent for being pleasant and amusing."

"I'm not quite sure that that is exactly a compliment."

"But, really, I mean it to be one."




CHAPTER II

A STRANGE MEETING


One Saturday morning after a rainy Friday, Martine looked out the
window.

"How refreshing to have a fine day again. Really, when it poured
yesterday I thought it would rain forever, and I had such a funny
adventure, Brenda Weston, that if you hadn't been out when I came home I
should have told you on the spot. Adventures are like buckwheat cakes,
so much better when they are fresh from the griddle, and this was a kind
of frying-pan affair."

"I am afraid I don't understand. What was it?"

"Something that happened after the Rehearsal. I slipped away from
Priscilla and her aunt and there was a great crowd going down the steps
yesterday, so that of course I got separated from Priscilla and her
aunt."

"It seems to me that's a way you have," Brenda tried to speak severely.

"Oh, yes," sighed Martine, "Mrs. Tilworth is quite resigned now.
Generally I separate myself from her only about every other week, but
yesterday I wanted some soda water, and I knew she would never
condescend to go into a drug shop or let Priscilla go with me. However,
when I was once in the street the rain was falling in such torrents that
I made a beeline for a Crosstown car that I saw coming. I had had some
trouble in getting away from Mrs. Tilworth, for she kept not only her
eagle eye, but her arm on me as long as she could; she meant to bring me
home in a cab, but after all I managed to wriggle away. I don't know why
I thought I ought to run for my car, but I did, and so did another girl,
only the trouble was, that she was coming from the opposite direction.
Of course you can see what happened. I didn't mean to knock her down,
for she was shorter than I and we were both furious."

"Because she was shorter than you?"

"Oh, I don't see now why we were both so mad, only she knocked my hat
off, that one with the light blue feathers, and it went sailing down the
asphalt, and my umbrella jabbed into her face. 'You're terribly clumsy;
I should think you might see what you're doing. You might have put my
eye out,' I heard her say in the savagest kind of a tone. Just then I
caught sight of my hat, and all I could do was to laugh and laugh, and
she thought I was laughing at her, and turned her back on me in a
regular frigid Boston way, holding her handkerchief to her eye."

"How could so much happen while two people were getting on a car?"

"Getting on a car! Naturally we missed the car. It didn't wait for us to
settle matters. I suppose that was partly what made her so cross. But I
wish you could have seen my hat when finally I picked it up."

"I'm glad I didn't, if it was ruined. I have some responsibility for
your clothes. No wonder Mrs. Tilworth tries to keep her eye on you!"

"She has to try pretty hard, I can assure you," retorted Martine.

"You should take things more seriously," rejoined Brenda. "In future
please come home at least as far as Copley Square with her and
Priscilla, but now--yes, now let us go in and look at the table." And
with her hand in Brenda's arm, Martine led the way to the dining-room.
The sight that met her eye there was indeed well worth seeing. The
polished surface of the round mahogany table shone like a mirror. Covers
were laid for nine and the centrepiece and doilies were embroidered in
yellow. In a tall green glass in the middle were some large yellow
chrysanthemums. The bonbons were in little gilded baskets and the china
had yellow blossoms on a white ground.

With housewifely pride Brenda adjusted the blinds. "Yes," she said, "I
think that everything will go just as it should. Elinor Naylor, you see,
is a sister of one of Arthur's best college friends. I should like to
have asked her to dine, but the cousin she is staying with has an
engagement for her this evening, and as Arthur will be away next week, a
luncheon was the best thing I could manage."

"Oh, it's just the thing," cried Martine; "dinners are so stiff. With
the boys coming in to take us out to Cambridge, a luncheon will be far
jollier than any dinner."

"I hope so," replied Brenda, "and I wonder what this Elinor Naylor is
like. She was out when I called, but she writes a beautiful note, and
from what I have heard, I imagine that she is rather stately and
elegant. But dear me, it's nearly twelve, and with luncheon at one we
shall really have to hurry." So with a few last touches to the table
Brenda and Martine went to their rooms, and long before one, Brenda,
with some trepidation, was waiting in the library for the arrival of her
special guest. The Harvard boys, however, were the first to
arrive--Fritz Tomkins, and Martine's brother Lucian, and Robert Pringle,
Lucian's classmate. Next came Priscilla and Amy, the former somewhat
abashed at hearing the laughter from the little library, and wondering
if she could be late, until Amy reassured her. Priscilla bore some
good-natured chaffing from her host, who seeing her glance at her watch,
could not forbear teasing her.

"Yes," he said, "I can read the workings of a guilty conscience. Here
we've been waiting for you this long time. The goose is burning up in
the oven--"

"There isn't any goose in the house, Arthur, except you," protested
Brenda.

"I am so sorry," began Priscilla, apologetically. "It was because Amy--"

"Don't throw the blame on another," protested Mr. Weston, solemnly.

"I don't mean to blame her. We both thought it was earlier, and
besides," fortified by a glance at her watch, Priscilla spoke with more
decision, "my watch says 'a quarter before one.'"

"That's what our clock says too," interposed Brenda, kindly. "Arthur was
only teasing. Our guest, evidently, does not mean to be too early."

"If she's like her brother, she's a punctilious person and will arrive
promptly at five minutes before one."

Strange to say, the longer hand had just marked five minutes of one when
Angelina announced "Miss Elinor Naylor." A minute or two later the young
lady entered the room, and after the other introductions had been made,
Martine's turn came last.

As she greeted all the others, Miss Elinor Naylor had extended her hand
very cordially, but when Brenda led Martine to her, her arm fell
automatically to her side. Martine at the same time reddened deeply, and
it was not often that Martine was so perceptibly embarrassed. Each girl,
however, said a polite word or two, and in a few moments all went out to
the little dining-room.

After they were seated, the conversation at first was not general, and I
am afraid that anyone who had overheard the words exchanged between any
two speakers might have called what was said rather commonplace. In a
short time, however, some question arose regarding a recent Yale
victory, and at once Arthur and Fritz plunged into an ardent discussion
in which, soon, all took part.

"Oh, of course," said Arthur; "it's more than six to one. I know you are
all against me. I can't even depend on Brenda, and so, Miss Naylor, I
must turn to you as my one supporter in this controversy."

"You can depend on me," replied the guest; "whatever a Yale man says is
bound to be true."

"The real Yale spirit," commented Martine. "I didn't know that girls had
it as well as their brothers."

There was an unamiable tinge in Martine's tone that Brenda, too much
occupied with things more important, did not notice. The more observant
Arthur, however, had seen that Martine and Elinor had had little to say
to each other, although they had been placed at table where they could
easily have said more.

"You two young things," he said at last, "by which I mean our visitors
from Chicago and Philadelphia, look at each other as if you had met
before and were afraid to speak until you had found the clew to the
previous meeting. Is that the case?"

Elinor was silent, but after a second Martine replied,

"No, not exactly; that is--" Then Martine came to a pause suddenly and
answered some question that Robert Pringle, on her right hand, had asked
her. Any embarrassment that she or Elinor might have felt was speedily
ended by something with which they personally had nothing to do.

Now it happened that although Maggie had returned to her post of duty in
Brenda's household, the latter had decided that things would move more
smoothly with two waitresses, and so Angelina had been called in to
assist at the little luncheon. All would have gone on well had not a
spirit of emulation taken possession of the two helpers, so that each
seemed anxious to reach Elinor first. Twice, as they entered through the
swing door, one almost abreast of the other, although Brenda had
previously given them their directions, they both started to serve the
special guest with her oysters, and only Brenda's warning glance
prevented Maggie's plate from being placed on top of the one that
Angelina had already set before Elinor. This incident ruffled the
spirits of the two waitresses, and when they entered with their cups of
bouillon, each was determined to reach Elinor before the other. The
result of their exertions might have been more disastrous. As it was,
Elinor did not suffer, though Martine, looking up suddenly, expected to
see Maggie's cup splash over Elinor's light gown. Luckily--for
Elinor--Maggie lost her nerve soon enough to drop her bouillon cup to
the floor, and though the crash of china and the splash of liquid on the
polished floor startled all at the table, Elinor escaped a drenching.

Although everyone knew that there had been an accident, everyone tried
to look unconcerned. Maggie, crestfallen, gathered up the pieces;
Angelina, with her head high, as if such a catastrophe could never occur
to her, went back to the kitchen for other cups--and only Martine
giggled.

"Your best Dresden," murmured Amy to Brenda. The latter shook her head.
Arthur glanced at her approvingly.

"And mistress of herself, though china fall," and at the hackneyed
quotation, all smiled. Then the luncheon went on for two courses with
only one waitress, for Maggie had betaken herself to her sure refuge, a
flood of tears, and she returned only with the salad.

"Now," said Mr. Weston, "since the ice is broken--I mean, the china--you
can see how much livelier we are. During the oysters you were altogether
too quiet for young people, and I wondered if this was wholly because
your host is a Yale man. It's painful to me sometimes to find myself in
the midst of a Harvard crowd."

"Oh, we are magnanimous, and since you've become a Bostonian, we can
forgive you Yale's recent football victory," replied Fritz.

"Then I can confess that my cheering played a large part in gaining the
victory. I try to be as modest as I can about it," responded Arthur
Weston.

"Wait till the baseball season comes," interposed Robert Pringle, "and
then you'll see another side of Yale."

"I wish we girls could have seen the game," cried Martine. "I can't see
why they played it at New Haven; it was the one Saturday of the whole
autumn when I had to stay in Boston."

"Why, it was New Haven's turn to have the game; you know Harvard and
Yale have them on their own fields every other year," said Elinor, as if
explaining something that Martine did not understand.

"Oh, indeed," began Martine, sarcastically; then, remembering that she
was to a degree Elinor's hostess, she murmured in an aside to Robert,
"As if I did not know that better than she."

"It's strange," continued Elinor, in a placid tone, "that I know so
little of Harvard; we generally rush through Boston on our way to Bar
Harbor. Once we drove round, one hot summer day in vacation, but I can
only remember a Memorial Hall and some queer old brick buildings."
Possibly Elinor's adjectives did not please Martine, for the latter
spoke up quickly.

"They're not queer, but historic; we think everything of Harvard here in
Boston."

"Oh, naturally," replied Elinor, in her most languid tone.

"So say we all of us," cried Robert Pringle, while Amy and Fritz, who
had been carrying on an animated discussion, looked up quickly. "What's
wrong?" asked Fritz, innocently.

"Nothing, nothing," and Brenda, hastening to change the subject, asked
suddenly, "Did you bring your automobile, Lucian?"

"Of course. I only wish I could take you all to Cambridge in it."

"Who's going in which?" asked Amy a little later, as they stood at the
door, before which were Lucian's automobile and Robert Pringle's
dogcart.

"Oh, the automobile for me!" cried Martine, impulsively.

"Will you go in the automobile?" asked Lucian politely, turning toward
Elinor.

"Yes, indeed, I should like to, thank you," replied the guest.

"Priscilla is coming in the dogcart with me," said Mr. Weston.

"Then I think I'll drive with Priscilla," added Martine.

"Such affection!" exclaimed Amy. "To give up the automobile because you
prefer Priscilla's company!"

"It isn't that I like Rome more, but Caesar less," rejoined Martine,
garbling her quotation and looking toward the automobile, where Elinor
had already taken her seat.

Amy understood, and decided to give Martine a bit of advice at the first
opportunity; for the present she and Brenda, with Fritz and Lucian, went
in the automobile with Elinor, while Arthur and Robert Pringle
accompanied Martine and Priscilla. The automobile speeded out through
the Avenue across a corner of Brighton, that Elinor might have a good
view of Soldiers Field. The dogcart proceeded over Harvard Bridge, and
Martine tried to make Priscilla take a wager as to which vehicle would
first reach the College Yard.

When at last, however, they drew up before the Johnston Gate, Lucian and
his party were waiting there, having left the automobile at the garage.

"As we're going to explore these unknown regions on foot," said Lucian,
"we can't allow you to drive haughtily around. There's a boy, Robert, to
take your trap over to the stable. And so," he added, after Martine and
Priscilla had alighted, "the elephant now goes round, the band begins to
play; in other words, let the procession move in through the great gate.
It was given by a Chicago man," he concluded. "That's why I'm proud to
have you see it."

After the gate had received its share of admiration, "Here are your
'queer old brick buildings,' Miss Naylor," cried Fritz. "Every brick has
a history, but I can't show you the college pump. It was blown up by
anarchists, who probably meant to blow up one of the buildings."

"How shocking!" said the sympathetic Elinor.

"That they did not blow up the buildings?"

"Oh, no, but that they should behave so badly. I trust they were
punished."

"Oh, they were blown up too."

"Really?"

Although Elinor gazed directly at Fritz, there was no suspicion in her
calm blue eye.

"Doesn't she remind you of my cousin, Edith Blair?" whispered Martine to
Amy.

"I can't say that they look much alike."

"Oh, Amy, please don't be literal, too. I mean she believes everything
Fritz says, and between him and Mr. Weston she'll have a hard time."

"And a strange opinion of Harvard," added Brenda, who had joined the two
speakers.

As the majority of the party, including Elinor, were now out of hearing,
Brenda thought this a good time to ask Martine to explain her prejudice
against Elinor, "who seems a pleasant and dignified girl," she
concluded.

"Yes, that's it; she's too dignified for her size, she ought to be
bright and jolly and--"

"But remember, please, that she's among strangers. You can't dislike her
simply because she's quiet and dignified, so you might as well confess."

"Well, then," replied Martine, "if I must, I must; but you'll
understand, when I tell you that she's the girl who knocked my hat off."

Amy looked puzzled and Brenda smiled as she responded, "Oh, the girl
whom you tried to knock down with your umbrella. I suppose that is what
has made that scratch on her face. No wonder she is on her dignity with
you."

"I shouldn't have cared," retorted Martine, "if she hadn't refused to
shake hands with me to-day. Surely everyone must have noticed that, and
it's she who ought to apologize for destroying my third best hat."

Then, as she recalled the sight of the hat with the pale blue feathers
sliding along on the asphalt, Martine laughed heartily, and from that
moment, in her mind, all was peace between her and Elinor.

"I didn't mean to get so far ahead," explained Lucian, as the others
came up to the spot where he and Fritz were standing with Elinor. "But
Miss Naylor is delighted with Holden."

"Yes," murmured Elinor, "it is the cunningest little building! I should
like to pick it up and carry it off as a souvenir. It's too bad that it
isn't the very oldest of all the buildings now standing."

"No, Massachusetts has that honor, but Holden is the first to take its
name from an English benefactor," said Fritz.

"It seems too bad that nothing remains of the original Harvard, but the
fire of 1764 swept them all away. Massachusetts is older than that, and
so are one or two others now standing. The old buildings are not
particularly beautiful," Robert Pringle apologized.

"But they look like New England," interrupted Martine, "so practical and
business-like and angular; that's why I like them."

"There must be some interesting stories connected with them," said
Elinor, sentimentally.

"Oh, yes, stories, quantities of them. What would you like to hear?"
asked Fritz, with an eagerness that showed he was ready to manufacture
any tale or legend that Elinor might desire.

"Did the college go on during the Revolution?" asked Elinor. "I know
Washington had his headquarters in Cambridge."

"The library was sent up to Andover for safety, and the students to the
Concord Reformatory."

"Oh, Fritz," protested Amy, "if you are not careful, Miss Naylor will
believe you."

"Why not?" asked Fritz, innocently. "It's history that they were sent to
Concord, and why not to the Reformatory? They must have needed it, if
they were like some of the present students, and they would have been
sent there surely had Concord possessed a reformatory in those benighted
years."

Upon this Lucian insisted that Miss Naylor must accept him only as her
Harvard guide; otherwise she would get an utterly wrong impression.

"Let me tell you," he began, "about the squirrels. Really, they are of
more consequence than most other dwellers in the Yard. They will eat
anything, from mushrooms to pate de foie gras, and although it's rather
expensive, we try to give them whatever they demand. The tree trunks
here are probably filled with treasures that they have hidden away; some
of them even are fond of books, and I heard of one who had an intimate
acquaintance with Greek roots. No nuts are too hard for them to crack;
they are real philosophers, and here," he cried as he threw some acorns
on the grass, "they are so tame one doesn't have even to throw salt on
their tails to catch them."

Upon this, with a deft movement, he picked up a bushy-tailed gray
squirrel that had been attracted by the bait he had thrown down, and as
he held it toward Elinor, "Here," he exclaimed, "if you wish a souvenir
of Harvard, is the real thing," and extending his arm, he pressed the
little creature's head against Elinor's cheek. Then, to everyone's
surprise, Elinor Naylor, the dignified Miss Elinor Naylor of
Philadelphia, screamed loudly, and turning her back on Lucian, ran up to
Martine, who happened to be nearest her, and laid her head on Martine's
arm, crying loudly, "Take it away, take it away, it's just like a big
rat."

Lucian, decidedly crestfallen at this little episode, let the squirrel
whisk itself away, while he walked up to Elinor to offer his apologies.
In his heart he was saying, "Thank heaven that Martine has some nerve,"
and Martine herself, by a sudden revulsion of feeling, at once became
the champion of the girl she had recently been criticising.

Elinor accepted Lucian's apologies very graciously. "I know that I am
foolish," she said, "but I never have liked those little creepy animals;
they all seem to be like rats and mice, except at a distance."

"You were certainly very thoughtless, Lucian." Martine spoke in a tone
of deep reproof, and during the remainder of their walk she had Elinor
hanging on her arm.

The suite of rooms occupied by Lucian and Robert Pringle was in a
dormitory outside the Yard, in the neighborhood of the old ballground,
Jarvis Field. To reach it the party went across the Memorial Delta, past
the statue of John Harvard--concerning which the boys had various
strange tales to tell--and along a quiet street on which were several
other dormitories.

"How delightful! This suite is much more attractive than Joe's rooms at
Yale, as I remember them," cried Elinor.

"Yes," sighed Arthur Weston, "Joe and I were not sybarites. We went in
for hard work, plain living, and high thinking," and he looked
reproachfully toward Lucian and Robert.

"We work too, I can assure you," insisted Robert. "Of course we had to
furnish up a little."

"Work! I should say so," added Lucian. "Don't judge us by our
surroundings."

"We'll try not to," retorted Martine, "for this tea-table is almost too
ladylike for two tall boys like you."

"Oh, when we're alone we never look at the tea-table. We fold it up and
keep it in the closet. To-day we brought it out only for you girls," and
Lucian bowed profoundly to his guests.

"I think that your belongings are rather frivolous," and Brenda took the
little silver tea caddy in her hand.

"Oh, I picked that up in Holland; it's a mere trifle," cried Robert.

"These things are wasted on boys," added Martine, examining the little
coffee spoons that lay on the tray.

Amy, walking round the room, gazed critically at the two or three
water-color sketches and the fine photographs hanging on the walls, and
she thought that the easy-chairs, the broad divan, and all the other
handsome belongings were really too elaborate for the rooms of boys
under twenty.

"But there's one good thing," she said aloud; "you have plenty of books,
Lucian, and you have made an excellent choice in many cases."

"Yes," replied Lucian, "thanks to Fritz, our library has made a good
beginning; he took it in hand last spring, and what do you think? Fritz
says that if it hadn't been for you, he couldn't have helped us half as
well. So, Miss Amy Redmond, when you praise our library, indirectly you
praise yourself."

Before their hour in Lucian's room was over, few things in the
sitting-room had escaped the scrutiny of the three younger girls. They
handled the steins on the mantelpiece, read the certificates of
membership in various clubs and athletic societies, and admired the
photographs of all, and finally Martine struck up a few chords on the
piano, which Lucian and Robert recognizing, accompanied with a jolly
college song. At Lucian's request Priscilla made tea, and although,
while the water was boiling, she wondered whether she would remember
just what proportion of tea should be used for each cup of water, she
passed through the ordeal successfully and was highly praised for her
skill.

When the boys indiscreetly offered Elinor her choice among the sights
they might see before their return to the city, Elinor too promptly
chose the Botanic Garden. In spite of their sophomorific air of worldly
wisdom, Robert and Lucian could not quite conceal their dismay at this
suggestion, especially as she expressed a desire to see the Shakespeare
garden, of which they knew nothing.

"In that case I fear that you will have to lose the glass flowers, as
the garden is in just the opposite direction," said Lucian, politely.

"The glass flowers!" cried Elinor, perceiving that her former suggestion
had not been received with favor. "Why, of course I would much rather
see the glass flowers." And so the whole party set out toward the great
museum.

"Not to throw cold water on the efforts of Lucian to guide you to the
best that Cambridge offers," said Fritz, "I must tell you that a visit
to the glass flowers is almost commonplace. They share with tourists
from afar the attraction of Bunker Hill; in the minds of many not to
have seen the glass flowers is not to have seen Cambridge. If you wish
to be original, pass them by."

"Thank you," replied Elinor; "but really I never have cared especially
to be original."

Later, after Elinor had seen not only the glass flowers but many of the
other treasures in the great museum, she admitted that even Yale had
little better to offer. From the museum the party went on to Memorial
Hall.

"It's a pity that you cannot wait a little longer, it would be such fun
to see the students at dinner," sighed Martine, for whom human nature
always had more interest than tablets and pictures.

"I should love to stay, but I promised to be at my cousin's before six.
Yet there is so much to see here in Memorial, these windows and
portraits are so fascinating, that it's very hard to go away without
studying them all more carefully."

Elinor had barely time for a glance at the portraits and the stained
glass windows in the great hall.

"It's the finest hall I ever saw," said the girl from Philadelphia; "I
like everything about it except--"

"Except what? This is an age of improvements, and if you'll just mention
what you have in mind, so far as Lucian and I can carry out your
suggestion it shall be accomplished," and Robert Pringle bowed low to
Elinor. Elinor seemed so embarrassed by this mock courtesy that Martine
hastened to her rescue. The older members of the party were out of
hearing.

"You are as great a tease now as Lucian. I could mention dozens of
things that could be done to improve Memorial Hall, handsome as it is."
Martine cast about in her mind for something to strengthen her
assertion. Up to this moment she had never realized any special
imperfection in the great building. But now--

"For example!" she exclaimed emphatically, "just look at these
dining-tables in a hall like this. It's casting your pearls before
swine. They ought to be taken away."

"Well, I'm glad that Robert and I board at a club table. I should hate
to be included in your group of swine, whom you wish to have taken
away--"

"Oh, Lucian!"

It was now Elinor's turn to come to Martine's rescue.

"Why, that is just what I meant. I think that the tables ought to be
taken away. It seems a pity that Memorial Hall should be a mere
dining-room. I should like to see it quite clear of them."

"Then you must come here Class Day. Can't you wait for ours? I'll show
you Memorial Hall as it should be--filled with youth and beauty dancing,
and not a tablecloth in sight."

"Oh, it doesn't seem the place for dancing either," and Elinor gazed
solemnly at one of the class windows, on which were portrayed
Epaminondas and Sir Philip Sidney, as examples of valor.

"You must remember, Miss Naylor, that in the long waits between courses,
the undergraduates who board here have a fine chance to study these
windows, with their lessons of patriotism and valor. This food for
reflection goes a long way toward making them forget the real nature of
the food served here--"

"Come, come, Robert! Remember you are talking to a Yale girl, and not an
ingenuous Harvard maiden. We must not have derogatory reports get
abroad."

But Elinor and Martine had no intention of wasting their time listening
to Robert's nonsense, and were now pushing through the doors into the
transept.

"The real Memorial is here," said Elinor, reverently, passing from one
tablet to another, on which were inscribed the names of those Harvard
men who fell in the Civil War.

[Illustration: "'The real Memorial is here,' said Elinor, reverently,
passing from one tablet to another."]

"A short life hath Nature given to man, but the remembrance of a life
nobly rendered up is eternal!" she murmured, translating one of the
inscriptions on the wall.

"Oh!" sighed Martine. "How wonderful that you can translate Latin at
sight! I have taken a tremendous fancy to Latin, but now I'm only in the
beginning of Virgil, and I have to look up every other word, and you are
not much older than I."

In her admiration for Elinor's ability, she wondered if Elinor had
realized the prejudice she had felt when they started on their drive.
How strange that in a few hours her feeling toward anyone should change
so completely.

Lucian and Robert, slightly bored by the girls' interest in the
inscriptions, walked to the door, where they almost ran into Brenda,
Fritz, and the rest of the party, who had been strolling through the
Yard.

"Your vehicles are here!" cried Fritz. "They are just around the
corner--"

"Good enough," responded Lucian. "It's rather boresome taking visitors
around Memorial--Oh, they won't hear!" he concluded, as Brenda raised a
warning finger. "Come, Martine," he cried in a louder voice, "we are all
waiting."

Reluctantly Elinor and Martine turned toward the others. Each had just
made the discovery that her companion was a very entertaining girl.

"Who's going in the auto?" asked Lucian.

"Oh, Elinor and I, certainly."

Martine was some distance ahead of Elinor.

"But I thought that was why you scorned the auto coming out to
Cambridge--because you didn't wish to ride with Elinor."

"Oh, everything is changed now. She is one of the most charming girls."

"Then she has forgiven you for knocking her down and hitting her with
your umbrella?"

"Why, we haven't even spoken of it, though she knows that I know that
she--"

"Come, girls, tumble in!" cried Lucian, and Lucian had so many
remarkable Harvard tales to tell as they speeded along that neither had
time to refer to the rainy-day episode and their first strange meeting.




CHAPTER III

PRISCILLA'S PRIDE


"Why, I never lose my temper! What do you mean?"

"That _is_ what I mean. You seldom lose your temper; I should hardly say
'never.' Neither does Priscilla."

"Well, then, why won't she let me pay for the photographs?" Martine
looked keenly at Amy, who had been spending an hour with her that
afternoon, as if she expected to read the answer in her friend's eyes.

"I cannot tell you Priscilla's reasons, but her spirit of independence."

"Spirit of independence! Boys of '76! How tired I am of American
history! Priscilla is just like one of her own Pilgrim Fathers--only
more so. Probably any one of them would have let a friend pay for one of
those neat silhouettes, especially if the friend had insisted on having
it made, or taken, or cut, or whatever it was that they did to make
silhouettes; but Priscilla is a great deal harder than Plymouth Rock,
and that is saying no little."

"All the same, you and Priscilla will have to settle this affair for
yourselves," and rising from her seat, after a few words of farewell,
Amy left Martine to reflect on the matter they had been discussing.

Now the dispute between Priscilla and Martine, if worth dignifying by so
serious a name, was not of a kind likely to make lasting trouble between
friends. For some time Martine had been teasing Priscilla to have her
photograph taken, and Priscilla had never given a decided answer. At
last one day, as they passed a fashionable gallery, Martine had insisted
that the two should go in merely to look at samples of the
photographer's work. On the impulse Martine decided that it would be
great fun for them to be taken together. Vainly Priscilla protested that
her costume was not suitable, that she didn't feel in the mood for
sitting; Martine carried her point and two or three negatives were made
of Priscilla and Martine sitting or standing, side by side. Then two or
three were made of the two girls, each by herself. When the proofs were
sent home, the photographs of Priscilla were exceedingly good. But
Priscilla hesitating about ordering the finished pictures, she did not
give the whole reason to Martine. Her hesitation came from the fact that
the artist was expensive and that she had already exceeded her allowance
for Christmas presents.

"I do not think that I can really afford them," she said at last to
Martine one day, when the latter asked her if she had made her choice
among the negatives. "I should simply love," she added, "to have some
for my mother and a few of my relations Christmas, but I shall have to
wait a little before deciding."

Yet while she spoke she retained in her hand one proof that seemed to
meet her approval.

"Then this is the one you prefer?" said Martine, taking it gently in her
own hand.

"Yes, I haven't had a photograph since I was a small girl, but I am sure
that mother would be delighted with this one."

A week later a box came by mail to Priscilla. Opening it she found not
only a half dozen of the photographs in which she and Martine were taken
together, but also a dozen of the single heads, finished in the most
expensive style. For a moment she was rather upset by the packet. "Of
course there's some mistake," she said. "The man must have thought that
I meant to give an order like Martine's, but I can never in the world
afford these, and mother would be displeased with me for ordering them.
There is only one thing--I'm sure to have some money given me at
Christmas, and I can use some, or all of it, to pay this bill."

No bill was contained in the package, and after a few days, when
Priscilla went to the photographer's to ask for it, she was told that it
was already paid. Then she sought Martine, who did not deny that she had
paid the bill.

"Why, it was the proper thing for me to do," she said. "It was I who had
the photographs taken, and I who ordered them finished. I can't see that
you have much to do with the matter now, except to send the photographs
as Christmas cards. I can tell you they'll go like hot cakes, for they
are just as good as they can be."

But Priscilla was firm, and though Martine tried to be firmer, she could
not get her friend to promise to accept the pictures as a gift.

"They are really not a gift, either," urged Martine, "for I myself
wanted to be in a group with you, and you stood there only to oblige me;
so certainly you've earned something for your trouble, and as to the
single heads, I wanted a separate picture of you, and while the
photographer was about it, it didn't cost much more for a dozen than for
one."

Again Priscilla presented her side, adding only that she must ask
Martine to wait until after Christmas for the sum she had spent.

"If I didn't like the photographs," she concluded, "the whole thing
would be different; but I do like them, and I can send them away as
Christmas gifts, and so I must pay the bill."

"But it came to me."

"For my photographs?"

"No, for mine; I had them taken. They wouldn't have been printed if I
hadn't ordered them."

"Oh, but mine are mine."

"Why, of course they are yours--at least all that were sent to your
house."

"I can't bear to be obliged to anyone else for them."

"That's one of your greatest faults, Priscilla; you hate to be obliged
to anybody for anything."

So for the present the discussion was dropped, though each friend was
determined that in the end she would carry her own point.

This steadfast holding to her purpose was what Martine called
Priscilla's "ill-temper," in describing the affair to Amy. Though she
inwardly approved of her friend's independence, she felt that after she
had approved of it Priscilla ought then to be ready to yield to her.

"It is strange," she said, "that I can never get Priscilla to accept
anything from me. 'Pride goeth before destruction,' and that will be the
way with Priscilla. Something will surely happen to her if she keeps on
like this."

In the early summer, a few months before, Priscilla and Martine had
first become really acquainted, when as travelling companions they made
a journey with Amy and her mother. For some time the two seemed far from
congenial; each looked at life from a very different standpoint.
Priscilla, brought up rather strictly and economically, prided herself,
perhaps unduly, on her unworldliness, and found it hard to understand
the extravagant, fun-loving Martine. But each girl at last accepted the
other's good qualities, and before they had left Canadian soil the two
had begun to be good friends. When Martine's plans were finally settled,
Priscilla was delighted that she and the young Chicagoan were to be at
the same school.

Now Priscilla, although for a long time she had spent several weeks of
each year in Boston with her aunt, Mrs. Tilworth, had made few friends
among the girls of her own age whose parents her mother or her aunt
knew. Her natural shyness stood in her way when they came to call on
her, and when she returned their calls she progressed no further.

Often she was invited to their parties, and when she could not escape
it, she accepted their invitations. Though she took part in their games
in a quiet way, no one paid much attention to the pale little girl who
always seemed ill at ease.

One awful day Mrs. Tilworth decided that she must give a party for
Priscilla; in vain Priscilla protested that she hated parties. The
invitations were written and sent out, and on the appointed afternoon
Priscilla, in a ruffled muslin gown, had to stand beside her aunt to
receive her guests. When she had safely passed through this ordeal she
slipped away to a corner, where she sat for a while looking on. When she
found that no one tried to draw her out, she managed to slip still
farther away. "They don't need me," she murmured. Later, when they
looked for her, that she might take her place at the head of the
table--for it was a children's party, with a sit-down supper at six
o'clock--there was a great uproar when she could not be found. At last
two or three of the children went to Priscilla's room, and entering
without knocking, they saw her seated in an easy-chair by the droplight
on the little centre table. She was so engrossed in the book she was
reading that at first she did not hear them, and when one of them
snatched the volume out of her hand to read the title, they discovered
that it was a little history of Mary Queen of Scots.

"Those children tired me," she explained later to her aunt. "They played
so hard, and I just thought I'd go upstairs and read for a while."

Somehow the story got out. Mrs. Tilworth repeated it to one of the older
girls, and for a long time Priscilla was called behind her back "Mary
Queen of Scots," only someone said, "She will never lose her head, her
neck is so stiff."

Martine, when Brenda told her of this story, could not help laughing, in
spite of her desire to be loyal to her friend.

"Priscilla is still stiff-necked," she said, "but already since she's
had my acquaintance she's been forced to unbend a little, and before
another summer comes round her education will be much further advanced."

Priscilla was conscious of her own shyness, and often envied those girls
who seemed to have so much fun together.

"I shouldn't expect Priscilla to be very cheerful while she lives with
Mrs. Tilworth; the house is really gloomy; it has plenty of windows, but
the curtains are always pulled down, and the furniture is so heavy and
primly arranged that it naturally affects Priscilla's disposition."

What Martine said was true to a great extent. Mrs. Tilworth's house was
halfway up the hill, not so very far from the Mansion School, but its
whole aspect, inside and out, was far less attractive than Mrs.
DuLaunuy's. It was furnished in the heavy style of about fifty years
ago, lacking the elegance of real antiquity. Priscilla's room was large
and overfurnished, with its great black walnut bedstead and marble-top
table and heavy rocking-chairs. But it wasn't exactly a young girl's
room, and the gilt-framed steel engravings on the wall gave her no
inspiration for study or work. Secretly she envied Martine her cheerful
room in Brenda's apartment, with its couch covered in pink and white
cretonne, its white enamelled dressing-table and oval mirror, brass
bedstead, and rattan chairs cushioned to match the divan. She did not
express her envy of these pretty belongings, lest she should appear
ungrateful to Mrs. Tilworth; for she knew that her aunt wished her to be
comfortable and happy, according to her own standard of comfort and
happiness. Indeed most people who knew Mrs. Tilworth thought Priscilla
exceedingly fortunate in having so good a home offered her at a time
when her mother was especially burdened with care.

Although Mrs. Tilworth had never expressed herself on the subject,
Martine believed that she did not approve of persons who lived in
apartments. The little original prejudice that she had against Martine
as an outsider was probably somewhat stronger from this fact.

"I should think," she had said to Priscilla, "that Mrs. Stratford must
have been greatly disappointed that Mrs. Montgomery could not take
Martine this winter; it would have been so much better for her to live
in a house."

"But an apartment is just as pleasant," Priscilla had responded, "and
it's a fine thing that Brenda Weston was able to take her. Brenda lives
in a flat because it's more economical."

"Don't say 'flat'; you've learned that from Martine; in Boston we always
say 'apartment.' But an apartment on the Avenue is not economical, my
dear child. A whole house on Chestnut Street would cost no more, and
though I would not make anyone else's business my own, I can't
understand how anyone who might live in a house can prefer a few rooms
high up in the air."

"It's very homelike there," sighed Priscilla, casting a glance around
the large, gloomy dining-room, where they sat at dinner. "I always enjoy
myself at Brenda's--"

Mrs. Tilworth, noticing the sigh, looked sharply at her niece. "I hope
you are perfectly happy with me," she said.

"Oh, yes, indeed I am; you are certainly very kind."

Yet even as she spoke, Priscilla realized that in some ways she wasn't
benefiting as she should from her aunt's kindness, and she began to
wonder if the fault might not lie a little with herself.

A few days after the discussion about the photographs, Priscilla came to
school with a letter in her hand.

"It's from Eunice," she said, as she and Martine sat together near a
window, a quarter of an hour before the time for the school to begin.

"Oh, read me what she says," urged Martine. "Her letters are always
entertaining, because they are so old-fashioned."

Eunice Airton was a young girl near Priscilla's age, whose acquaintance
Mrs. Redmond and her party had made during their stay in Annapolis. She
was especially Priscilla's friend, while her brother Balfour was
Martine's ideal of an independent college boy; and it was rather because
she hoped to hear some news of Balfour that Martine urged Priscilla to
read the letter.

"I am sorry to say," wrote Eunice, "that I hardly think it will be
possible for me to go to college. It will be very difficult for me to
overcome the prejudices of my mother, who still does not think it is
quite proper for a girl to have the same education as a man. But the
fact that you are planning to go to college will have much weight with
her, for, as you perhaps know, she thinks you quite a model and says
that she never can realize that you are an American."

Martine smiled at this expression of Mrs. Airton's opinion, which indeed
she had heard more than once before. "Eunice," she said to Priscilla,
"is too polite to repeat all that her mother said in speaking of you.
She probably contrasted you with me, whom, I am sure, she considers the
typical Yankee girl."

"Oh, no, of course not," protested Priscilla, continuing to read
Eunice's letter.

"Before I tell you of any of my own personal affairs, I must mention
something that will interest you more deeply. There is an Acadian family
living in Annapolis, and whom do you suppose they have had visiting them
lately? Why, the little Yvonne, the blind girl, of whom I have heard you
speak, who is the special protegee, if I remember, of Miss Stratford. It
is indeed due to her kindness, I understand, that Yvonne has been able
to make this journey from Meteghan, and I am told that she is to stay
here three months under the care of a physician who thinks that he can
help her eyes. She is also to take lessons on the piano, as those who
are interested in her think that it is better for her to let her voice
rest for the present, but to play the piano well enough to accompany her
songs will some time be a great advantage to her."

"There," exclaimed Martine, excitedly, "that's a fine idea! I wonder who
suggested it to the Babets. It isn't likely that the doctor can do so
very much for her eyes, but it will be splendid for her to get a start
in music. When I see papa at Christmas I intend to persuade him to have
Yvonne brought to Boston for a year."

"Oh, that would be a great expense," said Priscilla, "and someone would
have to take care of her."

"That could be managed easily enough, if I can only get papa thoroughly
interested."

"I think he has already done his part, for it's through the money he
gave you for Yvonne that she is able to be in Annapolis now."

"I wonder how Eunice used her money; did she ever tell you, Priscilla?"

"No," replied Priscilla; "but she may have helped her mother about the
mortgage, and perhaps she may have put a little aside for a college
nest-egg. She is so practical."

"It's wonderful--isn't it, Priscilla?--that you should have met a girl
you approve of so thoroughly in a corner of the world that isn't
Plymouth or even Boston."

Priscilla, as she folded up her letter, looked questioningly at Martine.
There was something that she did not quite understand in Martine's
attitude toward Eunice.

Whatever question she had in mind remained for the time unspoken. It was
time for school to begin, and they hurried to their places.




CHAPTER IV

CHANGES


The first week in December a strange thing happened. Brenda had received
a letter with a Washington postmark, yet this in itself was not
remarkable. Such letters came to her daily, for Arthur had gone to
Washington on business a day or two after the trip to Harvard. But her
manner, as she rapidly scanned this particular letter, was so unusual
that Martine, watching her, knew that it brought news out of the
ordinary.

The slight frown on Brenda's face deepened as she read the four or five
pages, and when she had finished she flung the letter down on the floor.

"Oh--it seems too bad," she sighed, in response to Martine's look of
surprise. "Just as we are settled, to have to give everything up!"

"Give up--what?" asked the puzzled Martine.

"Why this--everything--our apartment--Boston--oh, dear--of course I knew
it might come--but I hoped next year."

As Brenda finished there were tears in her eyes, and still Martine did
not wholly understand.

"Of course I am sorry," said Martine, "since it's something that
troubles you. But would you please tell me what it is all about?"

"Well--it's Arthur's business," she explained. "A promotion that he has
expected has come. It took him some time to find out what he really
could do after he left college. The office in San Francisco is more
important just now than the one in Boston. He is needed there for six
months--and we must go at once--yes," she concluded, looking at the
letter a second time. "We must be there by the first of January. Well,
fortunately, we need not give up this apartment, for we have a two
years' lease, and it wouldn't be worth while to sublet it, as we may
return in six months. So you see, my dear, that things might be worse. I
shall have to pack only my clothes and small belongings, and after all,
it will be rather fun to see a new corner of the world."

"What you say sounds practical--except--you seem to have forgotten
_me_."

"Oh, you poor child, how selfish I am! Why you could just stay on here
with the cook and Maggie, or Angelina, if you prefer her."

"Brenda Weston! You know that would never do! I mean other people would
say it would never do."

"There, there, child, don't worry," said Brenda, assuming her most
elderly manner. "I will write to your mother, and between us something
delightful will be arranged. What a shame you are in school," she
concluded, forgetting for the moment her position as Martine's temporary
guardian. "Except for that you might go to San Francisco, or even travel
with your mother."

"I am growing fond of school," replied Martine, as she returned to her
book. "Even to go to California I wouldn't give it up, but if it's
really settled that you are going, I must write home at once."

In a few days Brenda and Martine both received answers to their letters
to Mrs. Stratford. To Martine what her mother wrote was even more
surprising than Brenda's change of plans.

"Your father has to go to South America on very important business. It
is too long a journey for me, although I am much stronger than a year
ago. We think the wisest plan would be for me to go to Boston to be near
you and Lucian, and I am writing Mrs. Weston to see if we may not engage
her apartment for the next six months."

"Hurrah!" cried Martine, turning to Brenda, who had just finished
reading the letter Mrs. Stratford had written her. "Of course you'll say
'yes.' Oh, how perfectly happy I shall be to have mother with me."

"Of course I will say 'yes.' But please spare my feelings; if you are
too happy you will forget to miss me."

"Oh, never, never; but then mother must be feeling much stronger, and I
have seen her so little the past few years. She has been under the
doctor's care or travelling, and our Chicago house has been closed so
long, and hotels are so unhomelike. But now, with this apartment to
ourselves, and Lucian coming in from college--oh! it will be
delightful."

Again Brenda protested that Martine was unfeeling in counting her out so
completely.

"But I can't count you in, when you calmly and deliberately plan to turn
your back on Boston and me. You know that I shall miss you, but to have
mother here--of course that makes all the difference in the world."

For the Christmas holidays Lucian and Martine joined Mr. and Mrs.
Stratford in New York. A day or two after Christmas, Mr. Stratford
sailed for England, whence he was to embark for South America. Martine
could but notice that the sadness that her father showed during these
last days seemed due to something besides the fact that he was to be
absent from his family for a few months. He had often before gone on
long journeys, but usually he made an effort to have his departure
particularly cheerful.

"Your father is worried," her mother said; "his business is not going
just as it should. He hopes that this visit to South America will
straighten out some things. If it does not--well, we needn't talk of the
future now. I am glad that we are all together this Christmas. You and
Lucian must do all you can to divert your father, he has so much to
trouble him."

Martine took this advice to heart, and though Mr. Stratford spent some
hours each day downtown, after luncheon she always insisted that he must
entertain her. By this she meant that she must entertain him, and in
consequence she thought out all kinds of odd ways of amusing him. One
day they sailed on the Ferry to Staten Island to visit Sailors' Snug
Harbor. Another afternoon they went up to Van Cortland Park to see the
old Van Cortland house. One day they wandered for an hour in the Bowery,
but Martine admitted that this wasn't as entertaining an expedition as
she had imagined it would be from the accounts she had read of it. The
shops on the whole seemed commonplace, and the crowded cross-streets of
the East Side looked far more interesting, as she caught glimpses of
them in passing.

She had to let these glimpses satisfy her, as she had promised her
mother not to explore any out-of-the-way corners of the tenement
district; and so obedient was she in this that she would not even go
inside a certain Bowery pawnshop in whose windows she saw a fascinating
little guitar. Instead she urged her father to price it, and when he
came outside with it under his arm she accepted it with delight.

"It's neither a violin nor a guitar," Mr. Stratford explained, "but the
little instrument that the Sandwich Islanders love."

Martine was delighted by this account of her new treasure, and she
carried it home with great pride. But unconventional expeditions were
not the only pleasures that Martine shared with her father. One day Mrs.
Stratford drove with them through the Park up beyond Riverside and
Grant's tomb. Two or three afternoons they spent with relatives, of whom
Mr. Stratford had a number in New York. Lucian was little with his
father during the holidays. Classmates at Ardsley and Trenton and
Germantown claimed short visits from him. But on Christmas Day he joined
his parents at the small uptown hotel where they were staying.

"Martine," he said as they sat at breakfast, "Elinor Naylor was at the
Harbins' dance night before last in Germantown. She took a lot of
trouble to introduce me to some of her best friends just because I was
your brother. I tell you what--you made a great impression on her."

"I certainly did--the first time we met," responded Martine, smiling,
and Lucian did not quite understand, because his sister had never really
explained the circumstances under which she and Elinor had first met.
With slight urging from Martine, however, Lucian plunged into a
description of the Harbins' dance, and though boy-like he could not
describe what Elinor wore, he declared that whatever it was it just
suited her, and that she certainly was a regular peach, "and the
funniest thing about it is that you don't think about her being pretty
when you first see her. It's only when you begin to remember her that
you realize how good-looking she is."

"Poor Priscilla," sighed Martine in mock sorrow, "I fear her nose is out
of joint."

"Oh, no--at least, what do you mean?" asked Lucian, and at this moment
the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Stratford put an end to their fun.

The Christmas breakfast, in spite of Martine's efforts, passed off
rather quietly. Her parents both seemed sad and disinclined to talk.
Even the unobservant Lucian at last noticed this and tried to turn the
conversation into cheerful and impersonal channels, with poor success.
Their Christmas dinner was at the house of an elderly cousin of the
Stratfords in Washington Square. The guests were nearly all relatives of
Martine's father, and the young visitor received abundant criticism,
favorable or unfavorable, according to the dispositions of the various
critics.

But even those who thought Martine a little forward or too
self-possessed for a girl of her age could but admire her frank, cheery
manner and the consideration that she constantly showed for older
people. The less conservative found her charming and complimented her on
her clever way of telling a story. Some said she looked like her father,
some like her mother, and the oldest cousin of them all, taking her
aside said, "You are just like your father's mother when she was your
age. She had your coloring and your bright brown eyes. I knew her well
when I was a girl. She was said to be the image of her French
grandmother, and I can wish you nothing better than to grow up like
her," and as the old lady kissed her Martine felt her own eyes
moistening.

"I am glad that I have some French blood in my veins," she said a little
later; "the Huguenots were so wonderful. I wish that papa and I had time
to go up to New Rochelle, for although I believe there's little left
there of the Huguenots now except the name, I should like to see the
place because my forefathers lived there."

Lucian found the Washington-Square dinner rather a bore, although he
managed to conceal his feelings until with his family he was back at the
hotel.

"They might have asked at least one girl near my age," Lucian said. "No
wonder you were such a belle, Martine, among all those antiquities," a
compliment that Martine refused to accept until Lucian admitted that she
possessed qualities that would make her popular even in a younger crowd.

One of Martine's Christmas gifts did not surprise her,--a complete set
of brushes, mirror and little boxes to replace those she had lost in the
Windsor fire. This did, however, surprise Lucian, who knew that his
father had promised Martine a full set of silver.

"Why, how is this?" he asked, as Martine spread out her new possessions
before him on a table. "Is plain black wood more in fashion than silver?
It must be, or you wouldn't have it."

"But this is pretty; don't you think so?" asked Martine, always anxious
for her brother's approval.

"It's rather neat, with your initial in silver, but it couldn't have
cost as much as the other, and I thought you always preferred the most
expensive things." For the moment Martine did not explain that her
preference was still for the silver, but that she had chosen the other
because of a chance word or two from her mother on her tendency toward
extravagance.

"I know you have generally whatever you wish, Martine, and your father
and I generally give you what you ask. You are seldom unreasonable,
although we may have been overindulgent. For now--"

Here Mrs. Stratford broke off suddenly.

"But now, mamma, are things very different? I know we usually stay at a
larger hotel, and still--"

"Oh, no, dear. Things are not very different. Perhaps they will not be.
Yet your father has so much care now that you will surely do your best
to relieve him from needless burdens."

Therefore, when Mr. Stratford took Martine downtown to choose her
present, she could not be shaken from her determination to have
something simpler than silver.

"It will be so much better in case I am caught in another fire, papa.
Things that are burnt up are gone forever, and as I seem to be a rather
unlucky person, this plainer set is much better--and besides I like it,
papa."

In the end it seemed to Martine that Mr. Stratford was rather pleased by
her choice, for when the matter was decided he patted her hand gently as
he slipped it within his arm, saying,--

"After all, daughter, you are getting to be a very sensible girl. I have
noticed a great change within the past year."

"Oh, thank you, papa. Do you really think I've improved? Then it's
partly on account of the company I have kept. I am sure of that."

"I am pleased that you are on the right track, and when I am far from
you, as I shall be now for some time, it will be a great satisfaction to
think that you are doing your best."

A few days later Martine and Lucian, with their mother, stood on the
dock watching the receding ocean-liner that was carrying Mr. Stratford
to England. There was a great lump in Martine's throat as she wiped away
her tears with the handkerchief that a moment before she had been waving
frantically at her father.

"Goose, goose!" whispered Lucian. "You are too big a girl to cry."

"Oh, I hate saying good-bye," murmured Martine.

"Why, we've hardly been together--all four of us--for years."

"That's just it! It's been so pleasant lately--and now to have father in
South America!--it's just dreadful."

"Nonsense, child! South America isn't so very far away. The trouble is,
you've had too long a vacation. It's well we're going back to Boston
to-morrow, and that in a day or two you'll be at your books again."

"'At my books'--as if I were a six-year-old! I can't see why Harvard
College gives even a day's vacation to its students, since their chief
use of time seems to be to tease their sisters," and with this little
burst of temper Martine's tears were blown away.




CHAPTER V

ANOTHER PARTING


To Martine the return to Boston after Christmas was far from cheerful.
Not only was she still under the shadow of the parting with her father,
but she began to feel that the approaching departure of Brenda would be
rather hard to bear.

While her mother was spending a day or two with friends outside the
city, Martine had to stand by and watch Brenda bidding good-bye to her
family and friends. Her trunks were packed. The walls and mantelpieces
were denuded of many little pictures and ornaments; for at the last she
had decided that it was wiser to take some of her more personal
belongings with her to make her new abode more homelike.

"I haven't taken a thing that you or your mother would need," Brenda
explained; "only the little presents that have special associations for
us. Your mother wrote me that she had a box or two of her own ornaments
and pictures coming, so that she, too, could be reminded of home."

"Well, I wish our boxes were here now. It makes me so homesick to see
those empty places on the wall. I don't see how you can be so cheerful."

"But everyone has been so kind. I didn't know how much everyone cared
for me. So much has been done for me the past two weeks that I have
hardly had time to pack. Arthur went back to Washington in despair
yesterday. He is to join mother and me in New York. He said if we should
try to start from Boston we'd never get off. Some one would plan some
special function just to detain us."

"I wish that we _could_ detain you."

"You couldn't do it now," rejoined the optimistic Brenda. "After all,
when a thing is finally settled, I believe that I really love change. I
shall miss Lettice and my other little niece--she's a dear if she is
only a baby--but you know I have a niece and namesake in California, and
my mother and father say they will come out in March--so there will be a
very short separation."

"And what about me?" asked Martine, in much the same tone she had used
when Brenda first spoke of going away.

"Oh, you? Why you are better off than you have been for years, with your
mother to take care of you--and Lucian so near--"

"And no guardian," wailed Martine, in mock sorrow. "Don't flatter
yourself that you can get rid of me so easily."

"I shall write you and think of you. You will still be my ward, no
matter where I am. There, there," as Martine leaned over her to touch
her lips gently to her forehead. "Don't act as if we were parting
forever. Maggie's red eyes are a constant reproach to me. So please wait
until I am out of sight before you bid me good-bye."

In spite of her optimism Brenda was far from happy in leaving Boston,
her friends, and her pretty apartment, even for a limited time.
Sometimes she thought that the various functions in her honor made her
going all the harder.

Nora Gostar, who had taken Julia's place at the head of the Mansion
School, gave a tea to which were invited all the former pupils. Not all,
naturally, were able to attend, for some of the girls were in situations
from which they could not be spared.

"I wish we had a picture such as they give with patent medicines
'before' and 'after' taking," said Brenda. "I can assure you it would be
worth framing and taking to California. Do you remember what an untidy
little creature Luisa was when she first entered the Mansion School, and
how thin and forlorn Gretchen looked, and Maggie, who always lost her
head when she had an order given her, and Haleema--why isn't she here
to-day?"

"Oh, Haleema--haven't you heard? She has gone to Lowell to live. Her
husband is a prosperous rug-merchant and he is very proud of her ability
as a housekeeper. He has promised to contribute something toward sending
her younger sister here for a couple of years."

"I knew she had married," replied Brenda, "but I had not heard of her
removal to Lowell. It's delightful to know how well most of these girls
have turned out. Even Mrs. Blair admits that the Mansion School is a
useful institution."

"Yes," said Nora, laughing. "She gave us a handsome donation this year.
We accepted it gratefully as conscience money for her not letting Edith
work with us."

"Nora!" cried Brenda, impulsively. "You are a wonder! Of all our four,
you are the one best fitted to shine in society. But here you go on with
this work as meekly as if there were nothing else for you to do."

"There was no one else to take Julia's place this year," replied Nora,
quietly, "and it would have been a great pity either to let the school
run down or to allow Julia to give up her year in Europe. What fun she
will have when she goes with the Eltons to Greece, and I am sure that
when she comes back next year we shall all be the better for her trip.
She will have so much to tell us."

"Nora, you are a brick!" cried Brenda. "You never have been abroad
yourself, yet you never utter a word of envy for anyone else's good
time."

"Besides," continued Nora, "you are wrong about my shining in society. I
doubt if I should really care for it, even if I had the money to keep up
that kind of thing. You wouldn't wish me to be like Belle, reported in
all those silly newspapers as visiting Mrs. This at Lenox, and being the
admired of all who saw her with Mrs. That at Newport, and sitting in the
front row, as at the Horse Show, in a gown that was perfectly _chic_.
Oh, no, I hate that kind of thing, and I sympathize with Edith for
refusing to be a mere society girl, such as her mother would like her to
be. But we shouldn't be here by ourselves, for you are the special
guest, and all the girls, old and new, wish to shake hands with you and
hear you talk."

In a moment Brenda was again the centre of an admiring group, for all of
whom she had a bright smile and a word that really meant something,
while they all took note of her dress and little trinkets, and felt
doubly pleased that a person of such elegance should show an interest in
them.

So exact were the observations of her young admirers that before she had
actually left Boston a hat, a blouse, and a skirt were in process of
construction by the deft fingers of three of the girls who had taken
special note of the details of her attire at this Mansion tea.

Martine laughed heartily at Brenda's account of the girls at the
Mansion.

"I have promised Miss Gostar to go there once a week to give a lesson in
water color. It might seem a case of the blind trying to teach the blind
if I were to pretend to teach them much. But the aim is, I believe,
simply to give them an idea of colors. I wrote to Mrs. Redmond for
advice while I was away, and it pleased me immensely to have her say I
should probably do more good than harm by this little experiment."

"Of course you will do good. I have an idea that you could make things
very clear. In the weeks I lived at the Mansion I learned more than I
taught, for I am not a born teacher. But it was wonderful to see what
Julia and Miss South accomplished for their first class of girls. I
enjoyed my afternoon with the old girls far more than the farewell
reception mamma arranged for me, and infinitely more than that stiff
dinner at Mrs. Blair's last week."

"If people kill the fatted goose--or was it the fatted calf?--after you
reach San Francisco at the same rate they've been doing here, you'll
have indigestion."

"No danger, my dear. We shall just be nobody there. Mamma has explained
that I must not expect too much. Here everyone knows who I am--I mean
everyone I come in contact with. But it will be altogether different in
the West. We shall just be part of the great crowd of Easterners who
have left home to better their condition."

"Nonsense!"

"But that _is_ why we are going West,--because Arthur will get a larger
salary and have more rapid promotion. We are willing to give up the
things we like best, for a while, and live economically. Oh, dear." And
with her usual inconsistency Brenda did not try to straighten out the
quaver in her voice as she concluded with a futile smile.

"How I wish we could stay here!"

"Oh, how I wish you could!" moaned Maggie, appearing suddenly on the
scene, and the tear-stained face of the latter so amused Brenda that her
own melancholy ended in a burst of laughter.

When Brenda at last was really away, Martine and her mother began to
adapt themselves to the new conditions. The cook, of whom Brenda had
stood more or less in awe, gave warning promptly when she heard that
there was to be a change of mistresses. Maggie, after much tearful and
prayerful consideration, as Brenda put it, also decided not to stay with
Mrs. Stratford. Only her devotion to Brenda had led her to take this
place, as she really desired work that would occupy her simply during
the day. Her aunt, she said, was weak and lonely, and she wished to be
at home with her evenings.

Angelina, learning Maggie's intention, promptly presented herself as a
candidate for the vacant place. Mrs. Stratford hesitated, for Martine
had given her an exceedingly humorous account of the Portuguese girl's
peculiarities,--an account that did not tend to recommend her as a
reliable domestic.

"Of course, mother, she isn't a cut-and-dried housemaid," plead Martine;
"but she _is_ so amusing, and if we take her I am sure she will stay,
for she says she is perfectly devoted to me. I dare say she won't half
do the work, for she always has several irons in the fire. But I shall
not mind doing my own room, if we have Angelina, and in fact I'll have
to do it probably, as she is absent-minded and often forgets to do what
she should. But she loves waiting on table, and it's a great thing to
have a cheerful person in the house. _Do_ say you'll take her, mamma."

"There seems little chance of escape for me. From what Angelina herself
says, I should judge that you and she had already settled matters. I do
not wish to play the part of a tyrannical parent and so, to please you,
just to please you, Martine, I will engage Angelina."

"Thank you, mamma! You _are_ an angel. I always knew you were."

"I hope that Angelina is an angel in something besides her name, and I
wish that her name were less dressy. Would she care if I should call her
plain Mary?"

"Oh, mamma, not 'plain,' at any rate. I thought you understood that
Angelina _is_ rather dressy in her feelings. She takes the greatest
delight in her name. Please don't think of calling her anything else."

So Angelina remained plain Angelina, and on account of her previous
experience with Brenda, proved very useful to Mrs. Stratford. For a week
or two a succession of cooks passed in and out of the little kitchen,
until Martine's mother despaired of ever having the apartment in running
order.

In this emergency Angelina was only too proud to show what she could do.
She would not admit that she had ever learned anything from anybody.
"I'm a natural born cook," she would say; "and if I didn't consider it a
menial position, I would become a professional. It's on account of my
Spanish blood, I suppose, that I'm able to season things so well. You
know in Spain they like things hot and spicy."

"Spanish blood?" questioned Mrs. Stratford, as Angelina turned away.
"Aren't the Rosas Portuguese?"

"Yes, mamma, or they were until our war with Spain. Brenda explained it
all to me. During the war Angelina thought it would make her more
interesting if she called herself Spanish, and now she probably has
persuaded herself that she really _is_ Spanish. This amuses her and
doesn't hurt anyone else."

"But I don't like the idea of her being untruthful. This quality may
extend to other things."

"I hope not, mamma. But then we can watch her."

Lucian, when he heard of Angelina's Spanish proclivities, laughed
heartily.

"She _is_ worth watching," he said. "Each of us must keep an eye on
her."




CHAPTER VI

ANGELINA'S COUP


The first occasion for Angelina to make herself spectacularly useful
came on the Saturday after New Year's, when Mrs. Stratford invited
Priscilla and Mrs. Tilworth to dine. The latter had already shown Mrs.
Stratford some little courtesies, such as she felt were due Mrs. Blair's
cousin. On account of Martine's growing fondness for Priscilla, Mrs.
Stratford was anxious to have the two households on more intimate terms.
Lucian and Robert Pringle were also coming home to dinner, and although
Mrs. Tilworth was the only outsider, on her account a certain amount of
formality had been planned for this little dinner for six.

At about four o'clock on the afternoon Angelina knocked at the door of
Martine's room. Her face wore its most solemn expression.

"Why, Angelina, what is the matter? You look as if you had been drawn
through a keyhole."

Angelina at first did not reply.

"There, there, speak out! Is it anything very dreadful?"

Martine rose from her little desk, where she had been writing a letter
to her father, and as she took a step or two toward the door, Angelina
spoke.

"That depends on how you look on it; it's only that the cook's gone."

"Gracious! you don't mean it. But perhaps she has only gone for a
walk--"

"Oh, no, Miss Martine. I fear that she's gone for good and all. I've
been down to her room, and not a vestige of her possessions remains."
Angelina, even in a crisis, had to use long words. "In fact I may say
that I heard her trunk being carried away about two o'clock. There it
went, thumpity, thump down the stairs--those expressmen are so careless,
and I was quite unaware whose trunk it was, or I might have reported it
to your mother. But when the luncheon dishes were washed, the cook
followed the trunk; at least she is nowhere in sight now, and not a
thing done about this evening's dinner. It's the dinner, and not the
cook that disturbs me," explained Angelina.

"The dinner! I should say so," responded Martine. "We must get word to
Mrs. Tilworth at once. She's the fussiest old--I mean she's a very
particular person, and mother wishes everything to be just so when she
dines here."

"Of course, Miss Martine. Every guest of Mrs. Stratford's should receive
the greatest consideration." Angelina's manner was respectful in the
extreme.

"Dear me!" Martine's perplexity showed itself in her wrinkled forehead.
"I certainly don't know what's to be done. Mamma and Mrs. Tilworth were
to come home together from a meeting in Brookline. Mrs. Tilworth is
always taking people to meetings of some kind. Poor mamma didn't want to
go, but she couldn't get out of it. There's no way of getting word to
them until nearly dinner time. Mrs. Tilworth would think it awfully rude
to uninvite her. The only thing is to let her come, and then we can all
go out to a hotel or something, and she'll call that very shiftless."

Martine was really excited. She knew Mrs. Tilworth's opinion of people
who lived in apartments, and she had had a thrill of pleasant
anticipation at the idea of Mrs. Tilworth's finding everything as
homelike in their apartment as within the four walls of a detached
house.

To have to go outside to a hotel would indeed be ignominious--from
Martine's present point of view.

"Do you think Mrs. Stratford is strong enough to go to a hotel to
dinner, after being out all the afternoon? I certainly shouldn't advise
it."

Angelina spoke with all the impressiveness of one in authority.

"You make me think of a trained nurse, Angelina. But what in the world
are we to do?"

"Come with me," cried Angelina, and Martine, following her to the
kitchen, noticed as she turned her head that there was a twinkle in
Angelina's eye.

"Perhaps there's something in the refrigerator," thought Martine;
"refrigerators always are full of things that can be warmed over. We
might call it 'luncheon' instead of 'dinner,' and tell Mrs. Tilworth
that's the way we do in Chicago. She will believe anything about Western
people."

A glance at the refrigerator did not greatly encourage Martine. There
were a quantity of cold potatoes, and a great roast of beef for their
Sunday dinner, as well as eggs, bacon, milk, and butter.

"How frightfully unattractive it all looks--and smells," cried Martine,
slamming the door. "I never could be a good cook, for I hate the sight
of raw food. But what _were_ we to have for dinner to-night? What _are_
we to have now? You wouldn't have brought me out here if you hadn't some
plan. It's half-past four, and if anything's to be done, it ought to be
doing now."

"Oh, if you request me to take hold," said Angelina, "I shall be only
too happy to accept your orders in your mother's place. Come, see!" and
removing a cloth that had covered the kitchen table, she showed Martine
an inviting array of vegetables and two pairs of small chickens.

"First of all the dessert," she began.

"Before the soup?" asked Martine. Then remembering that if she stood in
her mother's place it would be undignified to trifle with Angelina, she
waited for the latter to disclose her plans.

"What I mean is this," continued the latter; "you can telephone to the
creamery for ice-cream and cake. The cook had orders to make something
with a long name, but that's impossible now. Then the black coffee--your
brother loves to potter with that electric coffee machine--and there's
plenty of crackers and cheese."

"And finger bowls, too," said Martine, laughing, "that will finish the
dinner. But how shall we begin? If we begin dinner well, it won't matter
how it ends."

"Well, there's no trouble about oysters, now, is there? And the
soup--well, instead of the potage something or other that we were going
to have, it'll be bouillon with croutons, and a sprig of parsley on top;
that always looks foreign, and with my Spanish seasoning, Mrs. Tilworth
will never know it's plain extract of beef. It won't take me a minute to
prepare the minced fish, and you can put it in these little shells to
bake when the oven is hot. The salad won't be any trouble, just tomato
on a leaf of lettuce. The chickens can be broiled, and there's only one
vegetable to boil besides the potatoes. The other things like celery and
radishes only need to be put on attractively."

"But what about these lobsters?"

"Oh, yes, that's an idea of my own. They were meant for salad. But if I
were you, as long as you've got such a big chafing-dish, I'd have a
lobster Neuberg. Mrs. Tilworth will expect something out of the
ordinary, and a lobster Neuberg at dinner is very unexpected."

"And very good to eat, and I'll let Robert Pringle cook it at the
table."

"Yes, Miss Martine, only I'll prepare the sauce first, so much depends
on that."

"You're a genius," said Martine; "but who'll wait on table?"

"Why, I will, Miss Martine, if you'll set it now. I'll have my hands
full until dinner is served, and don't tell your mother about the cook
until dinner's over. She'll be surprised that the dinner is different
from what she ordered. But she won't find anything to be ashamed of."

Seldom, indeed, had Martine worked harder than in the hour succeeding
her discovery of the cook's departure. In setting the table she made
many little mistakes that Angelina gently but firmly corrected. But at
half-past five, just before her mother came home, she surveyed the
finished whole with pride, and then hurried away to her room to change
her dress as she heard some one opening the door.

"Oh, Lucian," she cried, "if mother asks for Angelina, please say she's
busy just now; keep Mrs. Tilworth amused until dinner. I wonder why
Prissie's so late."

"I'm not late," and in a moment Priscilla was with her. "I came in
without ringing, as the door was partly open."

To Priscilla Martine explained the secret of the dinner.

"Angelina will wait on table, though I don't see how she'll manage. But
if there's any chance to help things on, you'll do so, won't you?"

"With pleasure," replied Priscilla, not realizing just what her promise
might involve.

As it happened the dinner went on very smoothly from beginning to end,
at least almost to the end. Mrs. Tilworth was in her most amiable frame
of mind, even condescending to smile at some of the inane jokes
perpetrated by the two Sophomores. This was doubtless due to her having
a soft spot in her heart for boys in general, as her only son had died
when he was six years old.

Mrs. Stratford, it is true, looked somewhat mystified at Angelina's
occasional long absences in the kitchen. But at these moments Martine
and Priscilla managed to introduce interesting subjects for discussion,
whereby their elders were diverted from observing the remissness of
their waitress.

Before the dessert, however, the wait was suspiciously long. Mrs.
Tilworth, in an aside, had just been complimenting Mrs. Stratford on her
daughter's ease of manner, when looking up she saw Martine gesticulating
and frowning, apparently at Priscilla. A moment later Priscilla had
dashed from the room through the door into the kitchen.

"What's up?" asked Robert.

"What's down?" added Lucian, as a tremendous crash fell on their ears.

"Oh, it's nothing," responded Martine, reddening. She felt Mrs.
Tilworth's keen eye upon her and wished that Priscilla had acted less
impulsively. Mrs. Stratford fanned herself nervously. There were
disadvantages, she began to think, in apartment housekeeping with a
limited staff.

In the meanwhile what had happened? When Angelina went to the kitchen
for the ices and cakes, a sorry sight presented itself to her.

The cover of the freezer had been left off,--she had meant it to be but
a moment, and not the half hour that had really passed. Through her
carelessness, not only had the ices begun to soften, but some of the
salt and coarse ice from the freezer had drifted in.

In her efforts to repair the damage, much time had passed before
Priscilla appeared. Then Priscilla, in her effort to help, had taken
hold of one side of the heavy tin to lift it to the table. The edge was
slippery, the tin glided from between Priscilla's fingers, and as it
crashed back into the tub of ice, a stream of pink and green stickiness
spurted over her new blue gown.

"No matter about me," cried poor Priscilla, as Angelina began to mop off
the gown. "I must go back to the dining-room. I can hold my handkerchief
over the spots. The dinner mustn't be spoiled. My aunt is so critical."

"But there's no dessert. What will they think?" and Angelina looked the
picture of despair. For to her no festivity was complete without the
finishing touch of pink and white ice-cream.

"I will explain," began Priscilla. "Isn't there anything to come but the
ices?"

"Oh yes, cakes and fruit and coffee and cheese." Angelina had already
recovered her spirit. "I'll hurry in and attach the coffee machine to
the electric light; that will divert them, while you make the
explanations. It wouldn't be proper for me in my capacity of waitress to
say a word."

So Priscilla, hastening back, explained that the ices had met a mishap,
and she wondered if they all wondered what her part had been in the
misadventure. No one, however, attached as much importance as Angelina
did to the loss of the ices. The coffee machine diverted them all. Even
Mrs. Tilworth was interested in watching the water bubble in the crystal
globe.

Of them all Priscilla alone was disturbed. She realized, when too late,
that she must have misunderstood her friend's signals, and that it had
been Martine's duty, and not hers, to go to the kitchen. Moreover, she
dreaded the merited reproof from her aunt when the spots on her skirt
should be discovered.

Mrs. Stratford was amused rather than displeased when Martine, after the
departure of their guests, explained the whole matter.

"I realized that something strange was going on, and though Angelina
covered herself with glory so far as the cooking was concerned, she
certainly did not appear an expert waitress. Then, my dear, if you had
only given me a hint of the situation, I need not have perjured myself
to Mrs. Tilworth. She thought everything so exquisitely seasoned that I
told her all about the cook, how she had lived at Dr. Gostar's and later
at Mrs. Rowe's. I admitted that the menu was a little different from
what I had expected, but still--"

"Excuse me, mamma--but why do you suppose the cook left?"

To this question Mrs. Stratford had no answer.




CHAPTER VII

A DROP OF INK


"Somehow I find it awfully hard to settle down to work," said Martine to
one of the girls at school a day or two after Washington's Birthday. "I
don't know whether it's the holiday--or what."

"It's 'what,' I think; vacations ought not to hurt us, they are meant to
set one up."

"How literal you are! Look at Priscilla; she's as busy as can be. She
knows how to study at school; but then of course there couldn't have
been anything very exciting in a Plymouth holiday; but although she was
away only two days I do wonder that she can study so in school."

"It's a sensible thing, all the same, and saves home study. I begrudge
more than an hour a day out of school, and if you don't work here, you
surely have to spend three or four hours there."

"You'll have to spend more than an hour a day on home work if you are
going to prepare that essay. Isn't it outrageous?"

"Well, it's as fair for one as for another. There's no use in talking
about it now; we must keep at this translation." And for the next ten
minutes the two girls kept their eyes on their Virgils.

Martine and Grace had gone into a small room off the main schoolroom,
where a certain amount of conversation was permitted to two girls who
happened to be studying together. They were not expected, however, to
wander far from the lesson they had set out to prepare, and idle
conversation, if overheard, would have carried a reproof. Yet the
special essay to which Grace had referred was for the time uppermost in
the minds of most of Miss Crawdon's pupils, and to Martine the necessity
for writing it was peculiarly disagreeable; she did not pretend to be
literary; her brightness and energy expressed themselves in far
different ways. She could talk better than most girls, but when it came
to putting her thoughts on paper in an extended form, she was really at
sea. No one sympathized with her when she protested that it was
absolutely impossible for her to write a ten-page essay on the question
"Is the pen mightier than the sword?"

"Why, it's what I call the simplest kind of a subject," said Priscilla.
"We all know that war is a terrible thing and ought to be done away
with, and that a good book accomplishes a great deal more than the most
famous battle. That's all the subject means."

"Oh, is it?" queried Martine, somewhat sarcastically. "Well, I'd like to
see you fill ten large foolscap pages proving it."

"That's easy enough; just get your thoughts together."

"I can get a few of them together, but when it comes to putting them on
paper, that's quite another thing."

Yet in the face of Martine's evident despair, Priscilla still insisted
that the subject was not difficult, and that if Martine would simply
collect her thoughts, she would soon find words to fill ten pages.

"Of course you've got to look up authorities on peace and war and some
of the poets like Whittier and Tennyson, and Longfellow's 'Ship of
State,' and say something about 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' and look over your
English history pretty carefully."

"Oh, Priscilla, with all my other lessons? It's quite natural for you to
know where to find all these authorities and poems, but it's quite
another thing for me, and there's likely to be some splendid skating
this month; and it's odious to have to stay cooped up in the house when
the afternoons are short enough at the best."

But at last Martine had to yield to necessity, and less than a week
before the day when the essays were to be handed in she sat down for one
last, and it may be said first, great effort.

Lucian, happening in from Cambridge, laughed as he saw her forlorn face
as she sat at a table littered with papers.

"What a ridiculous fuss," he cried, "about a little composition."

"It isn't a little composition; it's an essay."

"Well, what's the difference? You ought to have daily themes, then you'd
know."

"We do, we have them once a week, every Monday morning."

"Daily themes,--once a week!" and again Lucian laughed.

"You needn't laugh, Lucian. Of course it's easy enough to write; that
isn't the trouble; but it's getting things together."

"What things?"

"My ideas. Oh, if I were only Priscilla."

"Well, you are not; she's altogether different. But what's this?" cried
Lucian, picking up a paper from the table.

"Oh, that's one of Priscilla's last year's essays. It's perfectly
splendid, and she thought it might help me to look it over."

"Why don't you get her to help you in some other way?"

"Oh, that wouldn't do. We're supposed to do this all alone. It's a kind
of test. You see the little themes are different. We write accounts of
things we see, or that somebody tells us; but Miss Crawdon likes things
we observe, and I am always seeing something funny. Everyone laughs at
what I write. But I just can't do a long logical essay, and I don't want
mine to be the very worst in the class."

"Of course not." Lucian's tone was more sympathetic than usual. "There
can't be any harm in my helping you." And he took up a pencil.

"I'm not sure," responded Martine; "but still a brother, I suppose, is
different from anyone else."

"Naturally," said Lucian, undisturbed by any scruples.

In a moment the two were at work, or rather Lucian was working, while
Martine listened intently.

"First of all," he began, in a professorial manner, "you must think out
your subject carefully and sub-divide it--so--and so. Then, well,
whenever you have a thought, write it down on a piece of paper or a
card--if I were you I'd buy a box of blank cards." Martine instantly
resolved to pay a visit to a wholesale stationer's, and Lucian spent a
few moments in cogitation and then wrote down a number of headings on
small squares of paper. He had never before had so good a chance to
expose the methods of his favorite English course.

"See, now, you kind of shuffle and arrange your headings, and you begin
to think of other funny little things to put in, and write them out on
large sheets, and before you know it, it's almost done. Now try."

Martine tried. Lucian's method was something like a game, and under his
guidance she made a fair beginning. Before they had fairly started on
the essay, Lucian talked learnedly about "clearness," and "force," and
"elegance," and Martine listened, somewhat dazzled by her brother's show
of knowledge.

"Well, Harvard has done you some good, after all, Lucian. As a sophomore
you seem to be making up for what you lost in your freshman year."

"There, there, child, no twitting on facts. Of course Harvard has done a
great deal for me. Why else should I go to college?"

"I wonder what college would do for me. What would you think of my going
to Radcliffe, for example?" Martine looked anxiously at her brother; she
had known boys who positively opposed their sister's ambitions in this
direction.

"Well, if you could get in," said Lucian, "I think it would be a mighty
good thing."

The "if" nettled Martine.

"What other girls do I suppose I could do too."

"Oh, yes; and if you should turn out like Miss Amy Redmond, or if you'd
work like Priscilla, why I'd be proud enough of you."

"Ah, Amy's a brick," responded Martine, "but I didn't know that you
really admired Priscilla. Robert Pringle says she's just the kind boys
don't like."

"Oh, Robert is too fresh; he can't settle everything, though he thinks
he can. But here, we can't waste time. Remember that you're trying to
prove your point."

"Yes, the point of the sword," said Martine.

"No frivolity, child." And by their united efforts they made a draft of
the essay, which Lucian copied out in his peculiar back hand, and later
Martine, still further expanding what he presented to her, was able to
produce ten pages that were not only fairly logical, according to
Lucian's standards, but in addition had various humorous little touches
from the hand of Martine. Priscilla was so busy with her own work that
she hardly had time to observe that Martine had ceased to complain at
what she had at first called "an outrageous task."

On the morning when the essays were handed in, Miss Crawdon made a short
speech to the class. "You will be interested, I am sure, to hear that I
have decided to award a prize for the best essay. I did not suggest this
in advance, because in a general way I do not approve of school
competition. You have worked under natural conditions, and although only
one girl will have a prize, I am sure all the others will see nothing
unfair in this distinction, since all have had an equal chance. All have
worked independently without help from anyone, and none have been
tempted to put themselves under too severe a strain. I ought to say that
the prize, which consists of the new two-volume 'Life of Tennyson,' is a
gift from Mrs. Edward Elton. You remember that she was one of our
teachers here a few years ago and that English was her specialty. When
she left this school she helped establish the Mansion School in the
house of her grandmother, Madame DuLaunuy. For more than a year she and
Mr. Elton have been travelling abroad, but she writes to me often about
the school, and her interest in our English work still continues."

In the brief interval following Miss Crawdon's speech, those girls who
had known the former Miss South said one or two agreeable things about
her to the others, and it pleased Martine to recall that Mr. Elton was a
cousin of Brenda's. But she was not altogether pleased that the essay
with which Lucian had helped her was to compete for a prize. In this
special case Martine was not quite sure of the precise line between
right and wrong, and until she could decide this for herself, she
thought it not worth while to discuss the matter with others.

Now it happened, strangely enough, that the essay which in a small way
had been a snare for Martine also caused some trouble for Priscilla. The
beginning came on the Friday after the essays were handed in. In the
early afternoon Priscilla had an errand to do for her aunt at the
farther end of Commonwealth Avenue. There was no Symphony this week, and
she enjoyed the change. As she walked homeward, she was in an unusually
happy mood. It was one of those mild days in late January that seemed to
be preparing the way for an early spring. The path under the trees in
the middle of the park was rather wet from melting snow and ice, and
after trying it for a few steps, Priscilla preferred the sidewalk. There
she walked down between the rows of nurses with their baby carriages, or
little children in charge. "A prize baby show" Martine had called it.
Priscilla enjoyed the show and thought of her little brothers and
sisters at home as she stopped at intervals to speak to some child she
knew. From the Avenue she crossed the Garden and stood for a moment on
the bridge to watch the ice breaking in the pond; and she continued her
walk along the mall of the Common, until she was opposite Spruce Street.
Turning into the narrower streets, when at last she reached her aunt's
house, it seemed particularly gloomy, and she wished that she might have
stayed out in the sun an hour longer. But she realized that the task
before her could not be postponed. The weekly theme must be ready on
Monday, and nothing could be accomplished unless she set herself at
work. Filling her fountain pen carefully she sat down at a small table
near the window and began her task.

Although Priscilla frowned slightly, as almost any girl will frown when
writing a theme, the frown was not very deep. She expected no real
difficulties at the present stage of her work, as she had already made a
good draft in pencil, and it only remained now for her to copy it.

At first her pen fairly flew over the paper, but after a time, as it may
happen even with more accomplished authors, she grew a little weary, and
rising, she walked to the window. Then she took a few steps around the
room, at the same time idly flourishing her pen. The habits of fountain
pens are indeed hard to understand. There certainly seemed to be no
reason why Priscilla's pen should have chosen the particular moment when
she stood beside her bureau for a catastrophe. Priscilla herself was
almost petrified with horror as she gazed at the great black spot on the
immaculate bureau-scarf. How could one little drop of ink, falling
carelessly from a pen held upside down, spread itself into such a big
spot?

After her first resentment against the pen, which she quickly laid down
on the blotter on her table, Priscilla's irritation took a new form.

"I always hated that bureau-scarf. I always thought it foolish of aunt
Tilworth to put it in my room. She has told me a dozen times that it was
made by a favorite cousin who can never make any more like it because
she's dead. I can't bear to think what she will say when she sees this."

Priscilla went closer to the bureau. Fortunately the spot was on the
plain material, some distance from the embroidery. It almost looked as
if she might wash it out--if ink ever could be washed out. If it should
stay, how could she ever explain the accident to her aunt, since it was
an unwritten law of the house that ink was to be used only in the
library?

"This might help a little," she murmured, tearing off a small piece from
her blotter, and applying it to the spot. But the ink had been so
thoroughly absorbed that her efforts made no impression. Then she
remembered something she had read and rushed to the kitchen.

"A glass of milk, is it?" exclaimed the crabbed old cook; "and why
didn't you send the housemaid?" But Priscilla secured the milk, and
while she was busily mopping the spot, Martine appeared on the scene.

"You queer child, what are you doing? That milk will certainly spoil the
bureau."

"Oh no, it's marble underneath."

"But what are you doing? Oh, that spot? But you'll never get it out that
way. You must use salts, salts of something, I forget its name, only
it's deadly poison. They'll know what it is when you ask at the
druggist's."

"Nothing would induce me to touch poison. Please don't suggest such a
thing."

"But you're not going to taste it or give it to anyone. Just think what
your aunt would say if she saw that spot!"

"That's just what I have been thinking," said poor Priscilla, feebly. "I
hate to have her know how careless I have been."

"Then let me go--no, I am going anyway, I want to see how surprised the
druggist will be when I ask for this salts of something or other."

"He can't appear very surprised if you don't know its name."

"Oh, I'll tell him it's a deadly poison, and that I want it immediately.
Good-bye, Prissie dear, I'll soon be back, alive or dead."

"Now cheer up, Miss Doleful," cried Martine, when she returned ten
minutes later. "I got it easily enough, and the man hardly seemed
surprised, though he put a little poison label on the box."

Priscilla handled the box gingerly.

"There, there," cried Martine, "it won't hurt you! Give it back!" And
taking off the cover, she disclosed some innocent looking crystals.

Moistening a few of these, she spread the pasty mass on the spot.

"My, how it stings! My tongue is burning."

"You didn't taste it! I thought you said it was poison?"

"Oh, I got some on my fingers. But I know it won't hurt. But there,"
scraping the crystals from the spot, "it hasn't done a bit of good."

"Yes, it has done a little. I think the ink is not quite so black. But a
brown spot is about as bad as a black one."

"I'll tell you what we ought to do," and Martine read the label on the
box.

"We should spread this out in the sun. Then something chemical will
happen, and the ink will fade away."

"This ink will _never_ fade. I am sure of that, and besides there's no
sun to-day, and there won't be, because it's after four o'clock."

"To-morrow will do just as well," said Martine.

"If aunt Tilworth doesn't happen to come in."

"What are you afraid of, my dear Prissie? You surely don't expect your
aunt to whip you like a baby?"

"Of course not. My aunt doesn't mean to be unkind, only she is very
particular."

"I should say so. Her house shows that she was meant to be a regular old
maid. How I should love to stir things up a little. I don't suppose you
dropped that ink on purpose, though the room certainly looks far less
prim than when I saw it a day or two ago."

Priscilla bore Martine's teasing fairly well, but at last she said
firmly, "I have wasted a lot of time over this ink-spot. Now I must go
back to my work. I haven't even prepared my lessons for Monday. I know
you will excuse me, Martine, and I am ever so much obliged for your
help."

"On this hint I'll act," replied Martine, gayly. "Your spot is certainly
worse than the one in Macbeth, though I won't use the language that
Macbeth--or was it her Ladyship?--used regarding it. But don't worry,
Prissie dear. I will arrange things so that no one will know what
happened." And suiting her action to her words, Martine carefully
replaced the scarf on the table and set a large pincushion over the
ink-spot, so that not a vestige of the spot, or of the attempts to
remove it, could be seen.

Then with a word or two more of absurd advice to Priscilla, Martine,
bidding her friend good-bye, tripped lightly downstairs.

When Martine reached the lower story all was still. Priscilla had said
that her aunt was at a meeting. Evidently she had not yet returned.

On her way downstairs a mischievous plan had been forming in Martine's
brain.

"I'll never have a better chance," she said to herself, and she tiptoed
into the drawing-room.

A noise from the direction of the dining-room made her start. Then
glancing around she took heart.

"I think I can do it," she murmured, "before any one appears on the
scene."

Again she felt discouraged as she noted how massive, how immovable most
of the furniture appeared. A large centre-table in the middle of the
room pleased her; she pushed it from its place into a distant corner.
Over it she threw a scarf that had decorated a sofa. Then from the great
bookcase in the hall she took two or three volumes that she laid on the
table open and face downward.

"Everything seems glued to the walls," she murmured, "and these tidies
are so ugly. There can't be much harm in folding them up and putting
them under the sofa."

Then she paused. "This little scarf--it is Roman, too,--is just the
thing for Julius Caesar." And tying the striped scarf around the neck of
the great conqueror, she bolstered the bust on an easy-chair, draping an
afghan around him to conceal his lack of body and limbs.

[Illustration: "'This little scarf--it is Roman, too,--is just the thing
for Julius Caesar.'"]

Then with one or two minor touches to the room she hurried away.




CHAPTER VIII

A PRIZE WINNER


While Martine was thus mischievously occupied, Priscilla, unconscious of
what was going on, continued her work.

She had not heard her aunt come in, but when she went down to dinner she
instantly realized that Mrs. Tilworth was displeased. Was there any
possibility that the injury to the bureau-scarf had been discovered? At
once Priscilla dismissed that thought, knowing Mrs. Tilworth could not
have been in her room, as she herself had not left it.

As the young girl turned toward the dining-room Mrs. Tilworth laid her
hand on her shoulder.

"This way, please," she said briefly, pointing toward the room where
Julius Caesar was enthroned in his easy-chair.

Priscilla could not suppress a smile at the absurd sight.

"Then you did it?"

"I? Why of course not! I haven't been downstairs."

Then Priscilla stopped. She remembered her visit to the kitchen, and for
the present she was not anxious to explain the glass of milk.

"But who could have done this ridiculous thing? An earthquake couldn't
have done much more."

Priscilla hardly dared glance around the dishevelled room. Some of the
results accomplished by Martine were foolish, others were improvements
on the original arrangement of things.

"You must have had a visitor," continued Mrs. Tilworth, pursuing her
search for information.

Priscilla was silent. She perceived that Martine had been the
mischief-maker, and for the moment she was indignant with her friend.
Martine might have realized that an act of this kind would bring Mrs.
Tilworth's wrath on Priscilla as well as on the absent perpetrator of
the mischief.

"Then it was Martine Stratford!" continued Mrs. Tilworth. "I am glad
that you had no hand in this foolishness, Priscilla. For I take your
word that you have not been downstairs. But I am disappointed in
Martine. She has attractive manners, and lately she seemed to be toning
down. Certainly she appeared very well at the dinner the other evening.
Her mother, too, is a sensible woman. So it must be her father who
spoils Martine. The girl has had a training very different from yours,
and her sense of responsibility is small."

"She didn't mean anything, I am sure of that," protested Priscilla.

"Didn't mean anything! That's just the trouble. After this I must ask
you to see less of Martine. Really I ought not to have let you spend so
much time with her."

"Mamma knows all about Martine. She does not object."

"She _will_ object when she learns how disrespectful Martine has been to
me. As if I did not know how to arrange my own furniture."

Again Priscilla felt like smiling. Martine's hints had been understood,
even though they might not be followed.

Mrs. Tilworth was a fair-minded woman, and after expressing herself
clearly on the subject of Martine's misdeeds, she did not try to make
her niece more uncomfortable. Nevertheless, Priscilla's dinner hour that
evening was far from cheerful. She wondered if it might not be wiser, as
well as more honest, to tell her aunt of her own mishap of the
afternoon. Yet the more she thought of it, the less inclined was she to
do this. She clung to the hope that with a further effort she could make
the scarf as good as new.

That night she dreamed of wading through rivers of ink, and in her
dreams she saw the bust of Julius Caesar sitting on a bridge with many
small black ink-spots mottling the bald head.

In the intervals between her dreams she tossed about restlessly, and she
thought of all the little criticisms that she had ever heard anyone make
about Mrs. Tilworth.

"After all, she isn't my real aunt," she murmured; "only my uncle's
widow, and I suppose she just hates to have me here. But she has a kind
of family pride, and thinks that it will help mamma. I know the house is
furnished queerly. I heard mamma say that it is neither antique, nor
modern--only second-rate. Those black walnut things are always ugly,
even Martine knows better."

Yet in all her ruminations Priscilla had to admit that Mrs. Tilworth had
always treated her kindly. She had no real grievance against her aunt.
She was merely afraid of the reproof that her carelessness merited.

Now it was one of Mrs. Tilworth's theories that a girl should make her
own bed and dust her own furniture. It was a theory, too, that she put
into practice. Except on sweeping days, Priscilla took entire care of
her own room. Sometimes she begrudged the time that she had to spend in
this way. But on the morning after Martine's visit she was pleased that
no housemaid had the right to handle the things on her bureau. Now, as
this was Saturday morning, Priscilla took more time than usual dusting
and arranging things generally. She did not dare move the corpulent
pincushion lest someone should come in upon her while she was examining
the ink mark. She knew that her aunt had a morning engagement, and while
she worked she listened eagerly for the closing of the front door that
would show that her aunt had departed.

But alas for her calculations! While she was still dusting her
mantle-piece, Mrs. Tilworth, with hat and coat on, entered the room.

"My dear," began Mrs. Tilworth, kindly, "you must not take to yourself
all that I said about Martine Stratford. You and she are really very
different, and although I cannot say that her acquaintance was forced
upon you, still it came about almost by accident. Had you not both gone
to Acadia in Mrs. Redmond's care, you never would have known each other
so well. You are not careless--I see you have been putting your room in
order. It looks very well, but this pincushion is too near the edge.
Dear me, what is this?"

Poor Priscilla reddened as Mrs. Tilworth gazed in horror at the spot
that the cushion had concealed.

Her aunt's praise in the first place had been unexpected, and now she
felt that she could hardly bear her reproof.

"What is this?" continued Mrs. Tilworth, picking up one of the tiny
crystals from the cloth and touching it to the tip of her tongue. "As I
thought, oxalic acid."

"Martine called it salts of lemon."

"So this is some of Martine's work, too. Perhaps she forgot to tell you
that the salts, or the acid, whichever you choose to call it, is bound
to eat a great hole in linen--and this the most valued of all my bureau
covers. Ah, Priscilla, I thought you could be trusted." And pushing back
the smaller articles that rested on it, Mrs. Tilworth flung the scarf
over her arm and walked away with it--ink-spot and all.

Priscilla was now more deeply disturbed than before. In no way was she
willing to have Martine blamed for what she had not done. Her friend was
already sufficiently disgraced in Mrs. Tilworth's eyes. But now, even if
she wished, she could not explain. Mrs. Tilworth had gone away for the
day. In her heart of hearts Priscilla knew that even had her aunt been
at home she would have found it difficult to explain things in their
true light. For at the best she must appear extremely careless, and
quite unworthy the confidence that Mrs. Tilworth had just expressed. Few
girls are willing at a moment's notice to pull themselves down from a
pedestal on which they may have been placed.

When Mrs. Tilworth and she were together on Saturday evening, Priscilla
still found it hard to make the explanation that she knew was Martine's
due, and she found the task no easier on Sunday. Monday was the day when
the results of the prize contest were to be announced, and the usually
calm Priscilla was inwardly perturbed. Her rank in English was high, and
she could not help wondering if there might not be a chance that the
prize would fall to her.

"What became of your spot?" asked Martine, mischievously, as she met
Priscilla.

"Hush," replied Priscilla; "don't talk about it now, it's too, too
disturbing. But I finished my theme for to-day," she continued more
brightly, "and now I suppose we shall hear the result of the prize
essays."

"If I had known prizes were to be given for these essays, I might not
have sent mine in."

"Are you afraid that you'll get the prize? Really, I think there's no
danger."

Marie Taggart was noted for her sharp tongue, and Martine controlled the
quick reply that rose to her own lips.

"Come, Priscilla," she cried, turning to her friend, "let me lead you to
your seat, so that I can be free to hunt about for a laurel wreath. I
should hate to be unprepared when the prize is awarded you."

There was an expectant air throughout the class as Miss Crawdon arose to
announce the result of the essay contest. A moment or two later
Priscilla's name was called by Miss Crawdon, and as she stepped forward
to receive the prize, no one in the school begrudged her what they knew
she had gained by careful and conscientious effort. But everyone, even
Martine herself, was amazed when Miss Crawdon added, "I have here a
small card of honorable mention for two girls, one of them Martine
Stratford and the other Inez Galbraith, who are only second to the
prize-winner; and although their side of the argument, 'The sword is
mightier than the pen' is the less popular, I am glad to commend them
for the independence shown in their work."

Martine's brow contracted as she heard Miss Crawdon's words. She had
little pleasure in the commendation bestowed on her, for suddenly she
realized that in letting Lucian help her she had probably done wrong. It
is true she had thought out each point for herself, following in many
cases Lucian's suggestion, and she had added many things that her
brother had not thought of; yet, with it all, she was quite sure that,
but for Lucian's help, she never in the world could have written the
essay. Therefore the smiles of approval that met her as she went to her
seat almost stung her, and Priscilla later, at recess, was surprised at
Martine's irritability when she asked her how she had managed to deceive
them all by pretending that she could not write.

Yet Martine had no intention of cultivating an over-sensitive Puritan
conscience. She was an honest girl on the whole, never intentionally
untruthful, although sometimes lacking, perhaps, in frankness. This
latter quality was the one that Priscilla had especially criticised
during their journey through Acadia. In the present instance Martine was
not quite sure to what extent she was right, to what extent wrong. If
only she could talk it all over with Priscilla.

"Priscilla, I know, will advise my telling Miss Crawdon, and then
perhaps the whole thing would have to be explained to the school, and I
should feel awfully mortified. It isn't as if I had won a real prize, or
kept anyone else out of anything--and I have worked hard enough over my
English to get something. So I'll just imagine it's all right and let it
go."

Yet in spite of her determination to think little about the affair,
Martine's conscience was not quite clear, and at recess Priscilla
noticed a certain change in her manner.

Things were not bettered when Martine reminded Priscilla that she had
promised to go home with her after school on Monday or Tuesday.

"Monday is better than Tuesday, so you must come to-day, and we can
telephone your aunt, that she needn't wonder at your mysterious
disappearance."

"Thank you, really I cannot, I am busy, I must go downtown, and
besides--" So Priscilla stumbled along, to Martine's great astonishment.

"Oh, I thought you always enjoyed coming home with me. I am sure you
have often said so; but you needn't if you don't want to."

Martine's air of injured innocence sat ill upon her. She could not
explain to Priscilla why she was so anxious to have her spend the
afternoon with her. She could not fully explain this anxiety to herself,
although the real reason was her hope that a talk with Priscilla might
settle that little problem of right and wrong connected with the prize
essay.

If Martine was annoyed by Priscilla's refusal, poor Priscilla was deeply
disturbed by the turn of affairs. Not for a moment did it occur to her
that she might disregard her aunt's injunction in relation to Martine.
Priscilla had been brought up so strictly that, as Martine sometimes
said, she did not think it possible to disobey "the powers that be,"
whether teachers, parent, or guardian. In Boston Mrs. Tilworth stood in
her mother's place, and in consequence whatever she said was law. In the
present instance, however, obedience was a little harder than usual,
because she knew that Mrs. Tilworth's severity toward her friend came
from an error of judgment. Foolish though Martine had been, she was much
better than Mrs. Tilworth thought her, and Priscilla knew that it lay
with her to correct her aunt's impression.

"Good-bye, Martine," said Priscilla, as they parted at the corner below
the school. "Really and truly, I am sorry not to go home with you."

"There, my dear child, someway or other I always have to believe you;
but all the same you are very ridiculous and disobliging not to come
with me," and although she smiled as she spoke, Martine's voice still
held a little bitterness as she turned away from Priscilla and went down
the hill. Through the week the two went their separate ways--at least
out of school. In their classes and at recess they were still the best
of friends. But neither said a word to the other about visiting her.
Priscilla, conscious of her aunt's disapproval of Martine, was
tongue-tied, and Martine's sense of wounded dignity lasted longer than
usual.

On Friday Martine did not go to the Symphony rehearsal, and this in
itself was not strange, as she not only was not fond of music, but found
the restraint of Mrs. Tilworth's presence rather irksome. In her absence
her mother, however, usually occupied her seat, and thus the ticket was
not wasted. Martine justified her own absences by telling Priscilla that
it would be selfish in her to monopolize the seat when really her mother
enjoyed the concert far more than she did.

Nevertheless, until this particular week, it had always been her habit
to talk the matter over with Priscilla, and often at the last moment she
would yield to the persuasions of the latter that this particular
symphony, or that particular soloist was too fine for her to miss.

But when on Friday morning Martine said nothing whatever about the
rehearsal, and when on Friday afternoon neither she nor her mother
occupied the seat next Priscilla's, the latter felt that the time had
come for her to speak.

It is to be feared that that particular symphony meant little to Mrs.
Tilworth's niece. Discord, not harmony, filled her mind. She hardly
noticed the execution of the great pianist who was the soloist of the
day, and when her aunt put a question, her answers were so vague that
Mrs. Tilworth, glancing at her keenly, said,

"I fear you have been working too hard this winter. It will do you good
to go down to Plymouth Easter."

The kindness in her aunt's tone encouraged Priscilla, and that evening
after dinner she told the whole story of the spot of ink. When she had
finished, to her great surprise, the dignified Mrs. Tilworth began to
laugh.

"Excuse me, my dear, but it seems to me you have made much ado about a
small matter. It is true that I value that bureau cover, and I consider
you most careless in handling your pen, but that you should think me an
ogre--"

"Oh, I do not, only I knew I had been careless. I meant to tell you, but
I thought I could get it out first."

"That was your mistake, child. A good laundress could have removed the
ink if she had had the cover before any one else experimented with it.
As it is, the oxalic acid weakened the fibre so that we have had to darn
it. When you see it, you will admit that the work has been done very
well, but everything would have gone much better had you told me in the
first place."

"Yes, aunt, I know it, and I deserve punishment. But what I wanted to
say was about Martine. I know she was silly in doing what she did in the
drawing-room, but although she seems so grown up, sometimes she acts
just like a child. Why, I really believe she has forgotten all about
last Saturday; at least she hasn't said a word to me, and she can't
understand why I don't go to her house, and I can't ask her here, and I
do wish that you'd let me."

"I did not mean to forbid you to go to Martine's," responded Mrs.
Tilworth. "I should be sorry to do that, for, as you know, I like Mrs.
Stratford. I merely advised you to see less of Martine. There are other
girls who ought to be just as companionable--some indeed whom you might
like better, if you would make the effort."

"I had to make an effort to like Martine at first, and now that I am
used to her, I can't grow intimate with anyone else."

"Very well, my dear, I think still that you are a little tired. If
Martine sees fit to apologize for last Saturday, we can turn over the
pages of that chapter."

"Then I may go to see her to-morrow?"

"I never forbade you to go."

"Oh, thank you, aunt Sarah," and as Mrs. Tilworth watched Priscilla's
expression brighten, she wondered if in some way she had not been wrong
in thinking the child overworked.




CHAPTER IX

WORD FROM BRENDA


Martine was at home when Priscilla called on Saturday morning.

"It's really very condescending in your ladyship to come," she began;
"and it's a wonder that you found me. I was to take a riding-lesson
to-day, but by good luck I found when I telephoned yesterday that I
could have an hour to myself then. So here I have Saturday free, with
nothing on my mind but your visit and Brenda's letter."

"Oh, have you heard again from Mrs. Weston?"

"Yes; isn't she a dear to write to me when she has so many people who
really belong to her. She says she considers I belong to her, and that
she's going to call me her ward until I really come out, and, of course,
I shall consider myself her ward always. You've no idea how much I
learned from her this autumn. If she had been a stiff, frumpy thing, I
just couldn't have paid the least attention to her. I only wish mamma
would let me do my hair up like Mrs. Weston's, but she says I'm too
young. Well, in a year I shall be a perfect model of style a la Brenda."

"But what is in the letter?"

"I can't say there's so much actual news, only it makes you just long to
get out of this cold, bleak climate. Only think of picking roses by the
bushel in March, and sitting out in the sun without a wrap."

"In San Francisco?" questioned Priscilla. "Why, I heard my cousin say
that it was always too cold for thin gowns there, and that the winds
were something terrible."

"Oh, my dear child, you are so literal. No, this is down in Monterey,
where there are wonderful gardens. Let me read:

"'We are thankful that the rainy season is almost over, for when it
rains there is apt to be a perfect flood, and we stay indoors for days.
Sometimes it rains in the morning as if it would never stop, and then in
the afternoon the sun comes out beautifully and the flowers look as if
they had grown inches. But after the middle of June there will be no
more rain until winter, and we can camp or plan excursions without
casting a thought to the weather. Life, however, is not entirely play
with us. Arthur is very busy, and often in the evenings he is too tired
to go out. Consequently we are reading together a number of improving
things, and when I get back to Boston I am almost sure that every one
will say, "How much she knows!" I feel as if my new stock of learning
must show on the surface even before anyone has time to discover it by
talking with me. Arthur says he doesn't object to it at all, and won't
do so unless I have to wear eyeglasses, which every one knows I always
did hate.'"

"The letter certainly sounds like her; when she got started she always
talked in that breathless way."

"'San Francisco is the most picturesque city I ever saw,'" continued
Martine, reading Brenda's letter, "'all up and down hills, so that you
feel as if you were riding over the waves of the ocean when you go out
in a cable-car.

"'From some of the high places where you go up to get a view, very often
you only see things dimly through a fog, and then the towers and spires
seem parts of castles and you can imagine you are in Europe.

"'But although I am perfectly contented here, I often wish I were in
Boston, and it makes me too blue for anything to remember that except
for business I might now be living in the dearest little apartment in
the world. I hope you and your mother enjoy it, Martine, as much as I
did, and that you and Priscilla are still great friends.'"

Martine let the sheet of paper fall from her hand.

"Are we good friends, Prissie dear?" she asked, leaning forward and
resting her hand on Priscilla's arm.

"Why, of course, Martine; that's why I came. You see it was all on
account of that acid, or salts, or whatever you call it, and the
ink-spot, and--yes--and Julius Caesar."

"Julius Caesar?" For a moment Martine appeared to be mystified.

"Oh, yes," she spoke with a smile, "Julius and the Roman scarf, and the
other improvements that I made in the drawing-room. Mrs. Tilworth blamed
you."

"No, no, not for that. She knew I couldn't be so silly."

"Thanks, my dear. Then she blamed me. To be honest, I had hardly thought
about my misbehavior since then. I had a vague idea that you would go
down before your aunt came in and restore things to their proper
condition. Now I perceive I must apologize. It's written all over you
that Mrs. Tilworth will believe me a reprobate until I do so. So that is
why you have been so very stiff and Plymouthy this week. Oh, Prissie,
Prissie!"

Priscilla made no reply. Now, as always, she found it difficult to reply
to Martine's teasing.

"You must stay here to luncheon, Prissie," continued Martine, "and this
afternoon we'll have some fun. You must have had a very dull week
without me. Dear me, this drawer is too full," she continued, as she
endeavored to close a drawer of her desk on the top of which she had
just placed Brenda's letter.

"Let me help you," and Priscilla rushed over to Martine's side, but
between them they only managed to pull drawer and contents to the floor.

"There, I will leave you to yourself, Prissie," said Martine; "you are
better than I at straightening things out. I am going out to the
dining-room to speak to Angelina."

As Priscilla carefully replaced the scattered contents of the drawer she
refrained from looking at the letters and other papers that lay before
her. She acted thus from habit rather than because she thought there was
any need of this carefulness just now. She had not come upon the drawer
by accident, and therefore she was at liberty to look at anything that
attracted her attention. Just as Priscilla's own reflections had taken
this turn, she allowed her eye to rest on a half sheet of foolscap that
she had last picked up. The handwriting upon it was not Martine's, and
almost without realizing what she was doing, she began to read a
sentence or two. Then somewhat startled, she folded the paper, and
quickly put it back in the drawer.

"Oh, I wish I hadn't seen it!" she thought. "It was Lucian's
handwriting, and yet it seemed to be an outline of Martine's essay. I
wonder if he wrote it for her. They say he does so well in English. I
wish I hadn't seen it. It doesn't seem like Martine."

Priscilla was genuinely distressed, and when Martine returned, her
feeling had taken the form of embarrassment. When Martine spoke to her,
she replied with hesitation, and her manner had some of its old
awkwardness.

"There," exclaimed Martine, with some acrimony, "you are really rather
provoking. Here I have been telephoning and planning a good time for
you, and you begin to seem as icebergy as you seemed at Yarmouth last
summer. Now listen, first of all I have apologized to your aunt by
telephone."

"Oh, Martine!"

"Yes, and she says it's all right, and she has forgiven me on condition
that I never disturb Julius Caesar again. It was really very good of her,
when you consider that she couldn't see my blushes of repentance. So
that is settled. Secondly, you are to stay here for dinner, and go with
us to a recital this evening."

"A recital, and who is 'us'?"

"Oh, Lucian, and Robert, and me, or 'I,' whichever is most grammatical.
As to the recital, why, haven't you heard that Angelina intends to
distinguish herself in elocution? All her little surplus goes for
voice-training, and things of that kind--and her recital's to-night. I
should have invited you before, only you have been so high and mighty
all the week."

"But did my aunt say I could go? She doesn't approve of evening things
generally--except parties, on Friday or Saturday evenings."

"Well, thank goodness, there's no stupid party this evening."

"But I'll have to go home to dress."

"Oh, Prissie, Prissie! surely you are not growing vain. What you have on
is suitable for any occasion. Observe that I speak as one in authority.
Mamma would say the same. The recital is not to be given at the Somerset
or the Touraine, but somewhere in the outskirts, where 'glad clothes,'
as the boys call them, would be quite out of place."

"Very well," and Priscilla resigned herself to Martine's stronger will.
"I suppose it's all right."

"There, dear iceberg, I am glad to see that you have begun to thaw. I
hope Lucian and Robert will be as amiable. They have no idea what is
before them, except that I am going to take them somewhere. Once in a
while Lucian is too amiable to refuse what I ask, and this will be one
of the times. For my own part, I shall be as thankful as mamma when the
affair is over, for Angelina has been hopping about like a chicken with
its head chopped off for a month past. What little mind she has has been
fixed on her recitations, and I only hope she'll do herself proud."

"Oh, Martine," protested Priscilla, "how can you use so much slang! Just
think how Mrs. Redmond and Amy used to talk to you last summer."

"Yes, and you too, Prissie dear, and this winter, my own mother. But
when you begin to deteriorate, you will know that there are moments when
one's spirits must have a safety valve, and slang is mine."

Priscilla shook her head.

"So now, my dear Prissie, to show that I am not lost to all refining
influences, let me suggest an hour at the Art Museum. I love pictures as
dearly as I do not love music, and there are several favorites of mine
there that I haven't seen for a month. Put on your hat and coat, and
we'll be there in five minutes."

When they were out in the clear air Martine's tone changed.

"Priscilla," she said gently, "do you know I am a little worried about
father? He writes as if his business was not going well. He does not say
it in exactly those words, but he has written only once, and the letter
was far from cheerful. Either it is his business, or he doesn't feel
well--and he is so far away. It seems to me now that we oughtn't to have
let him go."

"But could you have helped it?" asked the practical Priscilla.

"Perhaps one of us could have gone with him--Lucian or I. South America
seems so far away."

Priscilla's sympathy was readily aroused, and she gave it generously to
Martine.

"It must be very, very hard for you to have your father so far away,
especially if you think that he is not quite well. I know how it was
when papa was in Cuba. It just seemed as if I couldn't bear it, and yet
I suppose that there was nothing I could do, even if I had been there."

For a moment both girls were silent, though they realized that a bond of
sympathy was drawing them more closely together.

Then Priscilla essayed the part of comforter.

"You feel worse about your father because he is so far away. They say
far-off fields look green, but I think that far-off worries are harder
to bear than those near at hand. I mean when the people or things we
worry about are so far away that we can't understand exactly what is
going on."

"Thank you, Priscilla, for your sympathy. I dare say you are right, and
yet I cannot help wishing that I understood things better. I am old
enough to help--if only I really knew how."

"The way will show itself if you are really needed. That is one of the
small things I have learned the past year," responded Priscilla.

"Priscilla, you have helped me; you are a philosopher," cried Martine.

In their hour at the Art Museum Martine recovered her spirits. She
really knew something about paintings, and her favorites were chosen
with discrimination. She lingered long and silently before those she
loved best, and gave reasons for her preferences that would have done
credit to a connoisseur.

"I don't see how you ever learned so much," said Priscilla. "I feel like
a perfect ignoramus before you when you talk of these things."

"I did not mean to pose as an expert; you make me feel as if I had been
too bumptious," replied Martine. "It's only because we've travelled so
much that I know something of art. I have picked it up little by little;
even last summer, in spite of our efforts to devote ourselves to
history, I gained a lot from Mrs. Redmond about color values, and light
and shade."

"It's a great thing to know just what pictures to like," responded
Priscilla. "I like some paintings more than others, but I never know
why."

"Neither do I, my dear child, when we come right down to facts. I know
why I _ought_ to like certain things, but often those are the paintings
that I like least. It's with pictures as with people, we admire many
that we do not care for, and when we care very much, it's often because
we really cannot help ourselves."

"You and I are so different," mused Priscilla, "I often wonder why you
like me."

"Priscilla," cried Martine, "don't try to be a philosopher until you
have left school."

Yet hardly an hour before Martine had been praising Priscilla for her
philosophy.




CHAPTER X

THE RECITAL


For a few weeks after Angelina's _coup_ she had little further
opportunity to show her skill. The successor of the eloping cook proved
a capable, steady person, so in love with her new place that to
Angelina's disgust she hardly ever even took the afternoon and evening
off to which she was entitled. For it had always been Angelina's custom
in the absence of the cook to entertain some of her own friends in Mrs.
Stratford's dining-room, and to provide them with refreshments of her
own concoction.

For doing this she would have justified herself (had she thought she
needed justification) by saying that no one had ever forbidden her to
have company--and anyway, Miss Martine would never object.

In this opinion she was quite correct. But, unfortunately, Mrs.
Stratford, and not her daughter, was in charge, and the former, unlike
Martine, did not find the Portuguese girl a perpetual source of
amusement. Neither was Angelina as popular with the new cook as she had
hoped to be. Her blandishments had never availed so little to get her
what she wanted.

"And why she's so anxious to get me out of the house, I can in no ways
understand, Mrs. Stratford, and me as quiet as can be, and never saying
nothing to her when she sits there reading them novels with the big
pictures on the cover, or making faces over the pomes she's learning."

"Oh, I don't believe she's anxious to have you out of the way--only--"

"Yes'm, it's just that. She's wishing to fill the place up with company
of her own, and because I keep an eye to the ice-chest she isn't at all
pleased. I know what girls is, ma'am, and that Angelina, she's always up
to something."

Martine, when her mother repeated the substance of the cook's words,
laughed lightly.

"Oh, it's much more entertaining to have one person in the house who's
up to something. If they were all as stupid as the cook, how dull it
would be. But I can tell you what's the matter with Angelina--she is
going to give a recital."

"A recital?"

"Yes. It seems she has been taking elocution lessons ever since she had
any money of her own to spend."

"Did Miss Bourne encourage this kind of thing?"

"Oh, no, she disapproved, but she just couldn't stop her. Brenda Weston
told me all about it. Brenda thought there was no great harm in
Angelina's amusing herself this way."

"But elocution lessons must cost so--"

"Yes, that's what Miss Bourne said, and she didn't want Angelina to go
on the stage, as she threatened."

"Angelina on the stage!"

"Yes, mamma. She has even confided to me that she has been answering
advertisements of companies that want soubrettes. Of course I told her
it was dreadful, and she's promised to give up that idea for the
present. But I have taken some tickets for her recital."

"My dear, I wish you hadn't encouraged her."

"Oh, anything else would have seemed mean, and she didn't dare try to
sell you any."

After Martine's explanation, Mrs. Stratford was more patient with
Angelina. How could she expect regular work from her until after the
recital!

This was the affair that Martine persuaded Priscilla to attend with her,
as well as Lucian and Robert. The four other tickets that she had bought
in addition to those needed for her party lay unused in her desk drawer.
No one to whom she had offered them cared for them. The recital was to
be given in a place too far away.

"You are sure we are on the right car?" Martine asked, after the four
had been some time on their way.

"You said Chelsea, didn't you? well, this car is bound for the Chelsea
Ferry," replied Lucian.

"Chelsea," exclaimed Priscilla, "I didn't know we were going there!
Isn't that awfully far away? I oughtn't to go outside of Boston."

"But this is only across the harbor, and Angelina says the hall is a
very short way from the dock."

"Oh, very well," and Priscilla sank back in her seat. She must continue
with her friends and since they were prepared to go to Chelsea, she
could only resign herself to their plans.

She did not like the ferry-boat. She did not enjoy the walk to the hall.
Robert's jokes failed to amuse her, and even Lucian's college stories
grew tiresome. To tell the truth, Priscilla dreaded the explanation she
must give her aunt. Mrs. Tilworth had readily acceded to her dining with
Martine. She had objected only slightly over the telephone when
Priscilla had asked if she might go to a recital with Martine and her
brother. Priscilla had telephoned even after Martine had obtained Mrs.
Tilworth's consent.

"I am sorry that it is not to be a musical affair. I do not care for
miscellaneous programs. But there will be less harm in wasting time
Saturday than any other evening, but I must ask you to be home early. I
like to have the house locked at ten."

"Yes, aunt," and as Mrs. Tilworth had asked no questions about the
performers, Priscilla was spared the necessity of telling her that
Angelina would be the chief attraction. Yet of one thing she was now
sure, as the four journeyed Chelseaward--Mrs. Tilworth would be
displeased if she should be out late, and to return early from Chelsea,
why, that surely was an impossibility.

"I wonder what your Portuguese calls a short walk," growled Lucian,
after they had wandered about for some time after leaving the ferry.
"Thus far, every one we have asked has given us a different location. Do
you know, Martine, this whole undertaking is a fool thing? Who but you
would ever have thought of coming to Chelsea for amusement?"

"Thank you, Taps," responded Martine, sweetly, knowing that the old
nickname would stir Lucian's anger even more. She did not dread Lucian's
anger, for it never flamed very high, and while it lasted it was
sometimes rather funny.

"You have good company," continued Martine, in a calm tone,
ill-calculated to soothe an irritated brother. "Priscilla and I have to
walk just as far as you, and you ought to appreciate our being with
you."

Ungallant Lucian did not reply, and the laugh with which the girls
received some remark of Robert's did not please him.

"It may seem funny to you to be wandering around the streets of Chelsea,
but it would be more to the point, Martine, if you would gather your
wits together, and remember the hall where this foolish entertainment is
to hold forth."

At this moment by some subtle working of her mind light came to Martine,
and the next moment she had whispered the forgotten name of the hall to
Robert. Upon this Robert shot ahead of the others, and when Lucian
caught up with him, he was standing in front of a corner drug-store.

"Come," he said, seizing Lucian's arm, "I'll show you where to go. We're
ever so far out of our way. If you had left it all to me, we should have
been there long ago."

Turning the corner beyond the drug-store, and walking a few steps along
a street parallel to the one on which they had looked for the hall, the
four young people were soon at the entrance of a large building, the
lower story of which was occupied by a grocery shop.

In front of the shop was a group of half-grown boys.

"Got a ticket, Mister?" said one of them, holding the green pasteboard
card to Lucian.

Lucian, who was really an amiable youth, had quickly recovered from his
annoyance with Martine, and would not gratify Robert by showing vexation
that the latter had been more successful in finding the hall. He
suspected the truth--that Martine had helped Robert, and since they were
now at the hall, what did it matter?

"Got a ticket, Mister?" A second boy held out his hand to Lucian.

"Of course, that's why we're here," replied Lucian. "Are you selling
them?"

"No, we're giving them away. We want an aujence," was the astonishing
response.

"What _does_ he mean?"

"We'll soon know, Martine," said Priscilla, following the two others up
a long flight of dimly-lit stairs.

"Did you ever?" Martine gazed around the hall as they entered; "there
are not ten people here."

"Just thirty." Priscilla was nothing if not accurate.

"But I thought Angelina said she had sold two hundred tickets, Martine."

"Expected to sell them, Lucian, though, to tell the truth, I thought she
_had_ sold them."

"I'll wager she gave away half the seats that are occupied now. Those
are Portuguese faces down in the front."

"I paid for mine."

"I know that, Martine. You always had a foolish habit of getting rid of
your allowance almost as soon as you received it."

"That reminds me," asked Robert, "is this a charitable performance? It
would have been more charitable to let us stay quietly in our rooms.
Just think what a fine four hours of study Lucian and I could have put
in this evening."

"Yes, you are so apt to study Saturday evening," interposed Martine;
"but to answer your question, I can't say that this is wholly
charitable. Part of it is for a girls' club over here--I mean part of
the profits--and the rest--"

"Here's a poster," interrupted Lucian; "let's see what it says."

"It's easy enough to read. It must have been meant for bill-board
decoration. Big black letters on green paper. Listen!" and after reading
aloud place and date, Lucian continued:

    MISS ANGELINA ROSA
    THE EMINENT MONOLOGUIST,
    WILL GIVE ONE OF HER CHOICE RECITALS
    FOR THE BENEFIT OF
    THE GIRLS' EXCELSIOR CLUB
    AND A HALF-ORPHAN

"A half-orphan!" shouted Robert. "What in the world--?"

"Why, she means herself, of course; her father is dead."

"Oh, I see!" and then, after the fashion of young people, the four began
to giggle.

"Hush! the audience will be disturbed." Priscilla was the first to
recover herself.

"What audience?" asked Martine, looking around the almost empty hall.

"It's fifteen minutes past eight." Lucian closed his watch with a snap.
"There's something happening. I wonder what it is. Two or three of those
foreigners have gone behind the curtain."

At half-past eight Angelina had not appeared. Lucian proposed going
home. Martine thought she ought to find Angelina to learn if anything
serious had happened. Some of the boys in the front seats scuffled
angrily. The hall was neither well heated, nor well lit. Every one was
uncomfortable.

"I think that we really ought to go home," whispered Priscilla,
half-timidly, to Lucian. But just at this moment the curtain was pushed
aside, and Angelina appeared in the centre of the stage.

In her pink satin gown with its tawdry trimmings at neck and sleeves,
she looked "blacker and skinnier than ever," as Lucian put it. Just
behind her walked a man who stumbled over her train, and then with a bow
began to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is most unfortunate that this lady and I may
not be able to give our entertainment as advertised."

Hisses from the front soon interrupted the speaker.

"What has he to do with it?"

Lucian looked again at the poster where "Mr. Smithkins, accompanist"
appeared in small letters at the bottom.

Mr. Smithkins resumed his speech: "The fact is there's been some
misunderstanding with the owner of this hall, who refuses to let us
proceed until the rent has been paid in advance."

"Yes, every cent of it," and a stout woman with a red face and a bonnet
trimmed with purple flowers pushed her way from behind. Angelina waved a
large red fan nervously, but otherwise did not appear discomposed. She
was at least the centre of the stage and although the audience was
small, all eyes were certainly fixed on her.

The eloquence of the stout lady quite drowned the words of Mr.
Smithkins, making vain efforts to give his version of the situation. But
after the hubbub had subsided, it was fairly clear to those present that
Angelina had failed to pay the fifteen dollars she had promised in
advance for the hall. Moreover, it was even clearer that Mrs. Stinton,
the owner of the building, meant not only to stop the entertainment, but
also to prevent Angelina's "skipping," without giving her her due.

"Will they arrest her?" asked Priscilla, anxiously.

"Oh, no, of course not; Angelina must pay the money."

"But you heard Mr. Smithkins say that she had been disappointed in the
sale of tickets, and hadn't a cent even to pay him, and if he could
afford to wait, Mrs. Stinton ought to be able to wait too."

"Give us a song or a pome," called a voice from the rear of the hall.
The boys, who had been lounging at the door, were now inside.

Lucian and Robert rose from their seats.

"Excuse us for a moment," said the latter to Martine as the two made
their way out into the aisle.

"Why, they're going behind the scenes," said Priscilla, in surprise.
Still more surprised was she when Lucian, raising the curtain, beckoned
to Mrs. Stinton. The latter, impressed by the young man's appearance,
went behind the curtain, and Mr. Smithkins, anxious to understand what
was going on, followed her. Thus Angelina, to her own great
satisfaction, was left in possession of the stage.

When Mr. Smithkins, a little later, appeared before the audience, he had
the pleasure to announce, as he phrased it, that Mrs. Stinton's demands
had been paid in full by a friend of the talented Miss Rosa, and that
the performance would go on as advertised.

In promising this, however, Mr. Smithkins went a little too far. The
cold hall, the low-necked gown, the long wait in which the young
monologuist had heroically concealed her anxiety, all proved a great
strain for Angelina.

Although she began bravely enough with what she considered the gem of
the repertoire, the monologue was given quite tamely, and though she
continued it to the end she was evidently glad to stop. It was at this
point that Mr. Smithkins showed himself of especial service, as he
seated himself at the cracked piano. There he pounded out a number of
popular airs to the great delight of the audience, and received far
greater applause than poor Angelina.

Nevertheless, when Angelina appeared for the second time, there fell at
her feet a large bouquet of carnations, for which she bowed her
acknowledgments several times.

It was all very pathetic as well as absurd. The dimly-lit, cold hall,
the empty seats, the little figure bowing on the platform. Martine,
always ready to see the amusing side of things, began to laugh. The rest
of her party, even the considerate Priscilla, echoed the laugh. Then it
spread to the front seats, and when Angelina was in the midst of her
second selection, one in which she meant to move her audience to tears,
all she could hear was one prolonged giggle. Poor Angelina! This
laughter was the last straw. Still holding the flowers and the fan, she
threw one angry glance toward the house, and then turning her back on
friend and foe alike fled behind the curtain.

"There, Martine, you've done it. It was your giggling that set them off.
You ought to go behind and console her." Lucian seemed in earnest.

"It's half-past nine." Robert looked at his watch.

"Then we ought to start for home. We are so far away."

There was nervousness in Priscilla's tone.

Martine had made no effort to go to Angelina.

"How is the prima donna to get to town?" asked Lucian. "Are you going to
look after her, Martine?"

"Oh, no, her brother John is here. He is that tall, good-looking youth,
standing near the door. She can depend on him."

"Then we may start," continued Lucian, "even if the show isn't wholly
over. We cannot wait for further instalments."

"We've had more than the value of our money," added Robert. "Mrs.
Stinton's performance alone was worth the price."

"Yes, girls, you should have heard her express her surprise and
gratitude when we gave her the fifteen dollars, and when we told her we
were Harvard students, she could hardly believe it."

"But what did Angelina think?"

"Oh, we told her, Martine, that you had sent it, and that she must pay
it back gradually. So you see that you, dear sister, will make the most
out of this evening, as we'll let you keep whatever she pays back."

With Angelina's _fiasco_ to talk over, the four found the journey back
to town much less tiresome than the "voyage," as Martine called it, to
Chelsea. It seemed shorter, perhaps, because Robert discovered that they
could return to Boston by a bridge instead of the ferry. When at last
they left Priscilla at her door, it was not as late as it might have
been if Angelina had carried out her full program.




CHAPTER XI

MARTINE'S ALTRUISM


In spite of her love of fun, Martine was considerate enough not to tease
Angelina about her recital. Later, by degrees of her own accord, the
little Portuguese told the story. After all, there was not much to tell.
She had depended on a few posters scattered at random to fill the hall.
She had thought that the girls of the Excelsior Club would sell many
tickets. But she had fixed the price so high that the girls could
neither afford to buy them, nor succeed in disposing of them to their
friends.

Moreover, on the night of the recital, a Grand Army fair was holding an
auction to which admission was free, and thither every one with a penny
to spend had rushed, hoping for bargains. Even if Angelina had been a
well-known elocutionist, she would have had difficulty in drawing people
from the greater attraction.

"But I never thought," she said, "that some of the people who regularly
bought tickets from me would never pay for them, just because they
thought it was too much trouble to go when they found out how far away
the hall was. My brother John bought and paid for tickets, and so did
you, Miss Martine, and with the tickets I sold I just made out to pay
Mr. Smithkins the ten dollars I'd promised him. But it was very
embarrassing about the hall--and if it hadn't been for your fifteen
dollars, I don't know what I should have done."

Martine did not explain her brother's part in the matter.

"Of course, that Mrs. Stinton could have charged it as well as not. It
wouldn't have been anything to her. They say she owns a whole block of
houses down by the ferry. But it's my last of the Excelsior Club. I
consider they went back on me."

"I hope you have learned a lesson, Angelina. You ought not to have
promised to pay for the hall until you were sure of getting enough money
out of a recital. You should have waited--"

"But I couldn't give a recital without a hall, and I should have paid if
I'd sold more tickets."

"Well, this ought to be the last of your recitals."

"Didn't I do well?" asked Angelina, anxiously.

"Oh, that isn't the point."

Martine did not care at this moment to give her precise opinion of
Angelina's dramatic ability.

"But you see, this must have cost you a great deal, and you ought to
save your money--everybody ought, and life is more serious--there,
Angelina--I'll leave it all to mamma. She'll advise you," concluded
Martine, feeling that she was getting into deep water, in advocating
principles that she herself had not always been able to live up to.

The experience of that memorable Saturday, combined with the advice
given by Mrs. Stratford, so far influenced Angelina that for the time
she devoted herself exclusively to her household duties, ceased to take
elocution lessons, and began to save money. At first she offered to pay
Martine a dollar a week, but when the latter learned that Angelina had
other debts, she urged her to consider them first.

"I can wait," she said, "and when you have finished paying for that pink
satin dress--it would be a good idea for you to make your mother a
present."

Nora Gostar, who always kept closely in touch with the Rosas at their
home in Shiloh, had asked Martine to influence Angelina to do more for
her family.

"Ever since the Four Club years ago began to help the Rosas, Angelina
has taken it for granted that the public would look after them. It is
true that on the whole they are now fairly prosperous. With her boarders
and her garden Mrs. Rosa makes both ends meet, and John always has
something to spare for his brothers and sisters. It is only Angelina who
seems ready to escape all responsibility. You will remind her, won't
you, Martine?"

"Yes," said Martine, "but some people say I haven't enough sense of
responsibility myself."

"My dear, then no one has observed you lately. You certainly have taken
hold splendidly of the girls in your painting class. Two or three of
them, you know, have been called 'hard cases.' No one else ever could
interest them, and yet they seem perfectly devoted to you."

"Oh, they are so amusing," said Martine, "that I can't help throwing
myself into the work, and then I find out what they want to do, and let
them do it. It's silly to make people do things they dislike. Of
course," she added, with some embarrassment, "I am aware that this
wouldn't be the right principle if I were a real artist, and were trying
to make artists out of them. Some of them can't even draw, but they do
take an interest in color, and so I am always hunting for good pictures
in black and white--and their color effects sometimes are quite
wonderful."

Martine did not explain that not a little of her own pocket money was
spent for pictures suitable to her rather original method of conducting
the class. Photographs and lithographs cost money, and though Amy
remonstrated that it was contrary to art to gild the lily, Martine
replied that the end would justify her means.

Among her six little pupils only one showed marked talent. She was a
Russian girl who had been in Boston but a year, and her gift took the
form of a genius for making caricatures.

Her pencil was constantly in her hand, and even with her brush she could
outline figures and scenes on the margins of her pictures that would
send the others into fits of uproarious laughter.

"Esther, Esther," Martine said one day, "you should never make fun of
older people. Who is that tall, thin person, with the lorgnette in her
hand?"

"That's teacher," explained one of the others, "the teacher in our
school. It's her dead image, ain't it?" and the friend to whom she
turned for confirmation, nodded, adding--

"When she's mad she puts her glasses up just so--and we all feel cheaper
'n thirty cents."

"I hope you don't make fun of me this way, Esther, behind my back."

"Oh, no'm, you ain't a teacher."

As Martine was already aware that her girls always spoke of her as "the
young lady," this doubtful compliment passed without criticism. Neither
in her heart did she think it wise to criticise the little girl's
caricatures.

She was delighted when Mrs. Redmond, after looking at Esther's drawings,
said that the child had real talent. Then without further delay, without
indeed consulting anyone, Martine engaged an expensive teacher to give
Esther drawing lessons once a week. Mrs. Redmond would have taught her
gratuitously, had she not felt that the little girl's peculiar talent
would be best developed by a teacher who made a specialty of figure
drawing.

Before Mr. Stratford's departure for England Martine had suggested that
he add to the sum he had given her for Yvonne. To the little Acadienne
had gone one third of three hundred dollars. This was a sum that Mr.
Stratford had asked his daughter to share with her two friends Amy and
Priscilla, and expend on the three young people in whom they had taken a
special interest during their trip through Acadia.

It had surprised Martine not a little when her usually generous father
had hesitated about granting her little request for Yvonne.

"Send her ten dollars from your own Christmas money, dear child, and
later I will add to it. Your desire to help her pleases me very much,
but just now I would rather not promise a large sum."

"But I did not mean _very_ large, papa; only enough for Alexander Babet
to bring her up here and stay for a few months, until the doctors know
what can be done for her eyes. It would make you happier, wouldn't it,
papa, to know that she could see perfectly?"

"Indeed it would, Martine, but just now I would rather postpone anything
of this kind. Besides, even if I were a second Croesus, I should be
more inclined to wait until I could have more thorough knowledge of the
condition of the Babet family."

"Oh, papa, surely you believe what I have told you--that Yvonne is
almost blind, and that she has the most beautiful voice."

"Yes, my dear, but I know also that the Acadians are thrifty, and that
the Babets will spend your gift so carefully, that it will go farther
than five hundred dollars with most people. Some day we shall do more
for Yvonne, but for the present she must be content with what she has."

So positively did Mr. Stratford speak, that Martine, too, had to be
content. She managed, however, not only to send the money that Mr.
Stratford had suggested, but a box of slightly worn garments that could
be adapted to the use of the little blind girl. She remembered Yvonne's
love for pretty things, and what she sent had only enough of the newness
worn off to enable the box to pass the watchful customs officials of
Nova Scotia.

Priscilla did not pretend to be as altruistic as Martine, though both
professed to take Amy for their model. Yet letters between Eunice and
Priscilla passed back and forth constantly, and after reading them
Priscilla was apt to sigh, and fall into a brown study; for Eunice,
having for the first time found a confidante of her own age, opened her
heart almost too freely, and in emphasizing the disappointments of her
daily life, sometimes threw a cloud over her friend. This is a mistake
made by some young letter-writers. They write intensely of personal
disappointments that soon pass away. Yet the letter that they send seems
to give permanence to their troubles, and if the person to whom they
write is sensitive, she pictures the absent one as continually unhappy.

Eunice and Balfour Airton were brother and sister living with their
mother in Annapolis. They had been able to make pleasanter than it might
have been the stay of Mrs. Redmond and the three girls in the old town.

Eunice and Priscilla had soon become warm friends, and after their
comparatively short acquaintance parted almost in tears. The Airtons
were descended from Tories who had gone to Nova Scotia after the
Revolution, and had always been highly respected. Even before the death
of Eunice's father, however, they had lost much of their property, and
were under a heavy strain to make both ends meet. Balfour Airton, who
was a year or two older than Martine, was working his way through
college. In his vacations he served as clerk in a grocery shop. Indeed,
Martine had made his acquaintance one day when lost in the fog on the
North Mountain. She had been rescued by Balfour, who fortunately drove
up in his grocery cart.

Balfour proved a most companionable boy, and his energy and industry
made a great impression on Martine, when she contrasted him with the
idler college boys whom she knew.

By a combination of proofs needless to describe here, Martine discovered
that she and the Airtons were third cousins, since their
great-great-grandfather and hers, Thomas Blair, was the Tory exile who
had gone to Nova Scotia after the Revolution. In the same way Edith
Blair, Brenda's great friend, was a cousin of Eunice and Balfour, and
Martine's first impulse on returning home had been to urge her father
and Mr. Blair to provide for Balfour, so that he no longer need earn his
way through college.

Fortunately enough, before she had spoken to her father, she talked the
matter over with Mrs. Redmond.

"My dear Martine, I sincerely hope that you will change your mind about
this. Or, if you do not, hope that your father and Mr. Blair will be
hard-hearted enough to refuse your request."

"How hard-hearted _you_ are, Mrs. Redmond!"

"No, indeed, not hard-hearted--only hard-headed."

"What do you mean?"

"I am looking strictly to the practical side. In the first place, you
would risk the loss of Balfour's friendship, if you should put him in
the position of a pauper--for this is the light in which he might regard
your interference."

"Oh, no, not a pauper!"

"Well, Balfour is very proud--and in the second place, he could not
afford to risk his independence, as he must, if he should accept money
from strangers."

"But they wouldn't be strangers; in the South third cousins are very
near."

"Well, this isn't the South, and the relationship is on your mother's
side, and Mrs. Blair's. Balfour would probably regard the men as
strangers. Think over what I have said, Martine, and remember Balfour's
disposition."

"It is because he is so bright and industrious that I think it a shame
that he should not have as good a chance as Lucian or Robert."

"Balfour has the best possible chance. In the end his friends will be
proud of him, and he will be thankful that no one took away his
independence."

Martine was sufficiently impressed by what Mrs. Redmond had said to give
up for the time the plan she had formed of getting help for Balfour.

When she saw that her father was not quite ready to do what she had
planned for Yvonne, she was glad that she had not thrown on him the
extra burden of considering the case of Balfour. She decided, however,
to interest Lucian in Eunice's brother. In spite of Lucian's fondness
for teasing Martine, he was really devoted to her. He was apt in the end
to be influenced by her, although in the beginning often pretending to
resist her influence.

In his Freshman year, Lucian was drifting into the extravagant habits of
an idle group from the preparatory school where he had fitted for
Harvard. Fortunately, however, at the critical moment he came under the
ken of Fritz Tomkins--a Junior. Between the two there then sprang up a
friendship rather unusual in its way. For even at Harvard Freshmen and
Juniors are seldom intimate. So it happened that when the summer came,
instead of going to Europe with two or three of his classmates, Lucian
really preferred a trip with Fritz. The two went to Nova Scotia, and the
constant companionship with the sensible Fritz had given Lucian new
views of life, or not to put it too seriously--of the value of time and
money. Fritz himself was gay and light-hearted, fond of teasing his old
friend Amy Redmond, and willing always to have others laugh at him. But
beneath all his apparent frivolity was a depth of purpose that those who
knew him best fully realized.




CHAPTER XII

PUZZLES


In the weeks immediately after the recital Martine and Priscilla were
both so occupied with their studies and their little duties and
pleasures that they saw less than usual of each other. Martine, on whom
care sat rather lightly, ceased for the time to worry about her father.

She noticed, it is true, that her mother did not read her father's last
letter, which arrived about a week after her conversation with
Priscilla.

"Is everything going on properly?" she asked eagerly, as her mother
folded the letter within its envelope.

"I hope for the best, dear. It seems too bad that your father had to go
away at this time. It was a long, hard journey, and there are still
difficulties before him."

"Oh, I wish we could help, Lucian and I, I mean."

"You can help; indeed you have helped me immensely, by being bright and
cheerful and--"

"Yes, and economical. Once in a while it seems strange to have to stop
and think of money. I bought two-dollar seats for the Paderewski
matinee, although the three-dollar seats were much better, but I thought
that as I had invited Priscilla and Grace--as well as Miss Mings--our
history teacher--and as we were to go to the Somerset afterwards, I
ought to be economical."

Even Mrs. Stratford smiled at Martine's intended economy, as she said,
"But my dear, I think perhaps it would have been wiser to pass this
matinee by. You are not fond of instrumental music, and the whole thing
means spending more money than you ought to spend in this way at
present."

"Then I'll take it out of my allowance. Of course I meant to anyway. I
don't honestly care much about Paderewski myself, but Priscilla does,
and most of the girls are wild about him, and everyone is going, so I
should feel very silly to have to say I hadn't been."

"Very well, my dear, I cannot criticise you, for I gave you my
permission, but in future you must think more about the cost of things."

"Yes, mamma! indeed I often think of economizing, for even though it is
pleasant here, living in an apartment with only Angelina and a cook is
very different from being in our house at home, and I know we're here to
save money. How some of the people we know would stare to see us trying
to help with the work! why, the week the cook left I actually saw you
washing dishes."

Mrs. Stratford smiled faintly; some of her Boston experiences had been
trying, but she had said little to Martine about them.

"So far as I am concerned," added Martine, "I have enjoyed everything in
Boston. I have learned lots about cooking, and if it wasn't for school,
sometimes I think we could manage just with Angelina. But I am going to
economize so that papa will hardly know me when he comes home in June. I
can get along with only one tailor-made suit, and perhaps two or three
new silks this spring. But I do hope we can plan something worth while
for the summer. Wouldn't you like the Yellowstone, with our own special
guide, papa, Lucian, and all of us, and I could invite Priscilla, and we
might have a few weeks in one of those big hotels among the mountains.
What sport it would be!"

Martine paused, almost out of breath.

"We can't make many plans until we hear from your father," replied Mrs.
Stratford, quietly, "but what you suggest isn't exactly in the direction
of economy."

"Oh, I didn't suppose we'd have to economize always. Then you ought to
speak to Lucian, mamma, he has ordered a new touring car."

"That is the worst of indulging a boy from the cradle," and Mrs.
Stratford sighed. "Last year your father told him he might have a new
car this spring, and Lucian thinks he's very moderate because he is
keeping within the two-thousand-dollar limit. I don't like to stop him,
for if things come out as well as they may, he can have it."

"Two thousand dollars!" exclaimed Martine, to whom figures usually did
not mean much. "That is a large sum! Why, it would put a boy through
college."

She was thinking of Balfour Airton, and all that this amount of money
would do for him.

"Mrs. Blair," continued Martine's mother, "calls Lucian very moderate in
his college expenses. He stands well in his classes, too. She says that
Philip spent three times as much."

"And he had to leave Harvard without a degree!"

"He has made it up since, and he is doing splendidly in business."

"Edith says it's Pamela's influence that has done so much for him."

"He was lucky enough to find a girl like her to marry him."

"She certainly is a superior woman--even if she is country-born and a
college graduate, as Mrs. Blair would say," responded Martine, smiling.
"If only they lived nearer, I should spend half my time with cousin
Pamela--if she'd let me, but Lincoln seems far away in the winter.
That's one thing we'd gain from Lucian's new car; those out-of-town
places would seem close at hand."

Lucian, when Martine spoke to him about his car, admitted that he had
ordered it, and he tried to laugh away her concern over family affairs.
But his efforts in this direction were not really successful, and he saw
that his sister was still troubled in spite of his argument that, if
things were really going badly, he would have heard more from his
father.

"He'd be the last one to wish me to countermand the order. Why, every
fellow in our set has a new machine this spring. I thought I was doing
something to send my order in so early, though of course if worse comes
to worse, I can get rid of it easily enough. Mine is to be ready in
June, and I know a fellow who would take it off my hands gladly enough,
as he can't get his until August. I'm going to pray, however, that
things won't come to that pass."

Martine, fortunately, was not inclined to borrow trouble, and although
she by no means forgot the little conversation with her mother regarding
her father's business, remembering it did not depress her. Life in the
spring, even in a bleak New England spring, holds so many pleasant
things for a girl of seventeen that intangible troubles are not likely
to prevent her enjoyment of the present.

Martine was popular at school, and her invitations far exceeded those of
the majority of her classmates. The younger girls liked her because she
was always cheerful, and never snubbed them. The older girls admired her
because she had an air of knowing the world, and was ever ready with
some amusing story. She was popular without having many intimate
friends, and Priscilla was proud of the distinction of being the one
girl who knew Martine the best. Here and there, naturally enough, there
were girls who did not care especially for Martine. There were one or
two who professed an inherent dislike of outsiders, as a class, and
there were others who found fault with Martine in particular. They said
that she was forward, that she was patronizing, and that her liberality
in the spending of money was merely a way of "showing off" of which they
did not approve. But the fact that Martine, at the beginning of the
school year, had been dubbed "Brenda's ward" was more effectual than any
other one thing in placing her within the inner circle of the school. In
spite of the years that had elapsed since Brenda was a pupil at Miss
Crawdon's, she and her doings were still remembered. Older sisters had
talked to younger sisters about her, and everyone knew that she had been
the most popular girl of her day. She was still spoken of most
habitually as "Brenda," even by those who had not known her well. For in
Boston the unmarried names of girls cling to them longer than in most
cities, and those who immediately recalled "Brenda Barlow" had to think
twice when "Mrs. Arthur Weston" was named.

Priscilla, who was nothing if not exact, remonstrated occasionally with
girls who spoke of Martine as "Brenda's ward."

"She never was really her ward, you know, only Brenda was to chaperone
her, and now that Mrs. Weston has gone away, it seems to me that the
name ought to be dropped."

The girls to whom Priscilla spoke only laughed at her.

"My dear child," said Marie Taggart, "from the way you cling to her, I
judge you would rather have Martine called 'Priscilla's ward,' but
Brenda is so far away that you mustn't be jealous of her, really and
truly you must not."

After this Priscilla said no more on this subject, although an observer
would have noticed that she herself never spoke of her friend by the
obnoxious title.

When Mrs. Stratford and Martine first took possession of Brenda's little
apartment, Brenda's mother and sister, Mrs. Barlow and Mrs. Weston,
added much to their pleasure by introducing them to their large circle
of relatives and friends and in other ways, as Mrs. Barlow put it,
"adopting" them in Brenda's place. But before January had come to an end
the whole Barlow household was itself preparing to move. His physician
had prescribed a change of air for Mr. Barlow, and after a few weeks in
Florida the family intended to travel West, to join Brenda in California
in the late spring.

It happened, therefore, that the special groups to whom Mrs. Barlow had
introduced the Stratfords felt no personal responsibility for them. This
was not because they did not find the Chicagoans interesting, but
because the latter seemed able to make their own friends without the
help of a third person.

"It would be a great bore, mamma," Martine had protested, when one or
two of Mrs. Barlow's friends urged that the young girl should join a
certain exclusive dancing-class. "It would be a great bore if we had to
act as if we were real old Bostonians. We are not, and though some of
the sewing circles and dancing-classes, and afternoon-readings are
offered us kindly, I do prefer to be independent and know only the
people I want to know and do only the things I really wish to do.
Anything else would be a nuisance, so please don't let anyone make
social engagements for me."

Mrs. Stratford herself was not strong, and she really preferred a quiet
life. Later she saw that Martine herself had been very wise in her
attitude of independence. Martine indeed was happy enough--happy in her
school acquaintances, happy in her friendship with Priscilla, and
happier in her affection for Amy. It is true that Amy in this her last
year of college was too busy to give much time to Martine, but when
occasionally they had a half-day together, no one could have doubted
their perfect understanding of each other.

On the morning before the matinee to which Mrs. Stratford had referred,
or to be more exact, at twelve o'clock on the very day of the great
Paderewski recital, Martine ran out to the letter-box to post two or
three notes. Angelina could have taken them for her, or she might better
have followed the custom of the house, which was to give them to the
hall-boy. But Martine had not been out that morning, as illness among
her drawing pupils had occasioned a postponement of the usual Saturday
lesson. She had therefore seized on the letters as an excuse for getting
a breath of the fresh spring air that came in through the half-open
windows, tantalizing her and urging her to leave the house.

"I half wish I were not going to the recital," she said to herself, "on
a mild sunny day like this I begrudge the hours I must spend in a
crowded hall, and though I won't have to pretend to be in a seventh
heaven over the music, yet it will weary me to have to show a proper
degree of appreciation in the presence of my guests." So ran the course
of Martine's thoughts as she approached the letter-box. After a turn or
two in the mall under the trees, she walked back slowly toward the
house.

"After all," she mused, "mamma was probably right. I have been
extravagant. The tickets have really cost a pretty sum, counting
premiums and all. For what is the good in inviting guests, unless one
has the very best seats?"

This thought of the seats inclined Martine to look again at her tickets,
and as soon as she reached her room she went to her desk to look at
them.

"Mamma," she called, "you haven't by any chance seen a narrow envelope
with my Paderewski tickets?"

"No, my dear," replied her mother, "surely you haven't lost them?"

"Oh, no, I remember now, I put them in a larger envelope; they were
lying here with my letters."

A moment later Martine stood before her mother with dismay written on
her face. "What do you suppose I have done? it's too foolish and too
annoying for anything. I can't find the envelope with the tickets and I
really believe that I dropped it into the letter-box."

"Oh, Martine, I thought you'd outgrown those careless habits!"

"I thought so too, but there's no use in crying about spilled milk; I
will try to do what I can to get the tickets from the postman."

"There again you talk like a baby," said Mrs. Stratford. "Surely you
must know that no postman can give you anything from a letter-box simply
because you ask for it."

"Well, I can try, that is if there's time."

"But it's half-past twelve now, and if you are to meet Priscilla at
half-past one, you will have all you can do to dress and keep your
appointment."

"But, mamma, what _can_ I do without tickets? It will be terrible if we
can't get in, and how everyone will laugh at me. And they were such good
seats in the house."

"I am sorry for you, my child, but I can say little to help you."

While they were speaking, Martine had been making a rapid calculation.
The only result at which she arrived was the impossibility of recovering
the lost envelope.

"There's one thing I can do," she said. "I'll dress as quickly as I can
and run over to the branch postoffice; then I'll beg them to look over
their mail and see if an envelope is there with the tickets I describe."

"Of course you can try, but I feel sure that you will not succeed."

"Then what shall I do, mamma? It will be terrible to disappoint three
people I've invited to so important an affair as this."

"There is only one thing, my dear. If you fail to recover the tickets,
you can pay single admissions at the door, and if you remember the
number of your seats or in a general way where they are, you can take
possession of them."

"Thank you, mamma, that certainly is the only way, but dear me, four
single admissions at one dollar apiece; this is something I hadn't
planned for, and I intended to be so economical the rest of the spring."

As quickly as she could, Martine hastened away to the postoffice, only
to find that the mail from the box in which she had deposited her
letters would not reach the office until half-past two, and that even
then it was doubtful if the envelope would be given to her immediately.
The only way, then, of saving her reputation as a hostess was to follow
her mother's suggestion. She met her friends as she had planned, paid
for admission to the hall and after some discussion with a rather obtuse
usher at last found herself in possession of her own seats. It is to be
feared that her impressions of the great pianist were sadly blurred that
afternoon. Her brain was automatically working out problems of
expenditure. She was trying to plan in what way she could economize to
make up for the extravagance of this Paderewski matinee--to make up not
only for this, but for various other needless expenses that she had
lately incurred. So abstracted was she that she failed to join in the
applause repeatedly showered on the musician, and on leaving the

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