The Girls of Friendly Terrace; or, Peggy Raymond's Success
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Title: The Girls of Friendly Terrace; or, Peggy Raymond's Success
Creator: Harriet L. Smith
Illustrator: John Goss
Release date: April 14, 2014 [eBook #45398]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45398
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRLS OF FRIENDLY TERRACE; OR, PEGGY RAYMOND'S SUCCESS ***
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: Peggy]
THE GIRLS OF
FRIENDLY TERRACE
Or: Peggy Raymond’s Success
BY
HARRIET LUMMIS SMITH
ILLUSTRATED BY
JOHN GOSS
BOSTON
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
MDCCCCXII
_Copyright, 1912_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
First Impression, April, 1912
Second Impression, November, 1912
Electrotyped and Printed by
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A.
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I. The Return of Peggy
II. The Girl Next Door
III. Making Friends
IV. A Busy Afternoon
V. A Hallowe’en Party
VI. Elaine Has Visitors
VII. The Bazar
VIII. At Home with the Dunns
IX. Peggy Acts as Critic
X. Ruth Is Perplexed
XI. Christmas Preparations
XII. Dorothy Goes Shopping
XIII. Christmas Celebrations
XIV. A Disagreement
XV. A Pathetic Story
XVI. A Belated Invitation
XVII. Elaine Upsets Tradition
XVIII. A Remarkable Evening
XIX. Amy Is Disillusioned
XX. An Eventful Picnic
XXI. An Unexpected Visitor
*LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS*
Peggy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
"A sheeted figure at the door welcomed each comer with extended hand"
"The rapidity with which the ice cream disappeared was startling, to say
the least"
"Staring with surprise at her brother’s crestfallen figure"
"’Why not ask Peggy?’"
"Luncheon was served shortly after their arrival"
*The Girls of Friendly Terrace*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE RETURN OF PEGGY*
The naming of the Terrace was a happy accident. It must have been an
accident, for Jenkins Avenue crossed it at right angles, and just to the
north ran Sixtieth Street. No one could have guessed when the Terrace
was laid out that the name would prove so appropriate, and that the
comfortable cottages would have such a cordial, neighborly look, as if
nodding greetings to one another across their neat strips of lawn. When
the name Friendly Terrace appeared on the street lamps at the corner
there were no smiling faces visible at the front windows of the houses,
no plump babies rolling over the lawns, no girls gathering on one
another’s porches, like robins in the boughs of a cherry tree, or
strolling along the sidewalk, two by two, with their arms about each
other’s waists. The naming of the Terrace must have been a happy
accident, or else an inspiration.
There was usually a girl in evidence on Friendly Terrace at any hour of
the day, and this morning there were three of them. They ranged from
tall Priscilla, who was five feet seven, and mortally afraid of growing
taller, down to Amy, who was almost as broad as she was long, and who
was in a chronic state of announcing her determination to leave off
eating candy next week. Ruth, who on this occasion served as the
connecting link between the two extremes, was a slender girl, whose
alert air told plainly that she was on the watch for something or
somebody.
"Once when my Aunt Fanny was coming to make us a visit," Amy observed
reminiscently, "her train was six hours late. Just think if Peggy’s
train--"
"Don’t!" exclaimed Priscilla rather fretfully, and Ruth said with
decision, "O Peggy’s train couldn’t be late, she’s coming such a tiny
bit of a way."
"It might be if there was a wreck," Amy insisted triumphantly. "That
was the matter when Aunt Fanny came. A freight train was wrecked just
ahead of them, and they had to stand on the track for hours and hours.
We waited luncheon for her till I was almost starved."
The other girls exchanged amused smiles. The thought of Amy, undergoing
the pangs of starvation, was likely to present itself in a humorous
light. Amy saw the look and understood it, but was far from being
offended. In point of disposition, Amy was as sweet as the confections
she was always on the point of denying herself. An appreciative giggle
showed that she understood her friends’ point of view.
"That’s always the way," she said, with unimpaired cheerfulness. "Fat
people never get any sympathy." She stopped abruptly, for Ruth had
uttered a stifled scream and was pinching her arm.
"The hack!" cried Ruth. "The hack’s coming. Peggy’s here."
The non-committal vehicle, rapidly approaching from the direction of the
Avenue, was mud-stained and shabby, but the appearance of Cinderella’s
golden coach would hardly have been the occasion for greater excitement.
Ruth clasped her hands, her color coming and going. Tall Priscilla
forgot her dignity and capered like a five year old, while Amy went
tripping down the street to meet the hack, which, of course, passed her,
reducing her to the necessity of following in pursuit, panting and very
red in the face. All along the Terrace people came to the windows at
the sound of wheels, for from the mothers down to the babies, everyone
knew that Peggy Raymond was coming home that morning. Even Taffy,
Peggy’s dog, bounded out to add his mite to the general welcome.
"Talk of the intelligence of animals," gasped Priscilla, as Taffy shot
between Ruth and herself, narrowly avoiding upsetting both. "That dog
knows it’s Peggy just as well as we do. O why don’t the man stop in the
right place?"
The mud-splashed vehicle came to a standstill midway between Peggy’s
home and the vacant cottage next door. Before it had fairly halted the
girls were abreast of it.
"Here we are, honey!"
"Hurry up! We’re dying for a sight of you."
"O, don’t be such a slow-poke. Even Taffy is losing patience." This
last comment was unnecessary, as Taffy was speaking for himself, barking
uproariously, and leaping about with an air of the keenest anticipation.
The door of the hack opened, and very deliberately a girl stepped out.
She was a tall girl, dressed in black, which added to her apparent
slenderness. Her lips, which suggested a degree of self-repression,
unusual in a girl of her age, were tightly set. She did not look in the
direction of the crestfallen trio ranged along the sidewalk.
"Why!" cried Amy, who had an odd fashion of announcing discoveries which
had been apparent to everyone for some time, "It isn’t Peggy after all."
"We--you--I mean we thought you were somebody else," explained
Priscilla, with considerably less than her usual self-confidence.
The newcomer took as little notice of the stammered apology as she had
of her boisterous welcome. Silently she assisted a lady draped in
mourning to alight, and together they made their way to the empty
cottage, which displayed in the front window the sign, "To Rent." The
hack driver grinned, fully appreciating the little comedy, while the
girls exchanged glances of mingled wrath and humiliation.
Amy was the first to see the humorous side. She shut her eyes and
staggered to the fence for support. Her peals of laughter must have
been plainly audible to the girl who was trying the key in the front
door of the vacant cottage, but the latter only tightened her lips and
did not turn her head. Ruth and Priscilla, after staring blankly at Amy
for a moment, joined in her laughter, though in a rather half-hearted
fashion.
"She looked so out of temper," gasped Amy breathlessly. "And we’d been
calling her ’honey’ and telling her we were dying to see her. O dear!"
She wiped her eyes, and started on another burst of merriment which
almost immediately died away in a gurgle of astonishment.
"Peggy!" Three voices pronounced the name at once, with varied
intonations of surprise and pleasure. So engrossed had they been that
they had not noticed the arrival of a second hack, which with magical
suddenness had spilled out upon the sidewalk a large girl and a small
one, to say nothing of a motley collection of suit-cases, hand-bags,
bundles and umbrellas. Settling with the hackman delayed Peggy a
half-minute, and the girls arrived at the gate as soon as she, but she
waved them aside.
"First kiss for mother," Peggy cried, and shot straight as an arrow into
the arms of the lady who stood waiting on the steps. There was a long
clasp and more kisses than one, and none of Peggy’s friends thought the
less of her for that loyal rush for the one who loved her best.
It was no wonder that Peggy Raymond’s return was an event on Friendly
Terrace. She was the sort of girl you could not see without wishing you
knew her, and could not know without beginning to love her. From her
reddish-brown top-knot down to the tips of her toes she was bubbling
over with life and joyous energy. It was a nice world, Peggy thought,
full of nice people. Every to-morrow was stored for her with wonderful
possibilities, as the yesterdays were full of sweet recollections.
Complaining, discontented people wakened in her the same sorrowful
wonder she felt when she saw a blind man feeling his uncertain way along
the street. Indeed, to Peggy discontent seemed another and more
dreadful form of blindness.
"Come into the house, all of you." Peggy was making up for the brief
delay by kissing everybody twice around. "Hasn’t Dorothy grown, girls?
Wouldn’t you think she was more than four years old? What are you
doing, Dorothy darling?"
"I’m wipin’ off kisses," Dorothy replied with great distinctness,
scrubbing violently at her rosebud of a mouth. "’Cause I don’t like
kisses to stick on, ’cept my mamma’s."
"She says that because she’s forgotten you since last year," Peggy
explained excusingly.
"She’ll be real friendly after a day or two. O Amy, dear, you mustn’t
try to lift that heavy suit-case. It weighs as much as you do."
"I’m afraid not. I’ve gained three pounds since you went away," Amy
replied dolefully. "Next week I’m going to stop eating candy, and begin
to walk ten miles a day."
Everybody laughed, for, when hearts are light, old jokes serve as well
as new ones. They streamed into the house, a laden procession, and
piled Peggy’s belongings in the middle of the living-room. Then they
pulled her down on the window-seat, chafing under the undeniable
difficulty of evenly dividing one girl among three.
"I’m so glad to see you, I could just eat you up," Amy declared, seating
herself on Peggy’s knee, as each of the others had preempted a side.
"And to think of your staying six weeks, when you said you’d only be
gone a month."
"I hated to leave Alice," Peggy’s face clouded for a moment, as she
spoke her sister’s name. "She isn’t a bit well. You know we are going
to keep Dorothy with us for a while. She’s so full of life that she’s a
tax on her mother."
"I stood on a tacks once," observed Dorothy, suddenly becoming
interested. "It sticked into me, and I hollered." She frowned
meditatively as she added, "I don’t like you to call me a tacks,
either."
"It’s another kind, darling. O girls, you don’t know how good it seems
to get back to the Terrace, where people know each other and are real
neighbors. I don’t see how Alice stands it."
"Is it so bad living in a very big city?" Priscilla asked, rather
doubtfully. "I believe I’d love it. I like crowds and noise and
something happening every moment."
Peggy shook her head with decision. "Just wait till I tell you. Alice
lives in a flat, and there’s only one woman in the building whom she’d
know if she met her on the street. One morning while I was there we
heard the greatest commotion in the flat just over ours. Somebody
screamed, and then we could hear somebody else hurrying around right
over our heads, and then there was the sound of dreadful crying. The
windows were open, you know, and we heard everything as plainly as you
hear me."
"Well, what had happened?" Amy demanded, as Peggy paused dramatically.
"That’s what we couldn’t imagine. I wanted to rush right up first
thing, but Alice said people didn’t do that way in big cities, and that
she didn’t know the woman at all, though she thought the name on the
letter box was Flemming. Well, the crying kept up till I couldn’t stand
it any longer. I just walked upstairs and knocked, and when the girl
came to the door, I said I lived on the next floor and I was afraid that
somebody was in trouble and could I do anything to help.
"O girls!" Peggy’s voice grew pensive at the remembrance of that
sorrowful scene. "I never imagined anything so dreadful. The poor
woman--her name was Fletcher instead of Flemming--had just had word that
her little boy had been hurt by an automobile, and taken to a hospital.
And she was so upset that she didn’t know how to get ready to go to him,
and the girl was so stupid that she didn’t know how to help her. And I
rushed around and found her hat and coat and put on her shoes for
her--she was wearing slippers--and did everything, just as if I’d known
her all my life. And then she wouldn’t let me go, and I went along with
her to the hospital. She told me afterward that she had only lived in
the city a few years and hadn’t made many friends. A few years!"
repeated Peggy with fine scorn.
"Why, if anybody on this Terrace was in trouble, even if she hadn’t
lived here more than six weeks, we’d all be flocking in to see what we
could do for her."
"Did the boy die?" asked Amy, missing the moral Peggy was trying to
point, in her interest in the story.
"No, indeed. He wasn’t hurt as badly as they thought at first. He was
home again before I left, such a nice boy, not far from Dick’s age. O
here’s Dick now."
Peggy’s younger brother, Dick Raymond, coming in at that moment, said,
"Hello, Peggy," in the most matter-of-fact manner imaginable and
submitted with apparent resignation to his sister’s kiss. But no one
was deceived. Dick’s admiration of Peggy was an open secret in Friendly
Terrace. The boy was hot and perspiring. He had run all the way home
from his music teacher’s, so impatient was he for a glimpse of the
dearest as well as the most remarkable girl in the world, as he firmly
believed, and yet at the sight of her, he had only a "hello Peggy," and
a shame-faced kiss. Luckily Peggy was not the sort of girl who needed
to be told certain things. She understood without any explanation.
"Guess we’re going to have some new neighbors," Dick observed, looking
out of the window, apparently glad of an opportunity to change the topic
of the conversation.
"Who? Where? The next house?" Peggy stood looking over her brother’s
shoulder, as two people came from the vacant cottage and moved toward
the waiting hack. Her eyes dwelt approvingly on the slender figure of a
black-gowned girl, carefully assisting the older lady into the carriage.
"Girls!" Peggy’s voice fairly tinkled, as she made the pleasant
announcement. "It looks as if we might be going to have another girl on
the Terrace. Won’t that be fine?"
The others exchanged dubious glances. "Always room for one more, I
suppose," Priscilla said at last.
"And she looks like such a sweet girl, too," Peggy continued, as the
shabby hack rumbled off. "She had such a nice way of helping her
mother--that is, I suppose it’s her mother."
Amy coughed in an embarrassed fashion, and Ruth said hastily, "We took
her for you at first, Peggy. We were watching for your hack, you know,
and hers came first."
"I imagine she must have thought us very cordial to strangers,"
Priscilla added, choking down a laugh, as she remembered the
contemptuous indifference of the girl who had received a welcome
intended for somebody else.
"I’m glad of that," said the innocent Peggy. "Because that may help them
in making up their minds to come here. And I don’t like to have a
vacant house on the Terrace. It reminds me of a child shedding its
first teeth. The more smiling and pleasant it looks, the more you notice
that something is missing."
From across the street somebody whistled, a rather peculiar whistle,
long and piercing. Ruth jumped to her feet.
"It’s Graham," she said. "What is he doing home at this time in the
morning? O, I wonder if luncheon really can be ready?"
"Of course it can," Amy cried tragically. "I’m nearly starved. I
couldn’t eat any breakfast this morning, I was so excited because Peggy
was coming."
"You’ll be over this afternoon, won’t you, Peggy?" Priscilla asked as
she rose to go, and her face fell slightly as Peggy answered, "Why, of
course. I’ll run in to see all of you." It was just a little hard for
Priscilla to remember that her claim on Peggy was in no sense superior
to that of the other girls. She was one of the people who liked to be
first, and, though generous enough with her other possessions, she found
it hard to share her friend. Yet there were moments when Priscilla
acknowledged to herself that a fraction of Peggy’s affection was worth
more than the undivided devotion other girls had given her in the fervid
friendships which, in a few weeks or months at the outside, had burned
themselves out.
Peggy was as good as her word. But when she crossed the street that
afternoon, on her way to Priscilla’s, she noticed that the sign "To
Rent" had disappeared from the window of the house next door. "That
means new neighbors, certain sure," thought Peggy hopefully. Nor did
she guess what a new element her prospective neighbors were to introduce
into the cheerful atmosphere of Friendly Terrace.
*CHAPTER II*
*THE GIRL NEXT DOOR*
A delicious odor was gradually pervading the Raymond cottage, a spicy
fragrance which of itself was suggestive of Peggy’s return. For Peggy’s
accomplishments were of a practical sort. The crayon which adorned the
wall of her mother’s bed-room, and which represented Peggy’s supreme
achievement in the field of art, had been the subject of considerable
discussion in the family. Dick insisted that a prominent object in the
foreground was a Newfoundland dog, while his mother accepted Peggy’s
assurance that it was a sheep grazing, and refused to listen to the
arguments by which Dick supported his position. As a musician, too,
Peggy had her obvious limitations, but when it came to transforming the
cold potatoes, and the unpromising ends of the roast left from dinner,
into an appetizing luncheon, it would be hard to find Peggy’s equal;
while the fame of her sponge cake and her gingerbread had spread far
beyond the confines of the Terrace. And since this is a practical
world, with very commonplace needs, there is much to be said in favor of
such accomplishments as Peggy cultivated.
She moved about the spotless kitchen with a quick, light step, humming
under her breath something which, if not exactly a tune, was,
nevertheless, like the chirp of a cricket, or the purring of a
tea-kettle, very pleasant to hear. In her blue gingham apron, with her
sleeves rolled to the elbow, she looked decidedly businesslike, though
the costume was far from being unbecoming. Indeed Dick, sitting on the
window-sill, gravely observant of Peggy’s occupation, noticed how the
heat from the range had deepened the pink on his sister’s cheeks, and
told himself that Peggy was growing pretty. Not for worlds would he have
said as much to Peggy herself, but, for all that, the discovery gave him
the greatest satisfaction.
"Put on plenty of sugar and cinnamon now," Dick advised from his
precarious perch on the window-sill. "You’d ought to have tasted the
cinnamon rolls Sally made while you were gone. She scrimped on the sugar
and the cinnamon, you see, and you wouldn’t have known what you were
eating. What’s the good of making cinnamon rolls at all, if you’re
going to scrimp?"
"That’s right, Dick," Peggy agreed. "If you’re going to do anything,
put enough into it so that it will amount to something when it’s done."
Peggy was not given to lecturing her younger brother after the fashion
of some girls, but she had a habit of hanging little sentence sermons on
pegs which chanced to be available--cinnamon rolls, in this instance.
And Dick, who would have turned sulky in a moment if he had suspected
Peggy of "preaching," looked thoughtful, and stowed the suggestion away
for further reference.
Peggy went on rolling, cutting, sifting on cinnamon with lavish hand and
adding little dabs of butter until the second pan of rolls was ready for
the oven. Then Dorothy, standing by the open door, made a startling
announcement. "House is a-fire! House is a-fire!"
"O Dorothy!" Peggy flew to the door, and turned in the direction in
which the chubby finger was pointing. As she looked, the kitchen window
in the next house was lowered and a cloud of black smoke escaped,
accompanied by an odor which caused Dorothy to wrinkle her nose and say
disgustedly, "Glad I don’t live in that house."
"They let something on the stove burn; beans, I guess," said Peggy,
sniffing wisely. "It’s dreadful trying to cook while you are getting
settled after moving." She looked thoughtfully toward the house next
door, which presented the forlorn appearance to be expected considering
that the tenants had moved in only the day before. Through the
uncurtained windows Peggy caught glimpses of incongruous groups of
furniture, of step-ladders standing aimlessly in the midst of the
confusion, of pictures leaning precariously against the wall. To Peggy
the sight was like an audible appeal for help.
"I might take them some of my cinnamon rolls," she exclaimed, turning to
Dick.
"Take who?" As long as Dick made his meaning clear, he was never
troubled as to grammatical correctness.
"Why, the next door people. It would make them feel as though they
really had neighbors and, of course, I can’t go over to see the girl
till the house is settled."
"If you’d been going to do that," Dick said rather reprovingly, "you
ought to have baked more than two pans. But then," he added with an
evident effort to be generous, "I guess they need them more than we do.
Go ahead."
The rolls came out of the oven just the golden-brown that Peggy wanted.
Peggy might draw a sheep that looked like an own cousin to a
Newfoundland dog, but she had the joy of a real artist in her cookery.
With shining eyes she gazed upon the work of her hand. "They’re
perfect," she announced, with an unsuccessful effort at a judicial air.
"They do look good enough to eat," Dick agreed. "Say, give me one. I’m
hungry."
"And I’m hungry, too," cried Dorothy, edging close.
"When the next pan comes out," Peggy promised. "I’ll run over with
these so our neighbors will know what they’ve got to depend on for
luncheon." She set her rolls on a plate, threw a napkin over them, and
without stopping to remove her apron, crossed the yard to the next
house. The kitchen window was still open, and as Peggy stood upon the
steps she heard the sharp tinkle of broken glass.
"There’s something gone to smash. Dear me, what a time they’re having,"
thought Peggy, wishing her acquaintance with the new arrivals was
sufficiently advanced so that she could offer to lend her aid, for her
capable fingers fairly itched to assist in bringing order out of the
chaos within. She knocked, and, after waiting for some minutes, knocked
again, this time a little louder.
"Elaine!" a voice cried. "Elaine! Somebody’s at the back door."
"O dear!" someone else said distinctly, and Peggy’s color heightened,
even though she felt confident that the speaker’s mood would change as
soon as she knew her caller’s errand. "So her name is Elaine," Peggy
thought, as footsteps slow, and seemingly reluctant, sounded on the bare
floors. "Such a pretty name."
The door opened violently and a girl looked out. It was the same
black-gowned girl Peggy had watched from her window a few days earlier,
but, on this occasion, her appearance was decidedly less prepossessing.
Apparently she had neglected to comb her hair that morning, or else her
forenoon’s occupation had been strenuous enough to obliterate all traces
of that ceremony. Her apron was soiled. She wore an expression of
weary discouragement, which seemed as incongruous with her girlish face
as white hair would have done. The eyes she turned upon Peggy were
anything but friendly, and yet at the sight of her, Peggy’s heart
swelled with a sympathy that was almost tender.
"Good morning!" Peggy extended her offering with a cordial smile. "I
know how busy you must be getting settled, and I brought you over a
plate of rolls. I live--"
"We don’t care to buy anything this morning," said the girl, and made a
movement as if to close the door. Peggy’s face flamed to the roots of
her hair.
"O, you don’t understand," she cried. "I’m a neighbor of yours. I’ve
brought you over a plate of cinnamon rolls, I’ve just finished baking.
They’re not for sale."
Elaine was a rather pale girl. But as Peggy finished her little speech,
two spots of red showed in the other’s thin cheeks.
"We’re not objects of charity, thank you," she said. The door shut with
a slam. Peggy, her rejected offering in her hand, stood bewildered on
the step. For a moment she battled with the temptation to push open the
door and force the girl inside to listen to reason. With a choked laugh,
that covered not a little humiliation, she realized the folly of such a
proceeding and turned away.
Peggy’s eyes were absent as she entered the house. She took the second
pan of rolls from the oven without feeling any disposition to gloat over
their yellow-brown perfection. Then, remembering her promise to Dick
and Dorothy, she put some of the rolls on a plate and carried them into
the next room. Her thoughts were still full of the rebuff she had
received from her new neighbor, and when she had set the plate of rolls
on the table she stood with clasped hands, looking hard at nothing in
particular, and frowning over her reflections.
"How glad she is to see us!"
"Yes, just notice her smile."
"Probably those are city manners, girls. We’ll have to get used to it."
A volley of mocking laughter followed these observations, and Peggy
started guiltily.
"I didn’t see you," she apologized, as three girls popped up from the
window-seat and approached her.
"Don’t try to get out of it, Peggy," teased Priscilla, slipping her arm
about Peggy’s waist. "You know you can’t be glad to see us with such a
face."
"O, Peggy! What delicious rolls!" Amy hung over the plate with an
ecstatic gasp. "Don’t they look as if they’d melt in your mouth."
"Help yourself," Peggy cried. "All of you."
"They’ll make you fat, Amy," warned Ruth, extending a slim hand.
"Priscilla and I can eat all we want, but you’ll have to refuse. You
know you’re going to leave off eating candy."
"Well, they’re not candy, and, besides, I’d rather gain a few ounces
than turn down such darlings," Amy replied recklessly. Suiting the
action to the word she set her teeth in the golden-brown crust.
"They’re as good as they look," she announced indistinctly. "Say,
Peggy, are these the kind you took over to the house next door? Dick
said that was what you went out for."
Peggy nodded, her face betraying the peculiarly guilty expression that
sensitive people wear when fearing that they will be forced to betray
the wrongdoing of someone else. Priscilla eyed her suspiciously.
"Well, I don’t see that there could have been a nicer introduction," Amy
remarked with her mouth full. "How lovely it would be if all callers
brought cinnamon rolls instead of visiting cards."
"What happened, Peggy?" demanded Priscilla, reading her friend’s
tell-tale face as if it had been an open book. "Weren’t they nice to
you?"
"Nice!" cried Ruth, flaring up at the mere suggestion of ill-treating
Peggy. "Why shouldn’t they be nice?"
"Peggy’s blushing," exclaimed Amy, announcing a discovery sufficiently
obvious to the least discerning. "She’s blushing as red as fire. Peggy
Raymond, what has happened?"
"It really wasn’t anything," said poor Peggy, fairly cornered. "Only--"
"Well?"
"Only she didn’t quite understand."
"Who didn’t? That snippy, disagreeable girl, who puts on such
ridiculous airs of being better than other people?"
Peggy’s eyes widened over the vivid description whose appropriateness
she was forced to admit. "I saw the girl," she replied hastily. "Her
name’s Elaine, I think."
"We don’t care about her name, Peggy. What did she do?"
"At first she thought I’d come to sell the rolls, and she said they
didn’t care to buy anything."
"Peggy a pedler! I never heard anything so funny!" Amy sat down on the
floor to laugh, but her amusement did not communicate itself to the
others. Ruth’s face still wore a protesting frown, and Priscilla’s eyes
were flashing.
"A pedler!" Priscilla repeated disdainfully. "She must be very
observing. Well, Peggy. After you explained--"
"That seemed to make it all the worse," admitted Peggy, finding a little
relief, it must be acknowledged, in the sympathy called out by her
confession. "She can’t have been used to neighbors, that’s sure. She
said they weren’t objects of charity, and shut the door in my face."
An indignant explosion followed, when everybody talked at once. Then
Dorothy bobbing up as expectedly as a Jack in a box, poured oil on the
troubled waters by offering a suggestion. "Maybe they fought the
currants was flies. I did till I bited ’em."
"O, Dorothy, what a killing child you are!" cried Amy, giving way to
helpless laughter, and this time she had plenty of company. Peggy was
the only one of the quartet who made any effort to conceal her
merriment, Peggy having a singular theory that children should be
treated just as courteously as older people. She looked regretfully at
the small, erect figure marching out of the room with an air of stately
displeasure. "O dear!" she sighed. "I’m afraid we’ve hurt her
feelings. Dorothy does hate to be laughed at."
"Then she’d better give up making such speeches," remarked Amy, wiping
her eyes. "But to go back to Peggy’s new friend--Elaine--"
"Yes, just to think of her slamming the door in Peggy’s face," cried
Ruth, whose customary gentleness had quite disappeared in resentment
over Peggy’s snubbing. "If she doesn’t want neighbors she needn’t have
any. I move that we let her alone, just as much as if she lived down
town somewhere."
"We didn’t tell you, Peggy," Priscilla exclaimed, taking up the tale.
"But we found out the sort of girl she was the day you came. We thought
it was your hack, you know, and we rushed to grab you the minute you
stepped out, and we were all screaming for you to hurry, and when this
girl got out we felt cheap enough to go right through the sidewalk."
"Yes, we did," interrupted Amy. "If there had been an open coal-hole
handy it would have taken me about five seconds to disappear."
"The way she took it showed the sort of girl she is," insisted
Priscilla. "Instead of smiling, or saying that it didn’t matter, she
acted as if we’d been so many hitching-posts standing in a row. Didn’t
see us or hear us, either. I knew in a minute that I’d never have any
use for her if she lived here a thousand years."
"That’s just the way I feel," said Ruth.
"Me, too," exclaimed Amy from the rug, and absent-mindedly she reached
for another cinnamon roll.
It was Peggy’s turn. "O, girls," she pleaded, in tones of distress.
"Let’s not be in such a hurry to make up our minds. You see, we’ve
hardly seen anything of her."
"Quite enough," observed Priscilla.
"And things were rather against her both times," continued Peggy,
disregarding the interruption. "When we come to know her we may like
her awfully well."
A depressing silence implied that no one but Peggy herself thought such
a result at all probable.
"And, anyway," concluded Peggy, falling back on the supreme argument,
"she hasn’t tried living in Friendly Terrace yet. We don’t know what
that will do for her. Instead of letting her alone, I think we’d better
show her what it means to have neighbors of the neighborly kind."
It did not appear that a continuation of the discussion was likely to
bring them into agreement. Amy tried changing the subject. "Do you
know what this roll reminds me of?" she asked, looking thoughtfully at
the fragments in her hand.
No one could imagine.
"The first time I ever tasted one of Peggy’s rolls," Amy explained, "it
was on a picnic at the Park. It was the time that Ruth fell into the
lake, feeding the swans."
"I’d forgotten the rolls, but I remember that picnic," Ruth said. "The
picnics this year didn’t seem like the real thing," she added
disconsolately, "with Peggy gone."
"’Tisn’t too late for another," Priscilla cried. "Why not go to-morrow?"
If the quartet had failed to agree on the subject of Peggy’s next-door
neighbor there was no lack of unanimity as far as the picnic was
concerned. In five minutes it was arranged that Ruth was to bring the
sandwiches and Amy the fudge, while Peggy had agreed to get up early and
make some little sponge cakes.
"You won’t mind if I bring Dorothy, will you, girls?" Peggy inquired
anxiously. "You see, she really does make a lot of extra work, she’s
such a mischief, and I don’t want to leave too much for mother to do."
It was the general opinion that Dorothy’s presence would add to the
gaiety of the picnic, and, after completing their plans, the friends
parted with looks expressive of cheerful anticipation. But Peggy’s
bright face clouded over as she glanced a little later toward the next
house, and saw, perched upon the top of a step-ladder, a slender,
girlish figure, with an indefinable air of dejection and helplessness.
"O dear! I shall be glad when she’s lived in the Terrace long enough to
be one of us," Peggy thought. "All the trouble is that we don’t
understand one another. As soon as we’re acquainted everything will be
all right, and nobody’ll have to be left out."
*CHAPTER III*
*MAKING FRIENDS*
It was just as well, as things turned out, that Peggy had resolved on an
early start the following morning. Dimly through the grey dawn she
became aware of an elfish, white-gowned figure perched on the foot of
the bed. Her sleepy questionings as to its identity were dispelled by a
sweet, high-pitched voice.
"Now this is down to the sea shore, Aunt Peggy, and that’s the water
where you are. Bime-by I’m going to dive and make a big splash."
Before Peggy could protest, Dorothy had carried out her intention,
descending on her shrinking relative like an avalanche. "Kick, Aunt
Peggy! Kick hard!" she shouted, disappointed at Peggy’s failure to
enter into the sport, with the spirit due its dramatic possibilities.
"That’s what makes the waves."
But Peggy was beyond kicking. When she had succeeded in dislodging
Dorothy from a commanding position on her chest, she indulged herself in
several deep breaths before saying plaintively, "O, Dorothy, why did you
wake so early? It isn’t time to get up yet."
"It’s time to get up for a picnic day," insisted Dorothy. "And you’ve
got to cook luncheon, Aunt Peggy, and can I wear my rubber boots and
take my dolly and my blue celluloid comb?"
Further sleep was out of the question. Making a virtue of necessity,
Peggy jumped out of bed, reflecting that this early start would give the
frosting on her cakes a chance to harden. Getting Dorothy dressed was a
process requiring time and patience, for the child was so excited by the
festivities in prospect that she could hardly stand still long enough to
allow a button to be popped into its rightful button-hole. Inventors
interested in perpetual motion should have made a study of Dorothy. She
interrupted the process of getting her fat little legs into their black
stockings by so many fantastic capers that Peggy forgot the loss of her
morning nap in helpless laughter, and the day began cheerfully after
all.
By breakfast time the comfortable odor of sponge cake diffused through
the house, told that Peggy had made good use of her time. It penetrated
Dick’s bed-room, and that young man, under the mistaken impression that
he was sniffing the fragrance of waffles, rose in haste and reached the
breakfast table on time, an unusual feat for Dick, who dearly loved the
last minutes in bed, and, as a rule, needed to be called three times
before responding.
Dorothy was too excited to eat. She had made a collection of cherished
belongings to take with her to the Park, and tact, as well as logic, was
needed to convince her that the occasion did not call for a pink parasol
or a tooth brush. A compromise was finally reached by virtue of which
Dorothy agreed to leave all her belongings at home, with the exception
of her "shut-eye doll," on the understanding that she was to be allowed
to help in packing the lunch basket. This ordinarily prosaic task
proved quite exciting that morning, owing to Dorothy’s propensity to
smuggle in such articles from the sideboard as appealed to her as
attractive and desirable.
A little after nine the girls began to arrive. Priscilla and Ruth came
up the walk at almost the same minute, and they all settled themselves
to wait for Amy. It was understood that they must always wait for Amy,
though, singularly enough, Amy always had a brand-new reason for her
invariable delays. Either her shoe-string broke at the last minute or
someone called her up on the telephone, or her hat pins had disappeared,
or some other unforeseen event interfered with her innate propensity to
promptness. Amy’s friends listened with cheerful disrespect to her
latest excuses, and Amy was the only one of them all who accepted them
at their face value, and honestly believed herself the soul of
punctuality.
At quarter of ten Amy appeared, puffing a little, to show how she had
hurried, and explaining that the fudge had refused to harden. The other
baskets were grouped upon the porch and the girls sat in a row on the
steps, discussing some of the interesting events which had taken place
along the Terrace during Peggy’s absence. At Amy’s approach Peggy
jumped briskly to her feet.
"We’re all ready now," she said. "Where’s Dorothy disappeared to? O,
Dorothy! We’re going to start now."
There was no answer. "Dorothy!" Peggy called again, "Come quick. The
picnic’s going to begin."
This assurance was effective. At the end of the hall appeared a
mysterious figure which moved toward the door with hesitating and
uncertain steps. A weird, white drapery concealed its face, and fell in
flowing folds to its shoulders. Amy was the first to perceive its
appearance and she let fall her basket and squealed.
"What is it?" she cried wildly, as Peggy, at the other end of the porch,
turned upon her a startled countenance, "O, what is it?"
"What’s what?" Peggy flew to answer her own question. At the sight
which had alarmed Amy she stood as if petrified, her lips apart, and
broken fragments of sentences escaping at intervals.
Meanwhile the slow-moving figure had reached the door. From beneath the
mysterious drapery came the sound of a stifled wail. Peggy came to
herself with a start.
"Dorothy!" she cried. "What have you got over yourself?" She touched
the drapery with shrinking fingers. It was sticky, clinging. The
fragment she touched fell off at her feet.
"I smell--yeast," exclaimed Peggy sniffing. "Yeast!" She looked about
her wildly. "Girls, it’s bread-sponge."
"She’ll smother," exclaimed the practical Priscilla, and forthwith
clawed an opening in the sticky mass, through which Dorothy’s face
looked out. It was a solemn face at that moment. A suspicious
trembling of the lips told that the tears were not far away.
"I--I don’t like Sally," faltered Dorothy. "She put somefing in a pan,
up high. And when I pulled, it covered me all up."
"That’s the end of the picnic, girls." Peggy spoke with forced calm.
"The end, as far as I’m concerned. Bread-sponge all the way from here
to the kitchen. Bread-sponge in her hair and her eyebrows."
"_I_ don’t care, Aunt Peggy," cried poor little Dorothy. "I’d just as
soon go to the picnic all sticky."
It was a melancholy ending for so many cheerful plans. The girls
protested that the picnic without Peggy would only be an aggravation.
They suggested putting it off till another day. But Peggy, usually
distinguished for her sweet reasonableness, was not in a mood to make
the best of things.
"She’d only get into something else, girls," she insisted. "The glue
pot or the molasses jug. Even if the fudge would be just as good
to-morrow, you can’t say as much for the sandwiches. Go along and enjoy
yourselves."
While three girls wended their disconsolate way toward the Park car, a
still more dejected procession of two climbed the stairs to the Raymond
bathroom. Mrs. Raymond, hearing the sound of Dorothy’s stifled crying,
came out to inquire the cause of the trouble, and uttered a horrified
exclamation at the sight of her small granddaughter. Although divested
of the greater part of the mass of bread-sponge, enough adhered to
Dorothy’s plump person, to give her a most unique appearance. Mrs.
Raymond patted the round, tear-stained cheek, and cast a comprehending
glance at Peggy’s overcast face.
"I wish you had gone with the girls, dear," she said. "I could have
attended to this little mischief, and it’s hardly fair that you should
lose your fun."
"Just as fair as that you should spend your morning scrubbing Dorothy,"
Peggy returned. "You ought to know I wouldn’t leave it for you." Then
with the honesty which was one of Peggy Raymond’s charms, she added, "I
suppose I might better have gone than stay at home and act like a
martyr. Never mind, mother. There’ll be more picnics some day."
The process of repairing damages was a slow and tedious one. At
intervals Dorothy wept copiously into the bath tub, and uttered broken
promises to the effect that next time she would stand in a corner and
not move till the hour of starting arrived, "And I sha’n’t like Sally
never any more," sobbed Dorothy, who had a habit, not unknown among
older girls, of holding other people responsible for her escapades,
"’cause she put that up high where it could fall all over me."
The last traces of glutinous matter were at last removed from Peggy’s
charge. Arrayed in a clean gingham, with a bath towel over her
shoulders, Dorothy was set out on the porch, where the sun could dry her
golden hair. Peggy gave her attention to repairing damages elsewhere,
and when she returned after twenty minutes’ absence, Dorothy’s hair was
curling all over her head, in a flossy yellow snarl, while in her hand
she held a typewritten sheet of paper.
"What’s that, Dorothy?" Peggy asked, feeling the curly head for signs of
dampness.
Dorothy reflected. "It’s a letter, I fink," she replied, obviously
giving the explanation which seemed most plausible, but speaking
doubtfully.
"Let me see!" Peggy took the sheet in her hand, and began its perusal,
her eyes opening wide and wider as she read.
"’honor is at stake,’ replied the earl, his hand seeking his sword. The
Lady Vivian uttered a cry of anguish, and sank fainting into the arms of
her attendant."
"Why, how funny," Peggy broke off in the midst of the thrilling
narrative to ask a practical question. "Where did this come from?"
"I guess a angel brought it," replied Dorothy, after due reflection.
"O, you goosie!" Peggy’s laughter rang out blithely, and Mrs. Raymond
upstairs, overheard and drew a relieved sigh. For to have Peggy
low-spirited produced much the same effect as when the sun goes under a
cloud.
"Where did you find the paper, dearie?" coaxed Peggy. "The wind blew it
from somewhere, didn’t it?"
Dorothy shook her head with vehemence, causing extreme agitation among
her frizzled locks. "No, it didn’t blow from anywhere. It just camed."
It was evident that little information could be extracted from this
source and Peggy fell back upon her own wits.
"It’s typewritten. There isn’t anybody around here who has a
typewriter, except Harry Rind, and he wouldn’t be writing about earls
and swords and things. I wonder--"
Peggy broke off, and stared at the next house. The windows upstairs were
open. It would be an easy matter for a sheet of paper, more
enterprising than its associates, to take a little excursion into the
outer world. At the same time, Peggy disliked the idea of facing Elaine
again, to inquire if the typewritten sheet was her property. If it
happened to belong to someone else, the chances were that Elaine would
be as uncompromisingly disagreeable as she had been the day before. And
to be snubbed twice in two days was too much, even for Peggy.
"I don’t believe it’s worth anything anyway," thought Peggy, glancing at
the sheet in her hand. Lurid sentences caught her eye. The ladies in
the narrative seemed given to shrieking and fainting, while the
gentlemen had a propensity for deadly combat. A sturdy strain of common
sense in Peggy’s make-up caused her lips to twitch over this cheap
tragedy.
"It sounds silly," was Peggy’s final verdict. "I don’t believe it’s
worth anything, but, after all, it belongs to somebody, and whoever
wrote it thinks it’s nice, I suppose. And--well, at the worst, she
can’t do more than shut the door in my face."
She marched down the yard, head up and shoulders back, in soldier
fashion. Indeed Peggy felt very much as if she were leading a charge.
Like most popular people, Peggy shrank from discourtesy. She was so
accustomed to being liked that any indication of unfriendliness came
with a sense of shock. The girl who had refused one neighborly kindness
in so unpleasant a fashion was not likely to have undergone a change of
heart in a little over twenty-four hours.
With a sense of bracing herself to face the worst, Peggy knocked at the
kitchen door and stood waiting. Elaine herself answered the summons.
The look which crossed her face seemed to say, "What, you here again?"
but Peggy did not wait for her to put the ungracious sentiment into
words.
"I don’t know whether this belongs to you or not," she said hastily,
"but I thought perhaps it did, because hardly anybody on the Terrace has
a typewriter." She handed the sheet to Elaine and prepared to back
away.
But Elaine’s formality had vanished with the understanding of Peggy’s
errand. "Page six," she exclaimed in tones of dismay, "O, I wonder
where the rest are."
"I didn’t see but this one, but then, I didn’t really look. When I came
out on the porch my little niece had it in her hand. She said an angel
brought it."
"An angel?" Elaine forgot her anxiety for a moment and laughed
outright; a little bubbling laugh which did wonders in advancing the
acquaintance of the two. Then her thoughts reverted to the paper, which
in Peggy’s opinion she prized unduly. "They must have blown out of one
of the upstairs windows," she exclaimed.
"Perhaps only that one blew out. You look upstairs, and I’ll see if
there are any more scattered over the grass," Peggy suggested
obligingly. As it happened, the search of both girls was successful.
Elaine came downstairs, her hands full of sheets she had gathered from
the floor, and out of the number only one proved to be missing. This
one, numbered four, Peggy had found winding itself about the trunk of a
spindling young peach tree in the front yard.
"Now let’s count them again and be sure they’re all here," Elaine said
eagerly. "One, two, three, four."
"Five, six, seven, eight," concluded Peggy. "That’s all, isn’t it?"
"Yes, that’s all. O, how lucky I am to find them."
"O, isn’t it splendid."
The door opened and a tall lady looked in. A white veil was tied over
her grey hair, and she wore black gloves. In one hand she carried a
feather duster, and the helpless air with which she handled this
domestic implement, caught Peggy’s attention at once. The sight of
Elaine and Peggy, beaming at each other across the typewritten sheets,
seemed to startle the new-comer. She made a movement as if to draw
back, halted irresolutely, and murmured something unintelligible.
Elaine came to the rescue, blushing vividly, quite as if, Peggy said to
herself, she had been caught doing something out of the way.
"Mamma, this is a neighbor of ours, Miss--I don’t know your name, do I?"
She looked a little surprised at the discovery.
"Peggy Raymond," said the owner of the name with promptness.
"And this is my mother, Mrs. Marshall." The introduction completed,
Elaine hastened to explain Peggy’s presence, and the other girl could
not free herself of the feeling that she found it necessary to excuse as
well as to explain.
"Just think, mamma! One of the sheets of my--I mean one of these sheets
flew out of the window, and she brought it back to me. Wasn’t I
fortunate? And wasn’t she kind?"
"We certainly are much indebted to Miss Raymond," Mrs. Marshall remarked
with a stateliness which took Peggy’s breath away. "I regret that it is
necessary," she continued impressively, "to apologize for my appearance.
After being accustomed to the supervision of a house full of servants
throughout married life it is extremely humiliating to me to be
discovered engaged in the work of a parlor maid."
Peggy could think of no suitable reply to this speech. She perceived
that Mrs. Marshall was one of the people who, having "come down in the
world," persist in flaunting in the face of their acquaintances
recollections of their past grandeur. She said hastily that nobody ever
called her Miss Raymond, and she wanted to be Peggy to her new neighbors
as well as to the rest of the Terrace. Then she excused herself, on the
ground that she must look after Dorothy, while Elaine followed her to
the door to say again, "I’m so much obliged. I can’t tell you how much I
thank you."
Dorothy was sitting on the porch steps, a subdued little figure. Her
hair, crinkling tightly after its recent washing, stood out in all
directions, giving it the appearance of a tuft of thistle-down just
ready to fly away.
Peggy felt the fluffy golden crown thoughtfully. "Dry as the Desert of
Sahara, isn’t it?"
Dorothy compressed her lips and blinked. She strongly objected to being
addressed in language beyond her comprehension, perhaps because she
always suspected the people who used these terms of trying to make fun
of her.
"And as long as your hair is dry, and your dress is clean, I’ve an idea,
Dorothy darling. How would you like to go to the Park and hunt up the
girls? They’ll have had luncheon before we get there, but there’ll be
a-plenty left. There always is."
"Aunt Peggy!" screamed Dorothy, climbing to her feet with undignified
haste. "I like you better’n butter-scotch, and better’n pink
tooth-powder. Let’s hurry."
And hurry they did. And which of the two enjoyed the gaieties of the
picnic more, the big girl or the little one, it would be hard to say.
But underneath Peggy’s lightness of heart, and whole-souled
participation in the afternoon’s fun, a pleasant undercurrent of thought
ran like a hidden stream, the consciousness that at last she had
succeeded in establishing friendly relations with the girl next door.
*CHAPTER IV*
*A BUSY AFTERNOON*
The breeze which had lingered by the honeysuckle, climbing over the back
porch of the Raymond cottage, did not carry to the next-door neighbors
any whiffs of refreshing fragrance. For before it crossed the hedge,
which marked the boundary line between the two places, it had picked up
an odor very different. And Peggy Raymond’s paint-pot was responsible.
Peggy was arrayed in what she called her regimentals. They consisted of
an old shirtwaist, the sleeves cut off at the elbows, a calico skirt,
and a pair of shabby shoes, all of which articles were splashed with
paint of different colors. The landscape which hung in Peggy’s mother’s
room, and which had been the cause of so much discussion in the family,
was not responsible for any part of this rainbow effect. When Peggy
donned her "regimentals," her artistic instincts took an entirely
different turn.
Standing upon several newspapers, spread out for the protection of the
grass in the Raymond back yard, was a chair. It was a rather
dilapidated chair, judged from the standpoint of an unbiassed spectator.
Its cane seat had long ceased to be practical for purposes of support,
and its battered, scarred appearance suggested that it had been used as
a target for missiles singularly effective. But Peggy regarded it with
a look of pleased anticipation, not unmixed with pride.
The can of paint, which, lending its odor to the breeze, had quite
submerged the fragrance of the honeysuckle, stood conveniently near the
chair, and Peggy was absorbed in transferring the contents of the one to
the battered surface of the other. The first results of the
transference did not impress the beholder as successful, for the chair
had been painted black in the first place, and the original hue, showing
distinctly through the coat of paint, suggested a brown cheek veiled in
white. But, undisturbed by her failure to produce the effect she
wanted, without any irritating delays, Peggy worked away cheerily,
humming a tune under her breath, and so absorbed was she in her task
that she did not hear a light step coming across the grass. Her first
intimation that she was not alone was when a somewhat hesitating voice
said, "I beg your pardon."
With a start Peggy looked up. At the sight of Elaine her face crinkled
into a smile of such unmistakable pleasure that only a very peculiar
person could have felt indifferent to being its exciting cause.
"Why, it’s you, isn’t it?" exclaimed Peggy radiantly, springing from her
knees with a haste which came near to overturning the can of paint. "I
can’t ask you to take a chair, because the only chair there is is pretty
well covered with paint by now. But I’ll pull out the wheelbarrow--"
"O, I can’t stay long enough to sit down," Elaine said hastily. She was
on the point of saying more, but quite unconscious that she was
interrupting, Peggy broke in.
"I suppose you wondered what I was doing. You see one of the chairs in
my bed-room went to pieces the other day. Amy was sitting on it at the
time, and she was quite mortified. Amy is plump, and she decided right
away that she wouldn’t eat any more candy for six months, if she was
getting so big that ordinary furniture wouldn’t bear her weight." Peggy
interrupted herself by an infectious laugh and chattered on, "And so
I’ve got to have a new chair--"
"A _new_ chair," repeated Elaine, surprise causing her to give a rather
impolite emphasis to the adjective.
Peggy laughed again. "The new things for my room are a good deal like
some folks’ new dresses, the made-over, new kind, you know. But I almost
think I like them all the better. Take this chair, for instance." Peggy
indicated the article in question by a sweeping gesture of her paint
brush. "It isn’t much to look at just now."
"No!" Elaine acknowledged, apparently glad to find a point on which she
could agree with Peggy. "It isn’t."
"It’ll have to have quite a number of coats," Peggy explained. "And
when the paint is thick enough, so that the black doesn’t show through,
I’ll tack a square of blue denim over the seat. If you put it on with
braid and gilt-headed tacks, it is quite effective."
Elaine’s start was not due to admiration for the glowing picture Peggy’s
words had conjured up, but rather to consternation over her own
negligence. "O, I forgot!" she exclaimed, and hesitated. She was so
plainly embarrassed that Peggy felt vaguely uncomfortable herself. But
she did not have time to wonder why, before Elaine was launched on an
explanation.
"Mamma sent me over to say that she objects to the smell of paint, and
to ask if you would mind--"
Elaine hesitated again. Her air of confusion did not seem consistent
with the impression Peggy had formed of her. As for Peggy herself, she
was equally divided between sympathy for the bearer of the message, and
regret over her interrupted task.
"I suppose I should have stopped to think which way the wind was
blowing," she said quickly. "But somehow I never can remember that some
people dislike the smell of paint. It seems so clean, and it always
makes me think how nice things are going to look when you are done."
She studied the unfinished chair, and suppressed a sigh. "I’ll just dab
a little more paint on this round, and then I’ll set it in the woodshed
and wait till the wind is from the east."
Peggy gave her attention to a particularly battered portion of the
chair’s anatomy, till she was aroused from her absorption by a question.
The voice which asked it was intense, almost tragically so, in striking
contrast to the serenity of the afternoon.
"Don’t you hate, hate, _hate_ to be poor?"
A big spot of white paint added itself to the decoration of the calico
skirt, as Peggy stared up at her interrogator. "Why, I don’t know," she
acknowledged, "I guess I never thought about it."
"Not thought about it? Why, how can you help it when you have to do
things like this?" Elaine made a scornful gesture, in the direction of
the woe-begone chair. "Just suppose that all you had to do when you
wanted something new was to go and buy it."
Peggy laughed a little. "I’m afraid my imagination isn’t equal to
that," she replied cheerily. "And, anyway, this sort of thing is such
fun!"
"Fun!" echoed Elaine, with an incredulous gasp.
"Why, yes! To take something like this chair and fix it up so that it
is useful and pretty is real fun. And so are lots of things about
housework. There’s cooking, now."
"I don’t know a thing about cooking." Elaine had moved a little nearer
Peggy, as if afraid of losing something. Her air of interest was
unmistakable.
"Well, I love it all, but the nicest part, I think, is taking the
left-overs, you know, the cold potatoes, and the ends of the steak, and
fixing them up into real nice appetizing dishes."
"I tried getting luncheon to-day," Elaine acknowledged. "I was going to
make an omelette because I thought that would be easy. It burned to
start with, and then instead of puffing up light, it flattened out till
it was just like india-rubber. And Mamma can’t cook any better. I
don’t know what we are going to do."
Peggy looked sympathetically at the troubled face beside her. "Why, if
you’d like," she began, then hesitated, remembering her past experience.
But having started the sentence there seemed no way out of finishing it.
"I’ll be glad to show you all I know," she ended with a gulp.
Apparently the present Elaine, staring moodily at Peggy’s handiwork,
bore little resemblance to the Elaine who had frigidly declined the
cinnamon rolls. She drew a long, sighing breath, "I’d like to learn,"
she replied. "But I’m afraid I’d be dreadfully stupid about it."
It was Peggy’s habit to strike while the iron was hot. "It’s Sally’s
day out," she said. "I’m going to get supper. Wouldn’t you like a
lesson this afternoon?"
"Are you sure it wouldn’t be a bother?"
Peggy’s ears had not deceived her. The friendly offer had not been
declined. With a face as radiant as if she had just received
notification of a legacy, she hurried to make arrangements with her
prospective pupil.
"Come over about four. That’ll give us lots of time for experiments."
She carried the half-painted chair into the woodshed in a jubilant mood,
which was rather remarkable considering that she had been prevented from
finishing the task on which she had started. Like all energetic people
Peggy detested interruptions. But this was too much of a red-letter day
for her to allow herself to be depressed by trifles.
Promptly at four Elaine presented herself, wearing over her black serge
dress a little embroidered apron, about the size of a
pocket-handkerchief. Peggy regarded the lace-edged affair with an
amazement which Elaine mistook for admiration.
"Pretty, isn’t it?" she said, glancing down at it complacently. "It was
a Christmas present."
"It would be fine for a chafing-dish supper," Peggy returned, feeling
that if she were to act as Elaine’s instructor she must begin with the
fundamentals. "Chafing dishes and the aprons that go with them are all
right for fun, but, when it comes to real business, there’s nothing like
a good range and a big apron. I’ll lend you one of mine."
Elaine, enveloped in a long apron which fell to the bottom of her skirt,
was soon being initiated into some of the preliminary mysteries of
household economy. "There are five of us Raymonds to get supper for,"
Peggy said counting them off on her fingers. "And Dick’s always so
hungry that he counts for two. You’ll stay, won’t you?"
"O, I’d better not. I don’t know anybody but you."
"That’ll be the best way to get acquainted. And, besides, if you help
with the cooking, you ought to help eat the things. That’s half the
fun. I don’t know how anybody can be a good cook who hasn’t got a good
appetite. I simply adore the things I make."
After a careful examination of the refrigerator the supper was planned.
There had been baked fish for dinner, and the remnants, Peggy explained
to the respectfully attentive Elaine, arranged in a baking dish, with
cream sauce between the layers and crumbs on top, would be even more
delicious than the fish in its original state. Peggy also decided on
baking powder biscuits. "They’re such handy things," she said. "And
you can stir them up so quickly and keep on baking as long as anybody is
hungry; so they’re one of the very first things you should learn to
make."
Working with Peggy, Elaine began to understand why she found everything
"fun." The neat, pleasant kitchen had a charm of its own. There was an
agreeable excitement about the business of evolving a palatable supper
from materials which the eye of inexperience had found unpromising.
Elaine asked a great many questions, helped a little, in an awkward
fashion, which unkind critics would have pronounced a hindrance rather
than an aid, and was conscious of a steadily increasing respect for this
deft-handed girl who knew so well what she wanted to do and how to do
it.
The telephone bell rang while Peggy was sifting out the flour for the
biscuits. She dusted her hands, and went to answer it. "Very well,
father," Elaine heard her say, and she was smiling when she came running
back.
"We’re going to have company," she announced to Elaine as if the news
were pleasant. "A Mr. White, one of father’s friends." She reflected a
moment, frowning thoughtfully. "I guess we’ll put some potatoes in the
oven to bake. There’ll be time enough if we pick out small ones, and
there’s plenty of the fruit cake."
The potatoes were washed hastily and consigned to the oven, and Peggy
sifted out a little more flour. Then the door bell rang and there was a
sound of voices in the hall. A moment later Peggy’s mother slipped into
the kitchen and shut the door behind her.
"Peggy, old Mr. and Mrs. Andrews have just come. I suppose they’ll stay
for supper. Have you got enough for two more?"
"O, yes. We’ll have enough," Peggy answered blithely.
"Don’t you want me to help you?"
"O, I’m getting on finely with my neighbor’s assistance. You can go
back and entertain the company." As her mother slipped away, looking
relieved, Peggy added to Elaine, "I didn’t know what I was getting you
into when I asked you over this afternoon."
"Will there really be enough for so many?" demanded Elaine, feeling
rather oppressed by the weight of these unusual responsibilities.
"I’ve had a brilliant idea; I’m going to heat some maple syrup. People
like it with hot biscuit, and, besides, it takes off the edge of their
appetite," Peggy explained shamelessly. "But we shall have to put an
extra leaf in the table, I’m afraid."
At six o’clock everything was ready. A pleasant mixture of odors
pervaded the house, the fragrance of coffee being most in evidence.
Peggy had just taken a pan of biscuit from the oven, and was calling
Elaine’s attention to their flaky lightness, when Dick put his head
through the door.
"Say, Peg--"
"O, is that you, Dick? This is our new neighbor, Elaine Marshall."
Dick gave a shy little bob of his head in Elaine’s direction. "Say,
Peg," he repeated.
"Yes, dear."
"Looney Batezell’s mother has gone somewhere to supper, and his father,
too, and the hired girl won’t fuss to fix him anything decent, and so I
just told him to come over here to supper."
Elaine waited for the explosion that did not come. "Very well," Peggy
said resignedly. As the door closed and Dick’s footsteps echoed along
the hall, she flung a twinkle in Elaine’s direction. "It never rains
but it pours," she quoted.
"Why, I don’t see--" Elaine checked herself, reflecting that it was not
necessary for the matter to be explained to her satisfaction. But Peggy
took it on herself to reply to the unspoken remonstrance.
"I suppose I might have told Dick he couldn’t have Looney to-night. But
it’s only one more and it doesn’t really make much difference. Besides
we like to have Dick feel that his friends are welcome. When you are
bringing up a boy," concluded Peggy, laughing, and still very much in
earnest, "you have to think of so many things."
Peggy did not eat her supper that evening till the others had finished.
She waited on the table, and baked biscuit, and if there was anything
more remarkable than the celerity with which the biscuit plates were
cleared, it was the promptness with which they were refilled, each time
with flaky, smoking-hot biscuits, which fairly melted in one’s mouth.
Only in one respect had Peggy miscalculated, and that was when she
remarked that the maple syrup would take off the edge of her guests’
appetites. To all appearances it only whetted them to a more razor-like
keenness.
But everybody was satisfied at last, and Peggy ate her own supper, her
cheerfulness unimpaired by the fact that the baking dish had been
scraped clean before her turn came, and that her baked potato was
overdone. She protested against Elaine’s determination to stay and help
her with the dishes, but Elaine was firm.
"It’s only fair, as part payment for my lesson. And, besides, I dare say
I need to learn things about washing dishes as well as cooking."
As a matter of fact, Elaine had learned several things that afternoon,
and the secret of making baking-powder biscuits was not perhaps the most
important. She had seen a girl not far from her own age equal to an
emergency which older housekeepers would have found trying, keeping her
head clear and temper unruffled. Elaine was beginning to understand
that it was not what Peggy did, so much as her way of doing it, that set
her apart.
"I feel real selfish keeping you so long," Peggy declared, when the last
dish was in its place. "Your poor mother will have been awfully
lonely."
"O, no, she--" Elaine paused with an air of checking herself on the
verge of an admission. "Mamma doesn’t mind being alone," she ended, but
Peggy was quite sure that this was not what she had intended to say.
Peggy stood in the doorway while her new friend and pupil crossed the
yard, passed through the opening in the hedge and tried her own door.
It was locked, and Elaine knocked and waited till her mother came to let
her in. As the door opened Elaine turned and waved a good night to the
figure framed in light, watching to be sure that she was safely home.
As Peggy returned the greeting, something odd happened. In the room
above a shade was lowered. All that Peggy saw was an extended arm and a
white hand pulling down the shade, but she stood staring as if this had
been a most out-of-the-way proceeding.
"Queer thing," mused Peggy. "Elaine and her mother are downstairs at
the door, and they haven’t any servant, and I’m sure I thought Mrs.
Marshall was alone this evening."
She looked blankly at the non-committal shade, then remembered her
morning’s lessons, and, closing the door, ran upstairs to her school
books. By bed-time she had forgotten to wonder whose hand had lowered
the shade in that upstairs room.
*CHAPTER V*
*A HALLOWE’EN PARTY*
While Peggy’s acquaintance with Elaine had been steadily progressing,
the other girls were little farther along than on the memorable morning
when they welcomed the wrong hack. Priscilla had begun to speak of
"Peggy’s friend" with an intonation which showed resentment.
"It’s because we live next to each other, I suppose," said Peggy, who
never imagined that her own sunniness of disposition could prove a
magnet to attract friends and was always devising explanations for their
abundance. "You haven’t had a fair chance. I believe I’ll give a
Hallowe’en party, so that Elaine can get acquainted with the rest of
you."
The suggestion awakened an enthusiasm that had little connection with
Elaine. Peggy’s parties were simple affairs, old-fashioned, one might
call them. There was no orchestra playing behind a screen of palms, no
elaborate refreshments, no display of pretty frocks. Indeed Peggy very
often said, "Don’t put on your good clothes; you might hurt them." Many
a girl of Peggy’s age who regards herself as a young lady would turn up
her nose at one of Peggy’s parties, where everybody came at eight
o’clock and went home correspondingly early, and where nobody made an
effort to appear grown up. But since Peggy’s guests invariably had a
good time, "the best time ever," they were likely to declare, Peggy was
entirely satisfied.
Elaine, being new to the traditions of the Terrace, opened her eyes when
Peggy tendered her an invitation across the hedge. "A Hallowe’en
party," she repeated, a question in her voice. "Isn’t that rather--"
"Rather what?" inquired Peggy with such good-natured curiosity that
Elaine almost regretted her beginning.
"O, nothing. Only a Hallowe’en party seems rather childish, don’t you
think?"
"I didn’t think anything about it, except that it was fun," Peggy
answered tranquilly. And then she added the warning so likely to
accompany Peggy’s invitations, "Don’t wear your good clothes."
"What!"
"I mean don’t wear anything good enough to hurt."
"I haven’t anything particularly nice," said Elaine with dignity, "but
if I’m going to a party where I’ll meet a lot of strangers I naturally
shall wear my best." She looked at Peggy half resentfully, half
perplexedly, reflecting as she did so that Peggy was the sort of girl
who could wear an old dress to a party and have a good time in spite of
it. But, then, Peggy wasn’t like other people. A very short residence
on the Terrace had been long enough to bring Elaine to this conclusion.
Peggy was very busy the next ten days. She had never been accustomed to
much spending money, and she had early learned that for the drawback of
a slender purse there is abundant compensation in cleverness and
ingenuity. Whatever pleasure Peggy’s parties gave her friends, she
enjoyed them doubly, for she had the pleasure of preparation along with
the other. If a bubbling laugh escaped over the transom of Peggy’s
room, when she was supposed to be abed and asleep, some member of the
household was sure to say, "Peggy’s got a new idea," and to smile in
sympathy.
That some busy brain had been evolving ideas, and that busy hands had
been carrying them out, was evident enough on the night of the
thirty-first. The light was turned low in the hall, and a sheeted
figure at the door welcomed each comer with extended hand. The ceremony
of hand-shaking was generally followed by little shrill squeals on the
part of the arrivals, and voluble exclamations.
[Illustration: "A SHEETED FIGURE AT THE DOOR WELCOMED EACH COMER WITH
EXTENDED HAND."]
Elaine, coming in alone, and holding her head very high, distinguished
herself by not screaming when the clammy hand touched hers, though she
jumped, without any question. There was an unearthly chill about that
hand, which, coupled with the sepulchral white garments and the dark
eyes showing through holes edged with red, produced a singular shivery
feeling along Elaine’s spine.
"It’s Dick, I guess," said the girl who had entered just ahead of
Elaine, plunging into conversation without waiting for an introduction.
"He’s got on gloves, wet chamois-skin gloves, but who would imagine that
it would feel so ghastly? Don’t you love to have your blood run cold?"
Fortunately Elaine was spared the necessity of answering that question
by encountering Peggy, who gave both arrivals a rapturous squeeze and
bore them off to her room to remove their wraps.
The Raymond living-room had been transformed in honor of Peggy’s party.
Jack-o’-lanterns grinned from the mantel and the book-cases. A tub of
water, Elaine noticed with disapproval, occupied the centre of the room.
Hung over the grate was an old iron kettle, in whose depths something
silvery bubbled responsive to the heat below. The chairs set back
against the wall were filled with laughing girls; for, in spite of
Peggy’s repeated warnings that Elaine was not to be late, she was the
last arrival.
"We’ll start with the lead, that’s boiling so nicely, and perhaps lead
boils away, just as water does." Peggy brought out a long-handled tin
spoon, and a basin filled with water. "Come, Ruth," she commanded.
"O, let somebody else take her turn first," pleaded Ruth, but half a
dozen hands pushed her forward. Cautiously she ladled a little of the
melted lead into the water. Hissing it fell to the bottom of the basin,
taking shape as it cooled. The girls crowded about to read the augury.
"Ruth!" Peggy’s voice was preternaturally solemn. "It’s awful, but it
looks to me like three balls. Do you suppose you are going to marry a
pawn-broker?"
"O, horrors!" cried Ruth, aghast. Milly Weston patted her shoulder
comfortingly.
"Don’t you believe it. I can see leaves and branches, too. Those three
balls are fruit; oranges probably. That means you’re going to have an
orange ranch in California or Florida, and make lots of money."
The rest of the fortune telling proved equally cheerful. The fantastic
shapes assumed by the lead in cooling could be interpreted in a variety
of ways. While Priscilla insisted that fate had moulded the lead she
let fall into the shape of the horn of plenty, which, of course, would
signify prosperity, Peggy was positive that the lead had taken the form
of a ship, and signified a voyage, while some of the girls saw a fish in
the curved shape, and advanced ingenious theories as to its meaning.
There was no disagreement as to Elaine’s fortune. The lead took the
form of a violin, and Peggy triumphantly prophesied that her new friend
would make a success in music. Elaine smiled with a sense of
superiority, as one who has outgrown childish things, but she could not
help being glad of the violin, in place of the rolling-pin Peggy had
claimed for herself, and which she considered argued skill in the
domestic arts. Though Elaine was trying hard to put Peggy’s lessons
into execution she had not got beyond the point of regarding housework
as drudgery.
By the time the supply of lead was exhausted the company was ready for
something else. Into the tub filled with water Peggy dropped three
apples, which bobbed against one another sociably and then went sailing
off in different directions.
"O, dear me, Peggy," Amy cried reproachfully, "I’ve got the loveliest
wave in my hair, and it would have lasted a week if it wasn’t for you.
I always get down to the bottom of the tub when I bob for apples and
look like a wet kitten for the rest of the evening."
"I’ve had pity on your hair, honey," Peggy laughed, with an approving
pat of Amy’s fair locks. "It looks much too nice to spoil." She
brought a bow and arrow from the adjoining room. "Instead of bobbing
for apples," she explained, "you try to hit them with the arrow. The
yellow apple stands for wealth, the red one for health, and the green
for happiness. See! Dick fixed something sharp in the end of the arrow
so it would stick."
The girls gathered around to admire, then drew off, while Amy made her
first attempt in archery. The cord twanged as the arrow sped on its
way. There was a shriek from the girls on Amy’s right.
"Oh! Oh!" screamed Blanche Estabrook cowering and clutching frantically
at the girl who stood next her. "She’s hit me."
It was only too true, and considerable argument was needed to convince
Blanche that the injury was not serious. As a matter of fact, the arrow
had pierced the bow of blue ribbon surmounting her knot of yellow curls,
and hung dangling. What with the agonized exclamations of Amy,
horrified over the thought of what might have happened, and the chatter
of the other girls, trying to explain to Blanche that she couldn’t
possibly be hurt, Peggy had some difficulty in restoring order.
"The trouble was just here, Amy," she explained to her friend. "You
took aim as carefully as could be, and then, just at the last, you shut
your eyes. Now, it stands to reason you can’t hit a mark with your eyes
shut."
"You can hit a mark," corrected Priscilla, "but not the right one."
Poor Amy submitted to her friend’s mild reproof without attempting to
defend herself, and withdrew to the corner in a very subdued mood. The
following archers were more successful. Many times, it is true, the
arrow fell splashing into the water, or stuck quivering in the sides of
the tub, but, occasionally, it pierced one of the three lucky targets,
and on such occasions the whole company shouted joyfully. Elaine was
one of the fortunate archers. When her arrow pierced the apple which
stood for happiness her lips curled a trifle; yet down in her heart she
was conscious of an inconsistent wish that the green apple might be a
true prophet. Happiness! With a little ungirlish sigh Elaine wondered
if she was to find it on Friendly Terrace.
It was Amy’s unlucky night. A little later, twelve colored candles,
each standing upright in its own tiny candle-stick, were ranged the
length of the long hall, at intervals of two or three feet, burning away
like so many miniature light-houses. "These stand for the months,"
explained Peggy; "the first one is November, and then December, and so
on around the year. If you jump over them without putting them out,
you’ll have good luck all the year."
"And if you put them out?" inquired Amy anxiously.
"Every candle that goes out means bad luck for that particular month.
Come, Priscilla. You try it first."
In spite of her height, Priscilla was as light on her feet as a fairy.
Drawing her skirts around her, she went hopping down the hall so lightly
that she left the whole twelve candles burning behind her. The applause
this feat called forth was less enthusiastic than it would have been a
little later, when the other girls had learned by experience the
difficulties in the way of duplicating Priscilla’s performance.
While Blanche was lamenting over the fact that the three candles which
stood for the summer months had been extinguished, which she interpreted
to mean that she was to be disappointed in certain cherished vacation
plans, Amy came forward to try her fate. Clutching her skirts
frantically, she jumped over the first candle, coming down with a thump
which fairly shook the house, while the cheery little flame which stood
for November blinked in astonishment and promptly went out. Ten times
did Amy repeat this feat. When she reached the end of the hall only one
of the twelve candles remained lighted, and the girls were in peals of
laughter.
"’’Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone,’" Peggy quoted
tragically, but Amy was in no mood to see the humor of the situation.
"Did you ever hear of anything so dreadful?" she moaned. "What a year!
Only one lucky month in it."
The girls laughed again at her horrified tone, and Peggy crossed the
room and shook her playfully.
"You’re actually pale, you ridiculous, superstitious creature," she said
severely. "As if it wasn’t all a joke. I guess we’ll have some
refreshments now to revive you."
The refreshments were of the simplest sort; nuts and apples, with plates
of home-made candy, but they added vastly to the evening’s
entertainment. The chestnuts were placed in pairs on the coals of the
grate fire, and when they bounded apart, as the most of them did, great
excitement developed in the little company. From the English walnuts,
tiny vessels were constructed and launched in couples on the troubled
waters of the tub. If the little craft stuck together in their voyage
across, the omen was counted a good one, while their parting company was
hailed with lamentation.
All this gaiety had taken time. The hands of the clock were pointing to
half past eleven. "The question is," said Peggy solemnly, "who’s to be
the one to go down the cellar-stairs."
Several of the girls shuddered, but no one volunteered. "It won’t be
me," cried Amy, excitement rendering her defiant of grammar. "I wouldn’t
do it for the world; would you?" she added, finding Elaine’s eyes fixed
on her curiously.
"Do what? I don’t understand."
"Why, just as the clock is striking twelve, you go down the
cellar-stairs, with a candle in one hand and a mirror in the other."
"You go down backward," Ruth reminded her.
"O, yes. You must walk backward. And when you get to the bottom of the
stairs you set the mirror down somewhere and the candle in front of it,
and begin to eat an apple."
Apparently the solemnity of the proceeding was failing to make due
impression on Elaine. Amy’s voice became thrillingly mysterious.
"You must look and look into the mirror as hard as you can, all the time
that you’re eating the apple. And, before you’ve finished, a face will
be looking over your shoulder. O my!" Amy indulged in a prolonged
shiver.
"I wouldn’t do it for worlds," she repeated.
"How odd! I shouldn’t mind it at all," said Elaine.
"Why, then you can do it," Peggy cried. "You’re just the one. Light
that red candle, Priscilla. No, not that. The largest one. Here’s your
mirror and your apple, and you must be ready to start down the stairs
the minute the clock begins to strike twelve."
"It’s a pretty big apple, considering what I’ve had already," laughed
Elaine. "Is it necessary to eat it all?"
Peggy assured her that this was very necessary, that even the core must
be disposed of, but Amy cast upon the daring stranger a glance of
unfeigned admiration. "Isn’t she brave?" she said to Blanche, in an
undertone, and a little assenting murmur went the rounds. Few people
are displeased by earning a reputation for heroism cheaply, and Elaine
was smiling good-humoredly as she took her stand in front of the cellar
door, the mirror in one hand, and the lighted candle in the other, while
she held the apple in her teeth, Peggy assuring her gravely that this
was indispensable to the success of the charm.
The grandfather’s clock in the hall began to strike in its usual
deliberate fashion. Peggy swung the door open and closed it again as
Elaine began her hesitating descent into the darkness. At the bottom of
the stairs she found two boxes placed in evident preparation for the
ceremony, the taller against the wall, the lower just in front of it.
Elaine set down the mirror, placed the candle beside it, and, seating
herself on the smaller box, began to eat her apple.
It was very still upstairs. Elaine wondered smilingly how it was
possible for so many chatterboxes to preserve so protracted a silence.
The Friendly Terrace girls were a jolly crowd, that was certain,
especially Peggy. Elaine’s heart warmed as she thought of the stranger
who had bidden her welcome as if she were already a friend. If there
were more people in the world like Peggy--
The trend of her thought broke off sharply. The candle must have
flickered. That was the explanation of the odd appearance in the
mirror. She leaned forward and the apple dropped from her hand, and
bumped to the cellar floor. From the dimly lighted disk, two eyes
looked back at her.
In the momentary confusion of her ideas, Elaine was conscious only of a
deep-rooted resentment against Amy. It was her foolish talk and her
shivers which had got on her nerves and was responsible for this wild
fancy. And while her common sense struggled to keep its supremacy over
her growing panic, the eyes rolled in the mirror, as if a head had
turned, and something brushed her cheek.
Elaine’s shrieks were answered by a chorus of screams from the room
above. There was a wild rush of feet and the cellar door was flung
open. Elaine could hear Amy’s uplifted voice declaring, "She’s seen
something! I tell you she’s seen something!" As Peggy rushed madly
down the stairs to the rescue of her guest, a big tawny shape bounded to
meet her.
"Get out of the way, Taffy. Get out!" Peggy commanded impatiently, and
the dog whined his disappointment at such a greeting. But Elaine, when
Peggy reached her, was laughing and crying together.
"You poor darling!" Peggy flung her arms about her friend and glared
defiantly into the darkness. "What happened? Did you see anything?"
"It must have been the--the dog," sobbed Elaine. "He came up be-behind
me so softly, I didn’t hear him, and I saw his eyes in the mirror. I
d-didn’t know he was down here."
By the time the two had got upstairs, merriment had replaced
consternation among Peggy’s guests. The appearance of Taffy, waving a
triumphant yellow tail, suggested the explanation of the mystery, rather
to the disappointment of some whose expectations had been so highly
keyed that the truth seemed really commonplace. The appearance of
Elaine, her lashes moist, and her lips still trembling, was the signal
for friendly advances on the part of all. The girls gathered about the
crestfallen heroine, patted her, petted her, praised her courage in
attempting such an adventure, and assured her that none of them would
have been brave enough to try it. Occasionally a hint of patronage
peeped through the comfort, and Elaine was made aware that she had
forfeited her reputation for courage almost as soon as she had made it.
But, on the whole, the kindliness was comforting to a girl who carried a
sore spot in her inmost heart, and in spite of the untoward ending
Elaine carried home a very pleasant impression of her first party on
Friendly Terrace.
*CHAPTER VI*
*ELAINE HAS VISITORS*
It was Priscilla who, on the way home from school the next day,
suggested stopping to see if Elaine had quite recovered from the effects
of the Hallowe’en party. She made the remark to Peggy, but Amy, who
with Ruth was walking just behind the others, took it on herself to
answer.
"Yes, that was just what I was thinking. It wouldn’t be any more than
neighborly after her fright, and all the rest of it."
Priscilla choked down an exasperated sigh. She said to herself it was
strange Amy couldn’t realize that there might be occasions when one
wanted Peggy to one’s self. At the same time it was not altogether
Amy’s obtuseness which was responsible for the difficulty of
monopolizing Peggy’s society. Peggy herself, with her trick of liking
everybody, and expecting all her friends to like one another, made
monopoly difficult, if not impossible.
Accordingly four girls, instead of two, turned in at the Marshall
cottage. The chatter of voices on the porch told Elaine that she had
visitors and she came to the door in something of a flutter, for, with
all her air of self-sufficiency, Elaine was shy at heart, as is often
the case with people who hold their acquaintances at arms’ length. She
was uncertain, as she admitted the quartet, whether or not to ask them
into the parlor, but Peggy, who had caught sight of Mrs. Marshall seated
in great state in the living-room, and apparently absorbed in the
contemplation of a steel-engraving over the mantel, settled the question
by bearing down upon the engrossed lady and giving her a hearty
greeting.
Mrs. Marshall welcomed her daughter’s visitors with an air nicely
balanced between cordiality and condescension. Nearly everything that
Mrs. Marshall said and did conveyed the impression that she had seen
better days, and that she would not submit to being judged by her
present environment. Peggy, who had a perfect mania for cheering
people, found Mrs. Marshall’s air of melancholy a perpetual challenge,
and, when Mrs. Marshall gave her a chance, she occasionally succeeded in
bringing a smile to that lady’s severe countenance, much to her own
delight, and to Mrs. Marshall’s astonishment.
She dropped into a chair next to Elaine’s mother, and addressed her as
soon as the introductions were over. "I hope you weren’t lonely last
evening, Mrs. Marshall, with Elaine away."
"I am used to loneliness, Miss Margaret," Mrs. Marshall returned
pensively. "It is one of the many hard things to which I am now forced
to accustom myself. When I was Elaine’s age--"
Peggy resigned herself to listen to a story of past glories while the
other girls plunged into a discussion of the party. "What a fright we
all had when you screamed!" Amy laughed. "But, of course, it was worse
for you than for anybody else. Did you feel all right this morning?"
"I felt a little cheap," Elaine acknowledged with a smile, while her
color rose, "That was all."
"You’re not the only one to feel that way," Priscilla comforted her.
"There were some sheepish boys at school this morning. My father is the
high-school principal, you know."
"Yes, Peggy spoke of it."
"Well, in the middle of the night father thought he heard a little noise
around the house and he dressed and went out to the stable. Everything
seemed quiet, and he was just starting to go in again when he heard
steps outside. He slipped into the carriage, just to see what would
happen, and then the door opened and five or six boys came creeping in.
They took hold of the shafts of the carriage and started off at a good
trot, with father sitting perfectly quiet, not saying a word."
Priscilla stopped to laugh, and her audience, especially the girls who
knew the actors in the little comedy, joined her heartily. Peggy, who
was hearing of the splendors of Mrs. Marshall’s coming-out party, to
which festivity two hundred guests had been invited, cast a wistful
glance in the direction of the laughing group, and then, with a twinge
of conscience, gave redoubled attention to the tale of by-gone grandeur.
"They carried him out to the new part of town," said Priscilla,
continuing her story, "and pulled the carriage over to a vacant lot. And
they were feeling so well satisfied with themselves, when father spoke
out from behind the curtains, in his very deepest voice. ’Thank you for
the ride, boys,’ he said. ’It has been very enjoyable! But I think you
may take me home now.’ Of course there wasn’t anything else for them to
do, and father rode home in state. He made them pull the carriage into
the stable, and then he got out and locked the door and thanked them
again, very politely. Father can keep as grave as a judge even when he
is dying to laugh. But as soon as he got into the house he woke mother
up to enjoy the joke. He just couldn’t wait till morning."
"I guess you had your share of Hallowe’en pranks, didn’t you?" asked
Amy, turning to Elaine.
"Why, no. What made you think so?"
"When that carriage passed the house I woke up. It was a sort of
uncanny noise, you know, wheels and footsteps, instead of horses’ hoofs.
I suspected that something queer happening and I jumped up and looked
out of my window, but the carriage had gone before I could get there.
But I saw somebody on your porch."
"The boys in this neighborhood were certainly on the rampage last
night," observed Ruth.
"But this wasn’t a boy," explained Amy. "It was a woman, or a girl,
dressed in a long, loose dress, like a light wrapper."
"How mysterious that sounds," cried Priscilla, and Peggy, who, to her
great relief, had reached the end of the coming-out party, put in her
word. "It’s something new for the girls of the Terrace to go out
playing Hallowe’en tricks."
"But it wasn’t a Hallowe’en trick. There wasn’t anything out of order
this morning," Elaine insisted sharply.
"It was something, anyway. I was as wide awake as I am now. It walked
back and forth half a dozen times, while I stood looking, and then it
seemed to disappear. O, girls, you don’t suppose--"
Amy’s eyes were opened in a half-frightened stare. A girl of good sense
in many respects, she had a vein of superstition in her make-up which
was one of her greatest weaknesses. Peggy broke into a ringing laugh.
"The Spook on the Porch," she cried, "or the Mystery of Friendly
Terrace. O, Amy, what an imagination you have!"
"It wasn’t imagination at all," Amy persisted stubbornly. "It was a
woman or something--in a trailing dress. I wasn’t scared a bit. I just
thought it was a Hallowe’en prank."
"Don’t you think it’s a lot colder to-day?" asked Elaine of the company
in general. Her tone was a little stiff, and Peggy, glancing in her
direction, was surprised to see a flush of annoyance on her new friend’s
face. Mrs. Marshall, too, had an air of having heard enough about this
nocturnal intruder. It was necessary to change the subject promptly,
especially as Amy and Priscilla seemed disposed to fall into an argument
as to what Amy had really seen.
"I haven’t asked you yet if you’d help in our Bazar, have I?" exclaimed
Peggy, addressing Elaine. "It’s the tenth of this month. It was the
tenth we decided on at last, wasn’t it, Ruth?"
"Yes, the tenth," Ruth replied, and Priscilla took up the explanation.
"It’s for the Empty Stocking Club. We buy dolls with the money we make,
and dress them afterward."
"And it’s an awful lot of fun," said Peggy. "Fun all the way, first
making the things for the Bazar, and then the Bazar itself, and then
buying the dolls and dressing them. And of course giving them to the
children is the best fun of all." She looked at Elaine expectantly,
but, to her surprise, Elaine hesitated.
"My daughter would have been very glad to help you when our
circumstances were different," said Mrs. Marshall, coming to Elaine’s
assistance. "My family have always given largely to charity.
Solicitors for philanthropic objects often said to my father, ’We like
to come to you first, Mr. Elwell, because you always give so generously,
and that inspires others.’ And Mr. Marshall, before his business
reverses, thought nothing of writing a check for a hundred dollars for a
worthy cause."
"The trouble with me," said Elaine abruptly, "is that it is all I can do
to help myself." She looked about the little circle, somewhat
defiantly, and Peggy, who knew that this piece of confidence was not in
the least like Elaine, felt a twinge of regret at having unintentionally
forced her to make such an admission.
"You don’t understand. Of course none of us can give big things," she
explained hastily. "Now, last year, one of the best sellers at our Bazar
was as simple as it could be, and it hardly cost anything. It was only
a gingham belt, with two dangling tapes, and, at the end of each tape, a
square of gingham padded for lifting things out of the oven. They
really are the most convenient things; for, generally, when the cake’s
ready to come out, you can’t find anything to lift it with, and so you
take your apron, or else a dish towel. We sold them for twenty cents
apiece and took orders for a lot more than we had ready."
"And, sometimes, you can make a dear little work-bag out of pieces you
have in the house," suggested Ruth. "I made a real pretty one last
year: don’t you remember, Peggy? If I had piece of newspaper I could show
you just how it was done. You can use scraps of silk and ribbon you
wouldn’t think were good for anything."
Somebody found the necessary newspaper, and Ruth hastily constructed a
pattern of the article she had tried to describe, while Elaine listened,
her color rising steadily. The girls had misunderstood her, and their
efforts to show her how she could help without being at any expense
added to her sense of humiliation. What she had really meant to imply
was that a girl situated as she was, should be exempt from any
obligations to help other people. Elaine looked upon herself as an
object of sympathy. It was bad enough to face the prospect that one’s
own stocking would be empty at Christmas time--relatively empty, at
least--but to be asked to help fill other stockings was adding insult to
injury.
Yet this, hard as it was, did not cut as deeply as the suggestions the
girls were now making, with the best intentions in the world. Poverty,
from Elaine’s standpoint, was equally a misfortune and a disgrace. She
had confessed defiantly to being poor, without dreaming that her callers
would take her at her word, and proceed on the assumption that in her
case economy was really a matter of importance. When Priscilla started
in with a description of a hat-pin holder, the materials of which, she
assured Elaine, impressively, wouldn’t cost more than ten cents at the
outside, Elaine felt that she had reached the limit of endurance.
"There!" she exclaimed as if the thought had just occurred to her. "I
believe I have a little thing ready that I could contribute." She went
to her room, a sense of triumph effacing the intolerable humiliation of
the past few minutes. The sacrifice she was about to make was
insignificant compared with her opportunity to silence her advisers, and
to prove that in spite of the reverses with which the family had met,
she could be as generous as anybody. The article for which Elaine was
looking was put away carefully, wrapped in tissue paper. She looked at
it with brightening eyes, and returned to her visitors almost jauntily.
"It’s a little thing I made in the summer," she observed casually. "The
Irish crochet is awfully popular, you know, and I think the pattern’s
rather pretty." With a carelessness almost too pronounced, she dropped
her offering on Peggy’s knee. "If that will do you any good, you’re
quite welcome to it."
Peggy was staring with all her eyes. "Why, Elaine! Why, girls! It’s a
collar. Real Irish crochet! Isn’t it gorgeous!"
Such as it was, Elaine’s triumph was complete. The girls broke into
exclamations of admiration, exchanging bewildered glances as they did
so.
"She made it herself. Isn’t she a wonder? There won’t be anything at
the Bazar to compare with it."
"That ought to bring a splendid price. Just think of the dolls we can
buy with all that money."
"It’s _gorgeous_," repeated Peggy. She looked from the dainty article
in her hand toward the giver. "Really, Elaine," she hesitated, "it’s
too nice. It’s more than you ought to give."
An instant reappearance of Elaine’s old hauteur convinced Peggy that she
had blundered. "If I am going to give anything," Elaine said with
dignity, "I want it to be nice."
The tactful Peggy abandoned her well-intentioned effort to prevent what
she felt sure was a piece of reckless generosity. "Well, you’ve done
it," she laughed. "It’s pretty certain that we won’t have anything else
nearly as nice as this. And, Elaine, you’ll help us the day of the
Bazar, won’t you? There’ll be lots to do, selling the things, and
serving the ice cream, and being nice to the people who come in."
Elaine having reinstated herself in her own eyes, by the character of
her donation, graciously agreed to lend whatever assistance might be
further required, and then everybody seemed to feel at the same moment
that it was time to go. Priscilla excused herself on the ground of her
lessons. "With your school principal for a father," she explained, "you
can’t afford to fail very often." Ruth remembered that Graham was going
to bring somebody home to supper. Amy made vague references to letters
that must be written. They moved toward the door with less chatter and
laughter than usually characterizes the farewells of girls of their age.
At the foot of the walk they parted, Amy and Peggy walking on together,
while the other two turned in the opposite direction.
"Say, Peggy!" Amy cast a sidelong glance at her companion. "Do you
think Elaine is awfully generous?"
Peggy’s eyes opened. "Why, it was very generous to give us that
collar," she exclaimed. "You know that Irish lace--"
"O, yes, I know all about it." Under Amy’s careless good nature a
shrewdness of observation sometimes cropped out in a rather surprising
fashion. "It was generous, if she cared about the Empty Stockings, but
something in the way she did it made me feel as if it was mostly
intended to impress us."
"O, Amy!" Peggy was unfeignedly shocked. Amy met her reproachful gaze
and surrendered with a laugh.
"You funny old Peg!" she said disrespectfully. "Well, never mind _why_
she did it. Our finances will get quite a boost, anyway. Good night."
And as she crossed the street, she added with seeming irrelevance, "I’m
sorry for anybody who makes such hard work of being poor."
*CHAPTER VII*
*THE BAZAR*
The next ten days were busy ones for the girls of the Terrace. It is
true the Bazar had been more or less on their minds throughout the year,
and many of them had devoted a generous share of their summer’s leisure
to preparation, but now industry had become epidemic. The girls met at
one another’s homes after school, and, busy as their tongues were, those
nimble organs failed to outstrip the industrious fingers.
Elaine was not invited to any of these gatherings, for the girls all
felt that she had done her full share, and that she would probably
consider herself imposed on, if asked for further assistance. Dorothy,
on the other hand, was an important figure at almost every meeting. To
see Dorothy sewing together pieces of bright-colored calico, with
stitches an inch long, was a constant incentive to industry, while her
habit of waiting till an article was completed before deciding on the
use to which it should be put, enlivened the dullest hours. Dorothy
scorned to ask advice; she simply put her small head on one side,
studied the work of her hands thoughtfully, and, after wavering for five
minutes between a doll’s sunbonnet and a penwiper, would perhaps
surprise the company by announcing that the nondescript article was a
necktie for Aunt Peggy.
The Bazar was usually held at Ruth’s home, as in the Wylie cottage two
rooms, separated by folding-doors, could be thrown into one, while the
front hall was of more generous proportions than in most of the houses
of the Terrace. On the memorable Saturday designated on the calendar as
the tenth, the Wylie establishment was a scene of activity suggesting a
hive of bees at swarming time. Girls made their appearance laden with
baskets and mysterious parcels. Graham Wylie, Ruth’s tall brother, with
Dick Raymond, and other boys of the neighborhood, made themselves useful
bringing small tables and ferns, borrowed indiscriminately from anyone
who would lend them.
Elaine, who had come over to help, had a more pleasant sense of
"belonging" than had been hers at any time since the mud-splashed hack
had deposited her at the door of the only vacant cottage on the Terrace.
She had been assigned to assist with the decorations, and being a girl
of excellent taste and original ideas, she gradually found herself
taking charge, and directing the others. This was pleasant in itself,
and the approving comments called forth by the arrangement of flags over
the mantel, and the bunching of the palms and ferns in the front hall,
brought an unwonted color to Elaine’s cheeks and brightness to her eyes.
Peggy, who was accomplishing as much as any other half-dozen of the
workers, paused in her labors long enough to admire the decorative
effects, including the remarkable transformation wrought in Elaine’s
case by a bright color and a cheery smile.
"To think she could be so pretty," Peggy said wonderingly, and then
finding Graham at her elbow she started and colored high.
"That Marshall girl, you mean?" queried Graham, seemingly unaware of her
confusion. "Yes, it does make a difference. Most of the time she looks
a mixture of starch and vinegar that isn’t particularly attractive.
What ails her, anyway?"
"I don’t know." It struck Peggy, as she replied, that all she knew of
Elaine’s affairs was singularly inadequate to account for the weary,
disillusioned look which was the other girl’s habitual expression. "You
know they used to be quite well off," Peggy explained, as Graham helped
her move a table which was taking up more than its share of the room.
"I guess it’s more comfortable never to have much, than to have it and
lose it."
It was not till after one o’clock that everything was ready. The fancy
work tables were in the front room, and the display proved that the
loyalty of the Terrace girls to a good cause was not of the
flash-in-the-pan variety. Many days of hard work were represented on
those crowded tables, and, though the skill of the workers varied, the
average was commendable. Elaine’s collar had the place of honor, with a
background of black velvet to set off its delicately intricate pattern.
In the back parlor were the candy and ice-cream tables, as well as the
little tea-table, over which Priscilla was to preside, the latter being
a concession to the old ladies who no longer possessed a "sweet tooth,"
and who shivered at the suggestion of ice cream in November.
The girls flew home to swallow a hasty dinner, without any very definite
idea as to what they were eating, and then hurried themselves into their
best clothes, and were back again a good half-hour before the advertised
time for opening the Bazar. "From three to ten" the announcements had
read, and when the grandfather’s clock in the hall struck the
first-named hour there was a general craning of necks, as if with the
expectation of seeing a procession of patrons ascending the front steps.
Nobody was in sight, however, and some faces assumed an expression of
anxiety.
"Three o’clock and not a soul here," Ruth said tragically. "O, dear! I
hope that somebody’ll come after we’ve all worked so hard."
"There’s a splendid concert at the Lyric this afternoon. I shouldn’t
wonder if that took a great many people who might have come here,"
observed Priscilla, with an air of being prepared for the worst.
"I thought all the time, that we should have some hand-bills," Amy
exclaimed. "You tell people, and you put up notices in the drugstore,
but that isn’t enough. There ought to be hand-bills distributed the
night before."
The spirits of the company were rapidly approaching the zero point when
Peggy came to the rescue with one of her sunny suggestions, which
appreciably raised the temperature. "Why, it’s only three o’clock.
People never come exactly on time to things of this sort." Then she
recounted Dorothy’s latest escapade and set them all to laughing.
But when the hands of the clock pointed to twenty minutes past three,
Peggy’s utmost efforts were unequal to the task of keeping up the
spirits of the little crowd. Various explanations were advanced for the
failure of the Bazar. Peggy’s opinion was asked as to whether or not
Murvin would take back the ice cream. And then the atmosphere of gloom
was dissipated by the sound of the door-bell.
It was an old lady whom Dick Raymond, acting door-keeper, admitted to
the Bazar, a rather shabby old lady, who walked with a limp, and had a
market basket on her arm. It is doubtful whether her arrival would have
been regarded as an important event anywhere outside of Mrs. Wylie’s
parlors. But at the sight of her rusty black bonnet the creases
suddenly vanished from anxious faces and dimples appeared in their
stead. She was the first arrival, and possessed all the mysterious
charm that attaches itself to the first blue-bird or the first violet.
She was an appreciative old lady, too. She referred to the hand-painted
paper-dolls, which formed the major part of Priscilla’s contribution, as
"pretty little images," and admired some crocheted wash-cloths, with
pink edges, under the impression that they were a substantial sort of
doily. Only when her attention was called to a drawnwork handkerchief
did she become critical.
"Mine gets holes in ’em fast enough without beginnin’ that way," said
the old lady, laughing heartily at her own wit, and everybody laughed in
sympathy. She wound up her exhaustive examination of all the articles
displayed by the purchase of a holder and five cents’ worth of peanut
brittle. As she limped down the steps she met three or four ladies
coming up, but not one of them elicited the enthusiasm which had been
the spontaneous tribute to the first arrival.
By quarter after four the rooms were buzzing, and busy as Elaine was,
she found opportunity to admire the resourcefulness of Peggy. It was
Peggy who soothed the feelings of the girl who thought that they should
have charged more for her bureau scarf, and who propitiated the patron
who felt that she had paid more than was right for a hem-stitched towel.
It was Peggy who came to the assistance of a perplexed "saleslady" who
could not think how much change was due her customer, and who took
charge of wrapping some peculiarly obstinate article, and it was also
Peggy who found, for the lady who was aggrieved over discovering that
something she wanted had been sold to another purchaser, a similar
article which suited her just as well. Peggy seemed to have the faculty
of being every where at once. She was equal to all the little crises of
the occasion.
"I don’t see how you manage it," Elaine said to her during a temporary
lull in the proceedings, late in the afternoon. Compliments were rare
on Elaine’s lips, and Peggy, looking up, had no idea that she was being
complimented. "Manage what?" she asked.
"O, helping everybody out, and smoothing everybody down, and the queer
part is that you keep so cheerful about it."
Peggy smiled a little.
"The queer part, as you call it, is really the secret, if I’ve got any
secret. If you keep cheerful and are polite, and don’t lose your head,
it’s easy enough to get other folks to see things the way you do."
By six o’clock the girls were tired but triumphant. Peggy’s cheery
prophesies had been more than realized, and from eight to ten they were
sure of another period of activity, which would, in all probability,
empty their tables and fill their treasury. The workers hurried home
for a supper, even more of a form than dinner had been, and were back on
duty before there was any chance of new arrivals.
On the cheerful group, comparing notes as to the day’s experiences and
calculating the probable gains, by methods which brought startlingly
diverse results, Ruth descended like a whirlwind. "Girls, the ice
cream’s gone."
"Gone!" echoed a blank chorus, and Peggy, as usual the first to rally,
exclaimed, "Why, I don’t see how that can be. We didn’t have--"
"No, no, you don’t understand," cried poor Ruth, wringing her hands.
"We only used one freezer of ice cream this afternoon. But the other
one, the big one, has disappeared."
"Stolen!" Priscilla gasped. "Well, anybody who’s mean enough to steal
from empty-stocking children!"
"That’ll cut down our profits dreadfully," groaned Amy.
Peggy roused herself. "Maybe there’s some mistake," she cried. "It
almost seems as if there _must_ be some mistake. Let’s look outside."
There was a rush for the back door, despite Graham Wylie’s philosophical
suggestion that a ten-quart ice cream freezer was a difficult thing to
mislay. The November night was starless and chilly, and most of the
girls, after taking a disconsolate view of the landscape, withdrew
shivering to the warmth within, to bemoan their misfortune. Perhaps
Peggy found it harder to give up than most people do. She went down the
walk to the alley, Graham following.
"It’s such a big thing," observed Peggy over her shoulder, "that you
wouldn’t think it could get very far without attracting attention. You
don’t suppose--"
"Sh!" warned Graham suddenly, and both went forward on tiptoe. Further
up the alley sounded a curious bumping noise. A murmur of voices broke
the hush of the night.
Graham felt for the bolt of the back gate, found it already drawn, and
smiled, well pleased. The voices outside were audible by now.
"Say, that’s far enough."
"’Tain’t far enough till it’s inside, kid. You don’t s’pose they’s
goin’ to look fer ice cream in no alley, do you?"
Something bumped against the gate. Slowly it opened, and a capped head
appeared. Then Graham pounced; there was a thud and a wild scampering,
and Peggy flew to the rescue of the overturned freezer.
The two small boys who had walked into the trap were no match for the
young collegian, who was training for the hundred yard dash next field
day. If the boys had run in the same direction he would have had them
both, but as one went east and the other west, he was obliged to make a
choice. He came back holding at arm’s length an urchin whose squirmings
were the most extraordinary display of agility that Peggy could remember
to have witnessed.
"Don’t try to carry that freezer," exclaimed Graham, as he returned with
his struggling captive. "We’ll send some of the boys out for it. And
now let’s come inside and see what we’ve got here."
Graham’s captive proved to be a small boy with carroty hair, innumerable
freckles, and a square chin, which, at this moment, seemed possessed of
sufficient stubbornness to equip a regiment. His coat had at one time
been too large for him, but had been fitted to his diminutive person by
cutting the sleeves off at the elbows and pinning the surplus of the
back over into a large plait by means of safety pins. His shoes were so
large that Peggy no longer wondered at the peculiar flapping echo of the
footsteps heard in the alley.
"Well, you young scamp!" Graham held his captive under the chandelier
and scowled down upon him impressively. "You’re making a nice early
start, you are. Do you know where you’re likely to end up, if you keep
on this way?"
If the boy knew, he had no intention of telling. To all appearances he
was both deaf and dumb. His mouth had become a straight, rather bluish
line, above his defiant little chin.
"No tongue, eh? Well, I guess we can find a way to make you talk. Just
step to the ’phone, one of you," added Graham over his shoulder, "and
call up the police station."
There was a chorus of protests.
"O, no, Graham. He’s so little."
"And we’ve got the ice cream back, Graham, so no harm’s done."
Peggy flung herself into the discussion. "Why, Graham, he was bringing
it back."
"Bringing it back," sneered Graham. "Why should he steal it, and then
bring it back?" The logic was irresistible, but Peggy was a girl who
never allowed logic to stand in the way of her facts.
"I don’t know. But I know he was bringing it back. They were way up
the alley when we heard them first, and they’d got to the gate and had
it open, when you jumped at them."
The lids of the small prisoner fluttered, lifted, and dropped again, but
in that instant a glance had sped straight as an arrow to Peggy. The
eyes had uttered an appeal which the stubborn lips would not speak.
"You were bringing it back, weren’t you?" Peggy exclaimed. "Tell us
about it."
The boy squirmed, cast another furtive glance at Peggy, and seemed to
find encouragement in her air of sympathetic attention. His mouth
opened; and a hoarse voice exploded two words, as if they had been
cannon crackers.
"Skinny said--" Then, apparently overcome by the effect of his
beginning, he came to a full stop.
"That’s right," Peggy encouraged him. "What was it Skinny said?"
Another period of squirming, as if the small figure were a corkscrew set
to remove some obstruction to the free flow of speech, and as if a cork
had really popped out, the explanation bubbled forth at last.
"Skinny said you was gettin’ money for the empty stockin’ kids, an’
so--"
"And so you brought it back," exclaimed Peggy, including the entire
company in her triumphant glance.
"Yes, Miss. I uster go to them shows myself," said the boy with an air
suggesting that his youth was at least a score of years behind him.
"They’s all right, they is."
There was a certain honesty about the boy’s manner, in spite of the
transgression in which he had been detected, and this, coupled with the
undeniable fact that he was returning the ice cream freezer when
captured, resulted in a reversal of public sentiment. Little kindly
murmurs passed from one to another, and even Graham did not have the
heart to make further references to the police. "Well, youngster," he
said gruffly, "guess you’d better skip. And just remember that you
won’t get off so easy the next time."
The boy’s instantaneous acceptance of the permission had carried him as
far as the next room when he was checked by Peggy. "Wait a minute," she
cried, "I’ve got something for you." She met Graham’s air of
disapproving inquiry with a suggestion of defiance. "I’m going to give
him a little ice cream," she explained.
"Well, I like that!" Graham was plainly indignant. "He’s lucky not to
be in the lock-up, and here you are petting and pampering him. That’s
just like a girl. You know perfectly," he scolded, as Peggy dished out
the ice cream with a liberal hand, "that people who do things of that
sort ought to be made to smart for it."
"I don’t know," said Peggy over her shoulder. "Nobody made you smart
when you Sophomores stole the ice cream at the Freshman banquet."
"O, that!" exclaimed Graham, reddening. "That was different."
"Yes," Peggy acknowledged generously, "It was different. As far as I
know, you never took it back." And with this parting shot she carried
the well-filled saucer to the boy waiting at the kitchen door.
The rapidity with which the ice cream disappeared was startling, to say
the least. As a half-starved dog bolts his rations of raw meat so
Peggy’s protégé gulped down pink wedges of the unyielding dainty in a
manner suggesting that his digestive apparatus must be of a peculiar and
improved pattern. When the saucer was scraped clean he rolled his eyes
in Peggy’s direction in a manner which might have been intended to
indicate gratitude, or which might be preliminary to a seizure of some
kind.
[Illustration: "THE RAPIDITY WITH WHICH THE ICE CREAM DISAPPEARED WAS
STARTLING, TO SAY THE LEAST.]
"Do you feel all right?" asked Peggy in alarm.
"You bet," the hoarse voice assured her, adding, as an afterthought,
"That stuff’s out of sight."
Peggy forebore to explain that the rapidity with which the delicacy in
question had been put out of sight was the ground of her uneasiness.
"What is your name?" she inquired.
"Jimmy Dunn." The gray eyes met her own squarely and she was confirmed
in her opinion that they were honest eyes.
"Well, Jimmy, it wasn’t right for you to take our ice cream, but it was
very--" Peggy searched for a word in the boy’s vocabulary--"It was very
white of you to bring it back. I like you and I hope I’ll see you
again. Good night."
The door swung ajar and the queer, ungainly little figure slipped
through the opening. Then it turned. "Same to you," said the hoarse
voice, and Peggy heard the big shoes clatter on the walk, as the wearer
raced to the gate. And though that was the most successful Bazar the
girls of the Terrace had ever held, and the spirit of
self-congratulation ran high, perhaps the pleasantest memory that Peggy
carried home with her was that exchange of compliments on the back
doorsteps.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*AT HOME WITH THE DUNNS*
"I can’t," said Peggy. "I’ve got to make a call after school."
Priscilla, who had suggested a trip to the public library, to look up
some of the history references for the next day, glanced at her friend
askance. "O," she said in a voice of deep meaning, "I can’t imagine
what you see in that Elaine Marshall."
"Can’t you?" Peggy’s tone was cheery.
"O, she’s well enough. But to choose her for an intimate friend!
You’re the only one of us who really likes her, you know."
"It’s lucky I like her so much, then," suggested Peggy, still
reprehensibly cheerful.
"O, yes, it’s lucky for her. Nobody would deny that. But as far as
you’re concerned, Peggy, I don’t know. Of course the more intimate you
get with her, the less you see-- Now, Peggy Raymond, I’d like to know
what you’re laughing at."
Peggy’s pent-up chuckle had broken in on the conversation with rather
startling effect. As a tease, Peggy was not an unqualified success,
since she never had the heart to carry her teasing to the climax. "I
was only laughing at your dragging Elaine into it," she explained
blithely. "I’m not going to see her. I’m going to call on the Dunns."
Priscilla wavered between offence and curiosity. Peggy tipped the
balance by giving her friend’s arm a good-natured squeeze.
"The Dunns," repeated Priscilla hastily, as if glad to get away from the
previous topic of conversation. "Where do they live?"
"Glen Echo Avenue."
"Pretty name, but I don’t know it."
"It’s over across the tracks, just beyond."
"Why, Peggy Raymond, I didn’t suppose anybody lived over there."
"Lots of people do. Scads of ’em."
"I didn’t mean that, Peggy. Of course, I meant the kind of people one
goes to see.
"I never went to see these people before," Peggy admitted. "But I’ve
wanted to ever since the night of the Bazar. That boy, you know--"
"O, the ice cream boy! Was he a Dunn?"
"Jimmy Dunn. I saw him on the street the other day, and asked him where
he lived. He’s an awful little rag-bag, and Graham Wylie calls him all
sorts of names, but there’s something about him I can’t help liking.
And I thought I’d see what sort of woman his mother was. Sometimes we
have an extra woman in to scrub, at house-cleaning time, though I must
say," Peggy concluded thoughtfully, "that judging from Jimmy, she
wouldn’t be much of a success as a scrubber."
"I’ll go with you," Priscilla said, taking Peggy’s arm. "It isn’t a
suitable neighborhood for you to go alone." Now that she had learned
that Peggy was not planning to call upon Elaine, Priscilla’s mood had
become extremely affectionate. She pressed the arm she held. She
complimented the way Peggy was doing her hair. While she did not
acknowledge to herself that her impulse to be agreeable had its root in
the knowledge that she had just been very disagreeable, Peggy recognized
her friend’s unusual demonstrativeness as an effort at atonement, and
she met her half way.
An idealist of the most pronounced type must have christened Glen Echo
Avenue. The objects on the landscape most closely resembling glens,
were the grimy coal-sheds along the track, while it would have been hard
for a professional riddle-guesser to say why the little twisting,
squalid street should have been dignified with the name of avenue. A
goat, with oblique, uncanny eyes, occupied apparently in the mastication
of a paper bag, gazed at the girls as they passed, and swarms of dirty
children paused in their play to take stock of the strangers.
"Does Mrs. Dunn live anywhere around here?" Peggy inquired, addressing a
curly-haired little girl with enormous black eyes, and gold rings in her
ears. Another girl, with fiery red hair, pushed forward.
"Mary can’t understand English,": she explained importantly. "She’s a
dago and her folks ain’t been here long. Who are you looking for?"
"I want to find Mrs. Dunn, Jimmy Dunn’s mother."
A babel of shrill voices at once gave directions, which the pointing
forefingers rendered unnecessary. As Peggy descended the steps which
led to the Dunn’s front door, placed, for some inexplicable reason, some
feet below the street level, she reflected that in Glen Echo Avenue the
name of Jimmy Dunn had proved effective. She was about to knock, when
the red-haired girl pushed by and opened the door.
"Mis’ Dunn," she screamed. "O, Mis’ Dunn, you got company. Come right
along," she added, looking over her shoulder. The girls followed as she
led the way, uncomfortably aware that all the children from the street
were crowding in after them, apparently resolved to lose no detail of
the interview.
Mrs. Dunn was seated by the kitchen stove, with a baby in her arms. She
was a flabby woman, with a double chin, which seemed superfluous,
considering that poor Jimmy had scarcely flesh enough to cover one chin
respectably. She eyed her callers with an air more hostile than
hospitable.
"If you’re lookin’ for somebody to wash," she said abruptly, "’tain’t no
use comin’ here. My health don’t allow of more than rubbin’ out a few
pieces for the children."
Peggy explained that their call was purely social, and Mrs. Dunn’s
manner lost its cold aloofness.
"Isabel," she exclaimed, addressing a freckled child whom Peggy knew at
a glance must be one of Jimmy’s sisters, "clean off some chairs for the
young ladies. Set the potatoes behind the stove. The kindlings might
as well go under the bed. ’Liza," she added to the red-haired girl,
who, with her usual officiousness, was lending a hand, "now there’s a
tea-towel hanging up over the sink; take that, some o’ you, and dust the
chairs off good. No, don’t bother about the rungs, Estelle. They ain’t
going to set on the rungs, be they? Some o’ you don’t use the sense you
was born with."
And so amid a confusion in which Mrs. Dunn sat calm and unperturbed,
giving her orders, two chairs were cleared and the girls seated
themselves. Peggy, who had discovered that a baby is always a safe
entering wedge as a topic of conversation, ventured to pat the round
cheek of the child in Mrs. Dunn’s arms. "That’s a nice fat baby, Mrs.
Dunn," she said, and the compliment was not a careless bid for the
mother’s favor. To Peggy all babies were nice, though some were nicer.
This baby was too dirty to admit of the comparative degree, though he
was surprisingly plump considering his surroundings.
Mrs. Dunn groaned.
"He may look fat enough, but I’ve been up with him night and day all
winter," she said. "Amonia of the lungs ’twas, and the mumps first of
November. So much nursin’ is bad for me on account of my heart."
"Do you have heart trouble?" asked Peggy, alarmed.
"Yes, Miss. But that’s not the worst. I’ve got a disease that will
take me off some day, I s’pose." She lowered her voice thrillingly.
"Lots of folks die of it. You’ll see by the papers. It’s
complication."
"Complication!" Peggy and Priscilla exchanged glances.
"Complication," repeated Mrs. Dunn, as if determined to make no
concessions. "I guess it’s pretty near the most fatal of any. You can
buy things at any drug store to cure consumption and amonia of the
lungs, but there ain’t a cure for complication. I ast the druggist
myself and he said he didn’t know of none."
Peggy attempted to change the subject to something less depressing. "I
don’t suppose Jimmy is home?"
"No, Miss. He’s off sellin’ papers."
"He’s left school, has he? It’s a pity, for he seems so bright."
"Jimmy’s been through the fourth grade," said Mrs. Dunn. "He can read
well enough for anybody. And Francesca, she pretty near finished the
fourth grade, too, and she’s in the factory now. In the spring they’re
going to give her a machine."
"Isn’t she pretty young? I thought they weren’t allowed to work in the
factory till--"
"Francesca got a permit," explained Mrs. Dunn, "’count of her pa being
out of a job."
"Do you mean that Mr. Dunn hasn’t any work at all?" exclaimed Peggy.
"Do you have to live on what those two children earn?" Mrs. Dunn
plainly expanded under the sympathetic interest.
"This is gettin’ to be such a country that a man can’t earn an honest
living," she said. "Mr. Dunn’s an awful smart man. He can turn his hand
to most anything, but these Eytalians and other furren folks is comin’,
and takin’ away all the jobs. The doctor told me last week that I’d
ought to get some medicine to make my complication a little easier, but
I haven’t had a cent to spare for it. Seems as if it took all Jimmy and
Francesca make to keep us in coal, and pay the rent." She looked
thoughtfully in the direction of Peggy’s pocket-book, which had a
somewhat plump appearance owing to Peggy’s habit of cutting recipes and
poems out of the newspaper and tucking them away in her pocketbook to
show the other girls.
What embarrassing turn the conversation might have taken next it is
impossible to say for it was interrupted suddenly by the entrance of a
young woman. She was a trim and business-like young woman who betrayed
no surprise at the social aspect of Mrs. Dunn’s kitchen, and who
declined Peggy’s offer of a chair, with a pleasant little smile.
"Can’t stay long enough to sit down," she said briskly. "I’ve been down
to the works, Mrs. Dunn, and I find that Mr. Dunn hasn’t been there
since a week ago Monday."
Mrs. Dunn turned so darkly red that Peggy wondered if the mysterious and
dread disease "complication" could by any chance be allied to apoplexy.
"The work down there’s too hard for him," she said sharply. "He ain’t
as strong as he looks, Mr. Dunn ain’t. And the foreman’s always picking
on him."
The young woman shook her business-like head. "Come, Mrs. Dunn," she
said, "the worst of Mr. Dunn’s troubles is laziness, and the reason he
had difficulty with the foreman was that he wouldn’t attend to business.
Now we are ready to help you, if you show a disposition to help
yourselves, but there will be no more relief till Mr. Dunn goes back to
work."
Peggy and Priscilla were feeling out of place. They rose murmuring
something which might have been an apology for their abrupt departure,
or a promise to come again. Mrs. Dunn paid little attention to their
going, and it was the red-haired girl who ushered them to the door.
"That’s the charity lady," she explained, with evident satisfaction in
her superior knowledge. "She’s all the time comin’ to the Dunns. She
don’t never come to our home, ’less somebody’s sick or dies, or
something like that. My pa he sticks to his job, and Mr. Dunn don’t,
that’s why."
"I wonder what that is," Peggy cried, losing interest in the red-haired
girl’s explanation, as she caught sight of something resembling a
football scrimmage at the entrance to Glen Echo Avenue.
"Guess the boys are havin’ a little fight about something," said the
red-haired girl carelessly, and indeed none of the residents of the
avenue seemed to take more than a superficial interest in the cluster of
struggling bodies, from which proceeded outcries of the most
blood-curdling nature. Only the goat which the girls had previously
noticed, seemed to share their apprehensions, for it cantered past, a
desperate expression in its oblique, wicked eyes, indicating a
determination to put as much distance as possible between itself and the
scene of the disturbance.
The group broke up as Peggy and Priscilla drew near, and proved to be
composed of a score or so of boys, ranging in ages from six to fifteen.
Some were grinning and some looked angry. And one was crying. The last
was the central figure of the group, and he limped as he approached the
sidewalk. His nose was bleeding so profusely as to make his appearance
distinctly ghastly, and Peggy fumbled for her handkerchief. Then she
uttered an exclamation.
"It’s Jimmy! Priscilla, it is Jimmy Dunn!"
Jimmy’s tears dissolved in a smile startlingly friendly. "I got it," he
exclaimed and held forth a wet, dirty and uninviting object, whose
proximity caused Priscilla to take a hasty backward step. "What is it?"
she exclaimed in horror.
"It’s a kitten, I think," Peggy replied doubtfully. "Yes, it is a
kitten." Her uncertainty was less singular because the appearance of
the poor bedraggled creature was so little suggestive of the kittens
Peggy had known. Jimmy Dunn, however, regarded his prize with unalloyed
satisfaction. "They was going to drown it, them smart kids," he said
with a gesture that included all his late antagonists. "But they didn’t.
I got it. And that ain’t all, you bet." Jimmy’s voice took on a
portentous hoarseness. "I can’t lick ’em all to onct, but every kid in
that bunch is going to get _his_, and don’t you forgit it."
"I’m afraid you’re hurt yourself, Jimmy," Peggy said, proffering her
handkerchief. Jimmy shook his head and fell back on his sleeve.
"But you were crying," Priscilla suggested with less than Peggy’s tact.
Jimmy Dunn looked a little sheepish.
"I mostly bawl when I get mad," he replied. "Seems as if I couldn’t put
up a good fight till I start cryin’. I’m going to the store and get a
cent’s worth o’ milk for this kitten. Time it’s dry and cleaned up, and
had some milk to drink, you wouldn’t know it."
Peggy thought it was very likely. It was impossible to imagine how any
kitten dry, warm and fed, could bear even the faintest resemblance to
the wet, muddy lump of fur in Jimmy’s arms. Thinking it advisable that
measures of resuscitation should begin as promptly as possible, the two
girls said good-bye and walked on, hearing till they left Glen Echo
Avenue far behind the shrill tones of Jimmy Dunn’s voice as he called to
his late opponents promises of retribution in the near future.
"Mrs. Dunn is a little disappointing," Peggy observed at last. "She
doesn’t seem quite--sincere." That was as severe as Peggy could very
well be on short acquaintance. "But as for Jimmy," she went on with
sudden enthusiasm, "that boy’s got lots of good in him."
And in both particulars Priscilla agreed with her.
*CHAPTER IX*
*PEGGY ACTS AS CRITIC*
Peggy’s thoughts, busy with plans for the relief of the Dunn family,
were turned abruptly into another channel at the supper-table. "O, by
the way, Peggy," her mother said, "you had a caller this afternoon, Mrs.
Summerfield Ely."
"She came in a naughty-mobeel," exclaimed Dorothy, almost choking over
the long word in her eagerness to get it out before anybody else had a
chance.
"My! Doesn’t she think she’s swell," scoffed Dick. "Fur coat and a
dress that trails." Of all manifestations of feminine vanity a trained
gown called forth from Dick the most outspoken expressions of contempt.
"It seems," explained Mrs. Raymond, ignoring her son’s outburst, "that
she was at your Bazar, and bought a collar, Irish lace, I believe."
"O, yes, mother. That was Elaine’s collar. I was a little worried for
fear nobody would buy it, but not because it wasn’t nice enough. I was
afraid it was _too_ nice. Lots of people come to our Bazar with just
about fifty cents to spend, and I was sure the price of the collar would
look dreadfully big to nearly everybody. But we really couldn’t mark it
less than it was worth."
"Certainly not," agreed Mrs. Raymond.
"And then Mrs. Summerfield Ely came in, and I was sure the collar was as
good as sold, for it was really the nicest thing there, mother. Just as
soon as I could get the chance I called her attention to it, and she
looked at it a minute through her lorgnette--"
"O, say," sneered Dick, "why doesn’t she wear spectacles if she needs
’em?"
"And she said right off, ’I’ll take that,’" continued Peggy tranquilly;
"I was so glad, especially on Elaine’s account. It makes you feel
horrid to put lots of work into a thing and have it left over."
Having relieved her mind, Peggy was now ready to listen to other people.
"What did Mrs. Ely want of me, mother?"
"She wants to order a pair of cuffs to match the collar. She wasn’t
sure who did the work, but she thought you could tell her. I am very
glad," added Mrs. Raymond, "for, of course, she will pay a good price,
and, from what you tell me, I fancy that Elaine needs the money. Why,
what are you going to do, Peggy?"
The impulsive Peggy, starting up from her unfinished supper, flushed
guiltily and sat down again. "I was going to run over and tell Elaine,"
she confessed. "But I suppose the news will keep."
As it turned out, it was not till the next afternoon that Peggy found an
opportunity to convey to her next-door neighbor the important
information of Mrs. Summerfield Ely’s order. Callers came before supper
was over, and by the time they left the lights in the next house were
extinguished. When Peggy presented herself at Elaine’s door at the
close of school the following day, she was as relieved at the prospect
of delivering her news as if it had been a heavy weight which she had
been carrying about for nearly twenty-four hours.
Told in Peggy’s glowing language the rather commonplace announcement
took on life and color. Even the multiplication table, repeated with
such animation, and such assurance of the complete sympathy of one’s
listeners, would have seemed touching and impressive. But when Peggy had
finished, she was aware of a sudden drop in the temperature. Without
meaning to do it she intercepted glances passing between Elaine and her
mother, which impressed her as the very reverse of enthusiastic.
"It’s very kind of you, Peggy," Elaine said at length, her manner
distinctly apologetic. "Awfully kind to be so interested. But you
see--" She hesitated, and again the thermometer seemed to drop several
degrees. "But you see doing work like that for pay is very different
from doing it for charity."
"O, very different," said Mrs. Marshall in her deepest voice.
"Of course it’s different," admitted Peggy, frankly bewildered. "But
it’s nice to earn money for yourself, isn’t it?"
Again the perplexing exchange of glances gave her a feeling of being a
hopeless outsider. "O, the money’s all right," Elaine admitted with a
hard little laugh. "Nobody could want it much more than I do. But to
earn it like a sewing woman--"
"Fortunately," Mrs. Marshall broke in, "there are other avenues. My
daughter has hopes of making a comfortable income in a manner less
unsuited to her position in life."
"O, indeed." Peggy looked at Elaine, with the respect due to the
prospects whose magnificence was suggested by Mrs. Marshall’s manner,
rather than her words. To her surprise Elaine was blushing, and looking
very uncomfortable. "O, please, mamma," she murmured appealingly.
"Elaine’s literary gift," continued Mrs. Marshall complacently, "has
been most pronounced since her childhood. A former governess, Miss
Brown--Elaine always called her Brownie--was most enthusiastic over her
early attempts. I think, my dear, that she compared some of your first
efforts to the writings of--"
"Sometimes I wonder," broke in Elaine with a noticeable increase of
color, "if Brownie didn’t say all those flattering things just because
she thought we liked to hear them."
"Upon my word, Elaine," exclaimed Mrs. Marshall indignantly. "Such
suspicion is very unbecoming, especially in a young girl. And Miss Brown
is so sincere, so unaffected, so different from that disagreeable Miss
Collier who was always criticizing everything and everybody. Such a
relief as it was to get that woman out of the house."
"She didn’t think me much of a genius, that’s certain." Elaine laughed
a little, apparently at some recollection whose humor increased with
distance. "But I’m not so sure," she added immediately, "that she
didn’t mean every word of it."
"Really, Elaine!" Mrs. Marshall’s irritation showed itself by a sudden
flushing of her sallow cheeks. "You are in a very singular mood to-day.
If you are going to run down poor dear Brownie, and uphold that dreadful
Miss Collier, I don’t know but my turn will come next." She drew out
her handkerchief rather ostentatiously, and then the awkwardness of the
moment was relieved by the arrival of the postman.
Elaine, hurrying to the door, returned with full hands and an expression
of countenance anything but enthusiastic. "What a lot of mail!"
exclaimed Peggy, thankful for so good an opening for changing the
subject.
"Yes, there’s enough of it, such as it is," Elaine responded
discontentedly. She slammed the postman’s offering down on the table.
"Two bills--no, three, and the others--"
"A young author has much to contend with," said Mrs. Marshall,
forgetting her momentary pique in sympathy. "There is a prejudice
against the newcomer, but once get a hearing and it is all plain
sailing."
Peggy eyed the long envelopes on the table with sudden understanding.
They were returned manuscripts. Very business-like they looked with the
row of stamps on the right-hand corner, and even sensible Peggy was
thrilled for the moment by something vaguely impressive in the thought
of writing for publication.
"I’m sure a great many authors had a discouraging experience to begin
with," pursued Mrs. Marshall. "Wasn’t it Milton who sold ’Paradise
Lost’ for a mere song, and I’m sure ’David Harum’ was refused by any
number of publishers." She looked anxiously at Elaine, who, having
opened one of the long envelopes after another, was reading over the
rejection slips, her forehead creased in an unmistakable frown.
"Let me see," Mrs. Marshall secured a slip, and perused it carefully.
"Why, this is rather encouraging. They say that the rejection does not
imply any lack of merit."
"But they must say that to everybody," Elaine insisted gloomily. "It’s
printed."
"Really, Elaine, if you are determined to take a pessimistic view, read
one of the stories to Peggy," cried Mrs. Marshall, forgetting formality
for once, "and see what she thinks." Peggy echoed the suggestion
heartily. She was really very curious about the contents of those long
envelopes.
"If I did, it would be to find out what you really did think about
them," Elaine replied. "Most people would say nice things, anyway, but I
believe you’d be honest, Peggy." She looked at her friend rather
appealingly. "I don’t want to waste my time on what isn’t going to
amount to anything."
Peggy felt a marked decline of enthusiasm. "Of course I’m not any
critic," she said uncomfortably. "I can tell you what I think, but that
won’t be worth much."
"It’s what I want, anyway." Elaine jerked a bulky manuscript from its
sheath and settled herself in a rocking-chair. "The name of this," she
announced in a defiant voice, "is the ’Maid of the Haunted Well.’ It’s
a story for children, you see."
"O, yes." Peggy leaned forward in an attitude of close attention, while
Elaine began to read with a rapidity which gave small heed to the marks
of punctuation.
"Long ago, on the edge of a vast and mighty forest, lived a young girl,
known far and near as the Maid of the Haunted Well. Fair she was, with
lustrous, golden hair, that fell in a profusion of silky ringlets. Deep
blue were her eyes. Far and wide had the fame of her loveliness spread,
and many came to see for themselves if she was as ravishingly beautiful
as she was reported to be."
"How wretchedly you are reading, Elaine," remonstrated her mother. "It
is impossible to get any idea of the real excellence of the story when
you hurry that way." With an evident effort Elaine slackened her speed
and continued.
"The Maid of the Haunted Well had hosts of lovers, but to one and all
she gave one answer ’Wouldst wed me? Then drink with me one cup of
water from the Haunted Well. Whosoever tastes this water shall never--’"
The monotonous voice ceased suddenly, and the sheets comprising the
"Maid of the Haunted Well" strewed the carpet like gigantic snow-flakes.
"Elaine!" cried Mrs. Marshall.
"I can’t go on with it. It chokes me. Peggy, don’t you think it’s
silly?"
Peggy’s struggle between her candor and her sympathy resulted in
something of compromise. "I didn’t know just what you were trying to
bring out about the haunted well," she replied. "But it sounded rather
ingenious, and interesting. At the same time--"
"Well?" It was Mrs. Marshall who insisted on the conclusion of the
sentence. Elaine was staring gloomily at the carpet.
"O, I only wondered if nice breezy stories about jolly boys and girls
wouldn’t take a little better, but, of course, I don’t know anything
about it."
"They are not all children’s stories," said Mrs. Marshall, as Elaine
preserved an uncompromising silence. "Read her the ’Daughter’s
Defiance,’ Elaine."
For a moment Peggy feared Elaine was going to refuse. She looked
ruefully at the dejected figure in the rocking-chair, wondering if her
frankness was likely to cost her the friendship she had worked so hard
to win. But, after a moment, Elaine reached automatically for another
envelope, and drew out a second manuscript. "The Daughter’s Defiance,"
she read, "Or, True in Spite of All." Peggy tightened her grip on the
arms of her chair, and prepared herself for the worst.
"’Leave me, if you have any mercy, I pray you leave me to myself.’ The
Countess Rosalie stood trembling, her hands flashing with jewels,
clasped in appeal. Beautiful as she always was, she seemed more
beautiful than ever, now that grief had left her cheeks white as
alabaster."
There was a ring at the doorbell. Peggy hurried to collect the
scattered sheets of the "Maid of the Haunted Well," while "The
Daughter’s Defiance" found a temporary hiding-place behind one of the
couch cushions. Before the scramble was over the bell had rung for the
second time, and Elaine, looking self-conscious almost to the point of
guilt, went to answer it. Peggy heard a surprised exclamation, then a
small voice piping resolutely.
"Want my aunt Peggy."
Even Mrs. Marshall joined in the laughter. "O, Dorothy," cried Peggy as
her niece appeared, wearing an expression of triumph. "To think of all
that excitement just for you." She put her arms about the little figure
fondly. "What do you want, honey?"
"Want to stay with you."
"If you stay, you must be as still as a little mouse. I’m listening to
a story."
"I likes stories!" Dorothy climbed upon Peggy’s knee and composed
herself to listen. But long before the harrowing adventures of the
Countess Rosalie had reached their tragic culmination she had grown
restless. Slipping from Peggy’s arms she started on a tour of
investigation of the room and its contents, and, to be quite honest,
Peggy half wished she might follow her example.
But the Countess Rosalie was finally at peace, and Elaine turned a
flushed face on her unwilling critic. "Tell me just what you think of
it," she said.
Peggy drew a long breath. The temptation to be comforting and
complimentary was for the instant almost irresistibly strong. She
fortified herself for the ordeal by recalling the character of Elaine’s
appeal. It was not right that the girl should waste her time, if a
friendly caution could save her. Nevertheless Peggy heartily wished
that the thankless task had fallen to somebody else.
"Of course it’s any amount better than anything I could write, Elaine.
I think your imagination is really wonderful. But--"
"Go on." This time it was Elaine who did the prompting. Mrs. Marshall
only compressed her lips.
"It seemed to me that there were a good many things in your story that
girls can’t be expected to know much about, love and crime and remorse
and all that sort of thing. And all the characters are counts and
countesses and--Well, I never saw a countess--"
"And you’re wondering if I ever did. Well, no."
"I should think," suggested Peggy, feeling the beads of perspiration
start on her forehead, "that it would be better to write about the
things you know. That’s all."
"But I don’t know anything worth writing about," said Elaine sharply.
Then in a changed voice, "O, I see! Probably that’s just the reason I
oughtn’t to try it."
"It seems to me," floundered Peggy, wondering how editors ever lived
through the ordeal of rejecting manuscripts, "that after you’ve lived
longer--"
"I believe," interjected Mrs. Marshall witheringly, "that Bryant wrote
’Thanatopsis’ at eighteen."
"I believe he did," Peggy acknowledged meekly.
"But this isn’t ’Thanatopsis,’" said Elaine, surveying "The Daughter’s
Defiance," with critical eye, "and I’m not Bryant. That’s all Peggy
means." She smiled with a courage that did not conceal a quiver of
pain, and Peggy looked at her with a contrition no less keen because she
herself felt the need of sympathy.
Again a welcome diversion came from Dorothy. In her search for
entertainment she had discovered a basket of photographs, placed upon a
small stand. Engrossed in the possibilities of her discovery Dorothy
had leaned against the basket’s frail support, with the result that the
stand was overturned and the pictures strewn far and wide. For the
second time during her call Peggy went down on hands and knees to gather
up the scattered photographs, having satisfied herself by the agility
with which Dorothy scrambled to her feet that she was uninjured.
"O, Elaine!" It was a relief to start a topic of conversation which
bore no relation to literary pursuits. "Here’s a picture of you, I
never saw before."
Elaine glanced up quickly. "O," she exclaimed, "I didn’t know that was
downstairs."
Peggy’s discovery was a kodak picture, apparently a group of picnickers,
gathered on the edge of a small lake. When she had removed all traces
of the disorder caused by Dorothy’s mishap she carried the picture to
the window, for a closer look.
"How heavy your hair used to be, Elaine. You’ve got plenty now, but it
was lots heavier then."
No reply.
"I love kodak pictures," Peggy went on. "This is an awfully cute one,
but really you look older in it than you look now. I suppose it is
because there’s no retouching."
Something in the other’s silence caused her to look up. Elaine’s face
was crimson, and her manner so indicative of perturbation that Peggy was
on the point of demanding the reason.
Elaine saved her from that blunder. "It’s not a bit good picture," she
said hastily. "I can’t bear it. I never mean to leave it where people
can see it." She took the offending photograph from Peggy’s hand, and
had locked it into the drawer of the desk before Peggy had recovered
from her amazement.
On the whole, the afternoon had not been very successful. Peggy
suggested to Dorothy that it was time to go home, and Dorothy pranced
with uncomplimentary readiness to take her departure. Elaine followed
them out into the hall, half closing the door behind them.
"Peggy," she said with an unmistakable effort, "if it isn’t too much
trouble, I wish you’d tell Mrs. Ely that I’ll do those cuffs for her."
Peggy turned with a joyful exclamation, and caught Elaine in her arms.
"You dear thing. I think that’s just splendid of you." Then, without
giving her courage time to cool, she rushed on, "And, O, Elaine, you
don’t know how I hated to say what I did. You’ll forgive me, won’t
you?"
"I shouldn’t have forgiven you, if you’d said what you didn’t believe,"
Elaine returned, her lips trembling. "I didn’t want sugar-plums, Peggy.
I wanted the truth. I’ve got to do something to earn money, and if I
haven’t any chance one way, I’ve got to try another. And, besides," she
added, voicing a truth which many people apparently lose sight of, "it’s
a lot easier always to say something pleasant than to say what’s true."
Peggy went home in a glow. She was proud of the stand Elaine had taken,
and grateful to her for realizing that friendly sincerity may be a
costly gift. "And she’s such a sensitive girl, too," Peggy thought.
"She was really annoyed because I didn’t quite like the kodak picture of
her."
The recollection of Elaine’s face came before her as the thought took
shape, and she seemed to see in its expression something more than
annoyance. Why should Elaine have cared? Unconsciously Peggy laid the
matter of the photograph away in some secret drawer of her memory, along
with several other little perplexities, to await a future solution.
*CHAPTER X*
*RUTH IS PERPLEXED*
Peggy was in her room, combing her hair, when Ruth came in. At the
sound of her voice in the hall, Peggy pushed the door ajar, and hailed
her cheerily.
"Hello, there! Come on upstairs. I’m trying to do my hair Anna’s way,
and I’m having such a time."
She had turned back to the mirror, and was struggling with the
rebellious locks when Ruth burst into the room, somewhat out of breath
after her hasty ascent of the stairs. "O, Peggy!" she panted. "The
awfullest thing!"
"What’s happened?" Peggy demanded briskly. She knew Ruth well enough to
be aware that the "awfullest thing" might mean that her father was
bankrupt or that she had mislaid her thimble. People who habitually
indulge in superlatives must not complain over belated sympathy.
"Just read this." Ruth checked herself suddenly. "It’s something," she
said in an altered voice "that it would be better for small persons not
to overhear."
Peggy turned hastily. Dorothy stood in the doorway, her resentful gaze
fastened upon Ruth. Dorothy was extremely sensitive regarding any
reference to her tender years, and seldom failed to grasp the import of
a carefully veiled allusion to her presence, even though the words used
were beyond her understanding.
"There aren’t any small persons over here," she announced, scowling
darkly in Ruth’s direction. "There’s nobody here but free big girls."
Peggy discreetly dropped her hair over her face to veil a smile.
"I wonder what Taffy’s doing," she said diplomatically. "I hope he
isn’t out on the front lawn where he’ll get into a quarrel with the
butcher’s dog."
Dorothy looked stubbornly at the toes of her small shoes, and Peggy
tried another tack.
"Let’s see! I wonder if I left any caramels on the plate in the pantry
last night. Yes, I believe there were two or three."
"Maybe Dick ate ’em," suggested Dorothy, falling into the snare.
"He hadn’t eaten them fifteen minutes ago when I came upstairs. On the
plate with the blue castle, Dorothy, dear, and Sally’ll hand it down to
you if you can’t reach it." Peggy laughed out, as Dorothy clattered
down the stairs. "Isn’t she quick?" she exclaimed admiringly. "That
child knew in a second you wanted to get rid of her." She shook her
hair back as she spoke, and, for the first time, caught sight of Ruth’s
face.
"Why, Ruth!" Peggy took an impulsive step forward. "Then it’s really--"
"It’s something really dreadful," Ruth returned, biting the lip which
would tremble, in spite of her efforts. She turned the key in the lock
to secure the conference against further interruptions, and held a
letter toward Peggy. "Read that," she said.
The sheet Peggy drew from the square envelope bore a showy monogram at
the top. "My dear boy," Peggy read, and then looked up bewildered.
"Why, I don’t see--"
"O, go on," Ruth cried, with, an impatient stamp of her foot. "_Do_ go
on." And Peggy obediently read the communication aloud.
"MY DEAR BOY:--The charming little pendant came last evening, and I
thank you a thousand times. The design is as unique and charming as
that of the brooch you sent last week. I noticed that you purchased both
at King and Kennedy’s, who are noted, I understand, for exclusive
designs, as well as for the superior quality of their goods.
"By the way, I noticed a darling little ring, a combination of pearls
and sapphires, in their window the other day. Ask to see it sometime
when you are passing. They are most obliging and always ready to show
their stock whether you wish to purchase or not.
"Again, with many thanks
"Yours,
"Maud."
Peggy’s blank stare met her friend’s disturbed gaze. "I don’t
understand it," she cried. "Who wrote it, and whom is it written to,
and why did you bring it to me, and what makes you act as if it was so
dreadful?"
"Because it _is_ dreadful." Ruth’s voice was unnaturally hard. "I
don’t know who wrote it, except that her name is Maud, but the letter is
written to Graham."
Peggy glanced quickly at the envelope in her hand, and then let it fall
to the floor, as if it had scorched her fingers. "O, Ruth," she
exclaimed reproachfully, "why did you tell me to read it?"
"Peggy, hush! This isn’t a time for quibbling. You’ve got to help me
and tell me what to do." The tears of utter misery began suddenly to
course down Ruth’s cheeks, and Peggy hastily assumed the role of
comforter.
"O, Ruth! You mustn’t feel that way about it. Of course you and Graham
have always been great chums, but you must have known that some day
there’d be somebody he’d care for more than for you."
"Peggy Raymond, I never thought you could be so stupid." Ruth’s voice
told of exasperation. "Listen! This letter is written by a girl named
Maud, and Graham never mentioned such a person to any of us. He has
lots of girl friends, like all college boys, and their pictures are all
around his room, and I know the names of every single one. But he never
has said a word about Maud."
Peggy shook her head helplessly, unable to suggest any satisfactory
explanation for Graham’s singular omission. Ruth continued, gradually
losing her self-control, as she summed up the evidence against the
brother she adored.
"That would be queer, Peggy, and it would make me feel dreadfully hurt,
but, of course, Graham isn’t obliged to tell me about his friends unless
he chooses to. That isn’t the worst part. You see he’s giving her
presents, things that cost a lot. It was a pendant this week, and a
brooch last, and now she’s hinting for a ring."
"Yes, he must think a great deal of her," Peggy acknowledged gravely.
"But Graham hasn’t any money of his own. Father’s doing it all, and the
worst of it is, that Graham’s expenses are so heavy this year that
father is having a real hard time. He spoke to Graham about it not a
week ago, and asked him to be as careful as he could, and Graham talked
so beautifully about it, and he wanted to give up lots of things, and
father said no, and that he’d get hold of the money somehow. And after
all that, Graham has bought jewelry for this Maud."
Peggy made no effort to check her friend’s wild outburst of weeping.
Under the circumstances it would do Ruth good to cry. She looked with a
sense of shrinking disgust at the letter on the floor, as if it had been
some sort of loathsome creature. "How could he?" she said to herself,
as Graham’s frank, handsome face flashed out on the screen of her
memory. Only that morning she had seen Graham and his father pass. The
older man was listening to something the younger was saying, smiling a
little, and the look he bent upon his son was full of trust and
confidence. And all the time Graham had been deceiving him, taking the
money which meant sacrifices in the home, to buy costly presents for a
girl whose name he had never mentioned to his sister. It was no wonder
that Ruth cried. Sunny Peggy felt sick and disillusioned.
The door-knob rattled. "It’s me!" said a voice, which sounded very much
as if the three caramels were simultaneously occupying one small mouth.
"Run along, Dorothy!" Peggy was too absorbed in the problem confronting
her to make her request tactful. She went over to Ruth, who was making
a brave struggle to regain her self-control, and possessing herself of
the limp hand, stroked it tenderly. Then Peggy’s instinct to make
excuses for everybody, led her to say, "After all, perhaps we’re making
a mountain out of a mole-hill."
"Mole-hill!" exclaimed Ruth indignantly. "How you can call it a
mole-hill for Graham to take his father’s money and pretend it’s for
things at college when all the time--"
"O, yes, I know. But there’s a chance of a mistake," Peggy protested,
"I don’t suppose you’ve talked with Graham about it?"
"Goodness, no! I went up to his room this morning to do the work and
this letter lay on the floor, not even in the envelope."
"That doesn’t look as if he were ashamed of it," Peggy exclaimed
triumphantly.
"O, that’s Graham all over. No matter what he did, he’d be too careless
to cover his tracks. I picked it up and looked at it to see if it was
meant to be thrown away or not, and then my eye caught that about the
pendant, and I simply couldn’t stop. And after I saw what it meant it
seemed to me that I should die if I didn’t tell somebody."
"But, Ruth," Peggy protested, alarmed, "you surely are going to talk to
Graham about it. You can’t mean to let it go on, and not give him a
chance to explain or anything."
Poor Ruth hid her face in her hands.
"O, Peggy!" she cried in a stifled voice, "if I thought he could
explain, I’d be only too glad to give him the chance. But you know
yourself he can’t. And how can I bear to tell him that I know all about
it. If it was anything else, I wouldn’t feel so," she added
despairingly. "But think, Peggy, of telling your brother that you know
he has been cheating your father, and being mean and underhanded, all
the time that he talked so beautifully about how grateful he was for
what had been done for him, and how hard he was going to try to make us
all proud of him."
It was a black picture. "Then, I suppose," said Peggy, after a long
pause, "that you’ll tell your father."
"Father!" Ruth spoke the word with a little protesting cry. "Why, it
would kill father to know such a thing about Graham. He never could
bear it."
Peggy hesitated. Strong as her sympathy was for Ruth, her sturdy common
sense refused to take her friend’s view of the case.
"Ruth, this is too serious a thing for two girls like us to keep to
ourselves. Somebody’s got to know, somebody who’ll understand what to
do."
Ruth sprang to her feet. "You don’t mean that you’ll tell. Peggy, you
couldn’t be so--so dishonorable as to tell. I came to you because I had
to confide in somebody. And, now, if I can’t trust you--"
"O, good gracious!" exclaimed Peggy with an irritation of which she was
immediately ashamed. "Of course I’m not going to tell. But _you_ are.
Ruth, you must."
Again and again they went over the ground, Peggy coaxing, persuading,
trying vainly to bring her friend’s resolution to the sticking point,
while Ruth squirmed and evaded and protested, and even accused Peggy of
heartlessness.
"I tell you it would kill father. He’s wrapped up in Graham. If he
found out that he had tricked and cheated him he’d never have another
happy minute."
"Your mother, then."
"Mother! Why, that would be worse, if anything could be worse. Her
heart isn’t strong, you know. The doctor says we must be careful about
shocks--"
"Then, Ruth Wylie, there’s no two ways about it. You’ve got to pluck up
your courage and have it out with Graham."
It was in the discussion of this point that Peggy was accused of
heartlessness, a most unjust charge, for at the moment her heart was
aching for poor Ruth in her misery.
"You don’t understand!" Ruth insisted. "You _can’t_ understand. Your
brother is younger than you are, but if he were older, and you’d always
looked up to him, and thought he was perfectly splendid, and felt sorry
for other girls with ordinary brothers, just think what it would be like
to face him and tell him that you’d found him out, and that he was mean
and contemptible. O, it don’t seem as if I could be talking about
Graham. O, Peggy, why did I ever read that letter?"
Peggy temporarily gave up the effort to bring Ruth to a realizing sense
of her responsibility in the matter, and set herself to soothe her.
Between indignation on her father’s account, and grief over the
discovery of the glaring weakness in the brother, whom she had been
accustomed to set on a pedestal, poor Ruth’s nerves were sadly unstrung.
Peggy coaxed her to lie down upon the bed, and stroked her burning
forehead with sympathetic fingers, cooing over her like a dove over its
nestlings. All that was sweet and womanly in Peggy responded to the
challenge of suffering, and her fingers had the deft tenderness which
characterizes the born nurse, and is not always secured by a course of
training in the hospitals.
She was just congratulating herself that Ruth’s tense muscles were
relaxing somewhat, and that her breathing was less hurried and
irregular, when a crash in the hall, followed by staccato screams, sent
her flying to the door. Most unexpectedly she found her exit barred by a
solid oak table and, when she pushed that impatiently aside, she
stumbled over the upturned rockers of Dorothy’s little red chair.
Dorothy herself was somewhere on the stairs, screaming lustily, while
Mrs. Raymond and Sally were bending over her, imploring her to tell them
where she was hurt.
"What is it? What has happened?" shrieked Peggy, plunging down the
stairs, forgetful of everything except the possibility that Dorothy was
seriously injured.
No one had time to explain, but gradually from scraps of information let
fall, aided by her own intuition, Peggy reached an understanding of the
catastrophe. Dorothy, aggrieved by the turning of the key in the lock,
had pushed a table in front of Peggy’s door, and placed her own small
rocking-chair on top, intending from this vantage ground to make a
dramatic entrance through the transom. The rocking-chair had frustrated
this maneuvre by swaying at the wrong moment, and Dorothy had plunged
over the banisters while the chair had toppled to the floor with a crash
worthy a more imposing piece of furniture.
"Can you move your arms and legs, dear? Let Grandma see you kick?"
pleaded Mrs. Raymond, running her fingers anxiously over Dorothy’s plump
little body in search of broken bones.
"It’s her insides that are hurt, most like. My ma had a cousin who got
his insides hurt in a fall, and for seventeen years he never left his
bed." Sally, who had a taste for the ghastly, contributed this
information, and would have gone on to give the harrowing details had
she not perceived that no one was paying any attention to her.
Dorothy’s screams were gradually subsiding into gasping sobs. She
turned her pathetic, tear-stained little face toward Peggy, who crouched
on the stairs beside her, a conscience-stricken heap, repeating
miserably, "O, Dorothy, where does it hurt, darling?"
"I--I swallowed ’em," Dorothy volunteered at last, and burst into fresh
lamentations.
"Swallowed what, dear?"
"The car’mels. I swallowed ’em quick. I didn’t have time to eat ’em."
Peggy and her mother exchanged wide-eyed glances.
"Don’t mind about that, dear," coaxed Peggy. "By and by, when you feel
better, I’ll make you some more candy."
Dorothy’s sobs ceased with an abruptness that was uncanny. "Feel better
now," she said.
"But where does it hurt, Dorothy?"
"Don’t hurt. But I like butter-scotch better’n car’mels."
"You shall have butter-scotch, you precious. But where--" Peggy’s
solicitous inquiries were interrupted by Dorothy’s clapping her hands
and beginning to frisk about in a manner which set at ease conclusively
any fear as to broken bones.
"It’s struck into her brains most like," said Sally hopefully. "I
knowed an idget boy onct. It was a fall striking into his brains that
ailed him."
Mrs. Raymond and Peggy were too accustomed to Sally’s doleful prophecies
to be cast down. They heaved sighs of relief, exchanged smiles, and
Peggy flew to her room to get her apron. At the head of the stairs she
encountered Ruth, a red-eyed, drooping figure, and Peggy’s conscience
reproached her that in her own alarm and relief, she had momentarily
forgotten her friend’s greater cause for anxiety.
"You see," she whispered, pausing for a moment, "Sometimes things turn
out better than you think they will. I was almost sure that Dorothy was
dreadfully hurt, you know." But Ruth only shook her head and made the
answer characteristic of people in trouble, who are all likely to think
their own especial load unlike any other burden.
"But this is different."
*CHAPTER XI*
*CHRISTMAS PREPARATIONS*
Peggy’s door was locked again, but this time it was not Ruth’s fault.
Peggy would have said, if questioned, that she had "troubles of her
own," and the chances are that it would not have occurred to her that
there was anything incongruous in the selection of such a phrase to
describe her Christmas preparations.
The little bed-room, usually a model of exquisite neatness, in spite of
its simplicity, now suggested a compromise between a church fair and a
rummage sale. Articles in various stages of completion were draped over
the furniture, or hung on door-knobs. The bed was piled so deep that
often when bed-time approached, Peggy was tempted to take to her
easy-chair for the night, for what of the night was left, that is to
say, for Peggy was infringing sadly on those hours warranted to make one
healthy and wealthy and wise, if properly observed. Mrs. Raymond was
uneasy when she saw the gleam of light through the transom long after
midnight, but Peggy met all remonstrances with the plead, "O, please
don’t say anything, mother, till Christmas is over. You know I’ve got
to finish."
When Dorothy rattled the door-knob this particular afternoon, Peggy’s
start was suggestive of over-strained nerves. Her voice was unnaturally
sharp as she demanded, "who’s there?"
"Me."
"You know you can’t come in, Dorothy. Run away and play."
The knob rattled again. It was not an aggressively loud sound, but
Peggy was just tired enough to find it unendurable. Her lips tightened.
"Dorothy, will you stop that noise? This minute!"
Surprise kept Dorothy motionless for almost thirty seconds. "What you
doing?" she asked, after that amazing pause, her rosy lips close to the
key-hole, her voice persuasive.
"I’m making something you can’t see. Please don’t bother." Peggy jerked
her thread savagely. She was, as a matter of fact, hemstitching the
little petticoat of the doll she was dressing for Dorothy. She had
laughed when her mother suggested that it was hardly worth while to take
so much pains. "A strip of embroidery gathered and put in a band would
please the child just as well. She isn’t old enough to appreciate the
work you are putting into these dainty little garments."
"Work! I don’t call it work. It’s just fun," said Peggy blithely.
"And it’s such a tiny way round a doll’s petticoat, mother, that it
won’t take any time to speak of." There would have been time enough if
there had not been so many things of the same kind; trifles demanding
little time when taken separately, but together filling to overflowing
Peggy’s hours of leisure, and infringing on the time she needed for
recreation and sleep. She thought of them with a sense of nervous
apprehension which was far removed from anything festive. There were
two of the sweet peas on her mother’s centrepiece not finished yet, and
those sweet peas took so long.
"I must finish Aunt Rachel’s bureau scarf to-night," Peggy thought.
"I’ve got to allow for the mails being slow. Perhaps I’d better leave
this till that is done, for I can finish the doll the very last thing."
She tucked the petticoat out of sight, and produced the bureau scarf
from under a rainbow litter of Dresden ribbon, scraps of silk, and odds
and ends of lace, all of which Peggy designed for especial use.
"Next year," thought Peggy, frantically attacking the bureau scarf, "I’m
going to begin my Christmas presents New Year’s afternoon. Perhaps if I
start the first of January and keep right at it through the year--Why,
what’s that?"
There was a sound in the hall, a choked, low, pitiful sound that seemed
startlingly out of place with Christmas near. The bureau scarf dropped
to the floor. The spool of thread and the thimble made a bee-line to
hide themselves under the dresser, as if they both had enough of getting
ready for Christmas. Peggy herself lost no time in turning the key and
bolting into the hall, where Dorothy a pensive little heap, her face
hidden on her knees, was weeping.
Dorothy had a variety of ways of crying. When angry her tears were
accompanied by shrill squeals, as pathetic as a fife playing Yankee
Doodle. If she hurt herself she was more likely to relieve her feelings
by noise than by tears, suggesting those summer showers whose thunder
peals and lightning flashes prepare us for a deluge, but which content
themselves, after all, with a few scattering drops. These emotional
outbreaks on Dorothy’s part Peggy took philosophically. But when she
cried softly, hiding the face down which the big tears were coursing,
while the sobs shook her little body, then indeed, it was another
matter.
"Dorothy!" Peggy cried, dropping down on her knees beside the despondent
figure. "Dorothy, what is the matter? What are you crying about?"
"Aunt Peggy." It was a full minute before Dorothy could answer, and
then the quiver running through the words pierced Peggy’s heart. "Ain’t
Christmas going to be over pretty quick?"
"It comes next week, honey."
"Well, I’ll be glad when it’s gone." A great sob emphasized the
statement. "It’s such a horrid time."
"Dorothy!" Peggy was aghast: "You can’t mean that you don’t like
Christmas."
"It’s a horrid time," Dorothy repeated, with every indication of
sincerity. "Folks lock doors. And then they tell you to go and play,
and there ain’t anyfing to play. And there’s nice fings, but you can’t
see ’em." She sobbed again as she painted the black picture, and Peggy
hastened to explain, "But, darling, you will see them on Christmas day.
Think what a good time you will have when you find out all the secrets."
"But I want a good time now," said Dorothy explosively.
For once Peggy had no reply ready. What was there to be said? Of
course Dorothy did. Who could reasonably expect this little human
thistle-down to fold her hands and wait patiently through weeks of
Christmas preparations in which she had no share. Peggy, absorbed in
her plans, had found no time for the stories Dorothy loved, for the
little after-supper frolics, for candy pulls in the kitchen, for walks
over the snow. All these joys had been discontinued with a vague
promise of something very nice to happen by and by. What wonder Dorothy
was dissatisfied?
"And getting ready for Christmas is almost the nicest part," Peggy
thought. "And here I’ve locked my door and shut her out of it. It’s no
wonder she thinks Christmas is horrid." She lowered her voice
mysteriously. "Dorothy, how would you like to help me make a Jack
Horner pie?"
The hands which covered Dorothy’s eyes dropped to her knees. The little
face revealed was more suggestive of April than of December, with the
wet eyes shining, and the dimples swallowing up stray tear drops. "A
Jack Horner pie?" repeated Dorothy in a thrilled whisper.
"Yes."
"Will we put in a fum and pull out a plum?"
"They’ll be funny plums. Come and I’ll show you. But we’ll lock the
door, because this is our secret and nobody must know."
Under the bed was a shiny tin milk pan, and rolls of tissue paper, green
and red. "Now I’m going to cover this pan with green paper," Peggy
explained. "And there’ll be a pasteboard cover, with a big round hole
in the middle, and there’s where we will put in our thumbs."
"And cry what a big boy’m I," added Dorothy, hopping on one foot, which
with her was an indication of fascinated interest.
"The cover’ll be all fixed with red tissue paper, and, instead of plums,
there’ll be little presents inside."
"Is it going on the Christmas tree, Aunt Peggy?" Dorothy squatted
beside her aunt, carried away by the enchantment of the plan. And as
Peggy looked at the beaming little face the isolation of her previous
preparations suddenly seemed selfish.
"No, this isn’t for the tree. It’s going on the table for the Christmas
dinner. The presents aren’t nice ones, you know. They’re funny little
jokes. Here’s Dick’s present, a queer little make-believe alarm-clock,
because he is so slow about getting up in the morning.
"Dick’s a lazy boy to be my uncle," said Dorothy, giggling rapturously.
"I guess he’ll be ’shamed when he pulls out his plum."
"There’s a rhyme to go with it, Dorothy. That’s part of the fun. Do you
want to hear it?"
Dorothy promptly became a statuette of attention, her hands folded, and
her grave face flatteringly expectant, while Peggy read aloud.
"Dick, Dick, the sleepy-head,
Dearly loves his little bed.
Here’s a cure; ’twill work for sure,
Wind it tight. Set it right,
And then go ahead and
Blow out the light.
When morning comes, how the folks will stare,
To go to breakfast and find Dick there."
"That’s poetry," said Dorothy much impressed. "I learned poetry once,
all about Tit, Tiny and Tittens. Did you write a poetry plum for me,
too, Aunt Peggy?"
"Yes, but I mustn’t read you yours. That’s a surprise, but you can hear
grandpa’s. You see, I’m going to give him a pen because he hates to
have anybody else use his pens, and Dick’s always doing it." Peggy
cleared her throat. "This is grandpa’s poem.
"Now, here’s a pen for the best of men,
And I wish it were purest gold.
It could not write, in a whole long night,
Half the love my heart does hold.
Not for Dick’s abuse, but for father’s use,
Is the pen I here present.
May it long keep bright and continue to write,
As well as the maker meant."
"I’m going to write some poetry, too, for my Christmas presents," said
Dorothy, fired to emulation. "I’m going to say,
"This is for Aunt Peggy
Because she’s eggy."
"But I wouldn’t be _eggy_, I hope," exclaimed Peggy, laughing with an
abandon rare in the last ten days. "So your poetry wouldn’t fit."
Dorothy’s face fell. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with perhaps a glimmering
appreciation of the truth that art is long. "Oh! I didn’t know that
poetry had to be true." She gave up her ambition for the time being.
"What’s grandma’s poetry, Aunt Peggy?"
Peggy unfolded the slip of paper willingly. She was proud of that
attempt.
"We could have a jolly Christmas though old Santa Claus should
go.
We could do without a turkey at a pinch.
And to spare the cheerful holly and the festive mistletoe
Would be rather in the nature of a cinch.
There is only one thing needed, as you’ll readily agree,
One essential that surpasses every other,
For of all absurd endeavors, the most imbecile would be,
Just to try to have Christmas without mother."
"I’m going to have a Christmas ’thout my mover," Dorothy remarked
unexpectedly, and Peggy read on rapidly to avoid arguing the point.
"Though the chimney corner stockings should be limp on Christmas
day,
Though the postman on his rounds should fail to ring.
Though of all our friends and neighbors there was not a one to
say,
’Merry Christmas,’ or some other proper thing.
Still I think we could be happy, meet the day with faces bright,
Drawing just a little closer to each other.
But there isn’t one among us who could keep his spirits light,
If we had to spend a Christmas without mother.
Dorothy had heard poetry enough by now. She moved about the room,
keeping her plump hands tightly folded, in her effort to comply with
Peggy’s caution not to touch. And Peggy, working busily at the
construction of the Jack Horner pie, found Dorothy’s presence no
drawback to her progress. As a matter of fact there is such a thing as
hurrying till one is unable to accomplish anything. The distraction of
Peggy’s thoughts by the artless questions and the refreshingly original
observations of her small niece was helpful rather than hindering. Her
tense nerves relaxed. She laughed out half a dozen times, as if
Christmas preparations were a joyful matter instead of soul-straining,
nerve-racking ordeal, through which one must pass in order to be worthy
of the pleasures beyond.
The Jack Horner pie was finished and tucked out of sight when someone
ran up the stairs. "Peggy!" said a breathless voice, outside the door.
"Peggy!"
"O Ruth!" Peggy sprang up with hospitable intent, but Dorothy frowned.
"We’re pretty busy," she said warningly, and in tones distinctly audible
in the hall.
Peggy threw the door ajar, disclosing her friend’s flushed face and
heaving chest. "You should put on a coat, instead of running to keep
warm," scolded Peggy.
"I’m warm enough." Ruth made an impatient gesture. "Peggy, there’s
another."
"What, you don’t mean--"
"Sh!" Ruth drew Peggy out into the hall. "Yes," she replied, nodding
mysteriously. "It’s another letter from Maud."
Peggy regarded the square envelope her friend held toward her, and
frowned as she drew back. "I don’t want it. I shouldn’t have read the
other if I’d understood."
"Peggy, it’s the strangest thing I ever heard of. It’s just like the
first."
"Just like the first? I suppose you mean--"
"I mean it’s word for word like the other one. Do you suppose she could
have forgotten that she had written him and thanked him over again?"
"If that’s the case she must be a very stupid person," Peggy pronounced
judicially. Then curiosity prompted her to ask, "Did Graham leave that
lying around too?"
Ruth flushed hotly. "No-o! I took the mail from the postman, and I
recognized the monogram. The writing didn’t look natural. She must have
used a different pen."
Peggy refused to be diverted by the peculiarities of Maud’s penmanship.
"Ruth Wylie!" she demanded indignantly. "Do you mean to tell me that
you opened your brother’s letter?"
Ruth squirmed. "Peggy, I just had to know what she said."
"If you wanted to know what she said you should have gone to Graham and
asked him. I don’t think anything very good ever comes from doing things
in an underhanded way."
"Don’t be cross, Peggy," pleaded Ruth. "I never was so puzzled and
troubled in all my life. And I want you to advise me."
"I am advising you. Go to Graham about it. Or else tell your father.
That’s the only advice I can give you, and the best you’re likely to get
from anybody."
"I can’t do that," Ruth returned despairingly. Resentfully she studied
the address on the letter she held. "Christmas is just spoiled for me,
Peggy. I can’t think of anything but Maud, and the way Graham is
wasting his money, and how deceitful he is, and how poor father would
feel if he knew." She swallowed down a sob, and almost remorsefully,
Peggy threw her arms about her and hugged her.
"You poor dear thing. I only wish I could help you. But, honestly,
Ruth, there is only one way out, and that’s to be frank and above board.
Even if Graham has done wrong, silly things, it’s no sign that he can’t
be brought to reason. I’d talk to him in a minute, if he were my
brother."
Unwelcome advice seldom seems good advice to the recipient. Ruth went
away dejected, with the purloined letter in her pocket, but Peggy’s
remonstrances had at least one good effect. Ruth resolved that in the
future she would read no more of her brother’s letters without his
permission. Peggy, standing in the hall, her forehead knotted over her
friend’s problem, felt a little twinge of shame as she recalled her
varying moods of dejection and irritation during the past week. The
finishing of a specified number of gifts at a specified time seemed a
trifling cause for disquiet, compared with the burden poor Ruth was
carrying.
"Aunt Peggy!" A timid voice spoke from the doorway. "See what I’ve
found."
Peggy whirled about. Dorothy stood on the threshold, the doll’s
petticoat slipped over her arm. She was studying it speculatively.
"It looks some like a sleeve, Aunt Peggy. A sleeve to a little girl’s
dress."
Peggy stifled the irritable exclamation which rose to her lips with such
unwonted readiness, pulled the petticoat from Dorothy’s arm and set it
upon her curls. "It looks to me now like a cap," she said cheerily. "A
real little dunce cap. Look in the glass and see."
Dorothy gazed at her reflection in the mirror, and agreed rapturously.
"It looks ’zactly like a dunce cap, Aunt Peggy, and then I’d be the
little dunce, wouldn’t I? Or might it be--" she made the suggestion
diffidently. "It _might_ be a little teenty petticoat, but I guess it
isn’t ’cause then there’d have to be a dolly to go with it. And,
anyway, I’m not going to pry, ’cause Christmas is coming."
Peggy laughed. After all it was better to have Dorothy suspect, than to
have her weeping as if her heart were broken and wanting Christmas over.
She sat down to her bureau scarf with less of the air of a sweat-shop
worker, than had characterized her earlier in the day, and as her needle
flew, and she abstractedly answered Dorothy’s comments, her thoughts
hovered about Ruth, poor Ruth, whose Christmas was spoiled through no
fault of her own, whose _joy was poisoned by the bitterest of all
disillusions, disappointment in one she had loved and trusted_.
*CHAPTER XII*
*DOROTHY GOES SHOPPING*
"Dorothy, if you don’t keep still, how am I ever going to get your
legging on?"
Peggy’s protest paralyzed Dorothy’s dancing feet for exactly fifteen
seconds by the clock. It was an occasion for dancing and handclapping
and little gurgles of laughter. Dorothy was going down town to do her
Christmas shopping, and the friskiest of Santa Claus’ reindeers could
not have outdone her in capers.
"I guess I’ll buy grandma some ’fumery," she announced, as her youthful
aunt, flushed a becoming pink by the violence of her exertions,
struggled with the refractory leggings. "And I’ll buy grandpa a
naughty-mobeel, and Dick a candy cane." There was no purpose of
partiality in Dorothy’s apportionment of her gifts. She adored her
grandparents equally, and really preferred Dick to any other member of
the family, since he was the only one of the number who could turn
somersaults, an accomplishment Dorothy esteemed above all others. But if
an automobile was desirable, so was a candy cane. Dorothy had not
reached the point of estimating a gift by its money value.
"Your present is all buyed, Aunt Peggy. Grandma did it, but it’s a
secret. Want me to tell you?"
"O, no!" Peggy left off buttoning Dorothy’s coat, and clapped her hands
over her ears. "You mustn’t tell secrets," she explained hurriedly.
"They’re to be kept till Christmas."
"But I don’t like secrets to keep," protested Dorothy, unconsciously
voicing the sentiments, of some older people. "I like ’em to tell: Aunt
Peggy your present’s white with pink edges, and--"
The entrance of Mrs. Raymond, with six shining new pennies to add to
Dorothy’s Christmas funds, diverted her thoughts from the dangerous
topic. If each of the glittering coppers had been a gold piece they
could not have been received with greater rapture. Dorothy galloped
about the room, planning Christmas benefactions with the reckless
liberality of a millionaire, and Peggy was so encouraged by this rapid
development of generosity as to suggest, "And you’re going to buy
something for the poor children, aren’t you, Dorothy, the children who
don’t have any Christmas?"
Dorothy reflected. Suddenly her little face blossomed into a pensive
sweetness beautiful to see.
"I know, Aunt Peggy," she exclaimed, with the triumph of one who has
found a happy solution to a puzzling problem. "I know. The poor
children can have the outside of my nuts."
"The outside! Why, she means the shells, mother. I don’t see how you
can laugh." Peggy looked reproachfully at her mother who had suddenly
become interested in the view from the window. "Think how terrible it
would be if she should grow up selfish."
"She has time to outgrow lots of things, dear, while she’s growing up,"
said Mrs. Raymond comfortingly, and turned to kiss the rosy mouth of her
impatient granddaughter. As Peggy and Dorothy went hand in hand down the
stairs, a little voice was wafted back to her. "Your present’s a
secret, grandma. It’s going to be ’fum--" And Mrs. Raymond guessed that
a resolute hand clapped over Dorothy’s too communicative lips, accounted
for the sudden breaking off of the sentence.
Dorothy had been so excited over the prospect of spending her twenty-six
cents that Peggy deemed it best not to mention the momentous interview
which was to preceed the shopping. On the way down town, she broached
the subject. "Dorothy, how would you like to see Santa Claus?"
Dorothy immediately stood up on the seat. "Aunt Peggy!" she exclaimed
with trembling earnestness, "Are we going to the North Pole?"
"I’m afraid we’re not bundled up enough for such a cold journey,"
laughed Peggy. "But I guess we’ll find Santa on the third floor at
Myers and Bates. And, if he’s there, you can tell him what you want
most for Christmas."
"If I ask him for a dolly-baby’s carriage, do you s’pose he’ll shake his
head?" cried Dorothy, lurching as the car jolted, and precipitating
herself into Peggy’s arms. "Will he ’member how I slapped Sally, ’cause
she wouldn’t let me eat out of Taffy’s plate?"
"Probably he’ll forgive you for that, if you’re very, very sorry,"
returned Peggy, smiling as she thought of the gift stored at
Priscilla’s, to be safe from Dorothy’s prying. "Anyway, it won’t do any
harm to ask him."
On the third floor of the department store, as Peggy had conjectured, a
somewhat bored and stolid looking Santa Claus distributed mechanical
pats on the heads of the children gathered about him, and nodded
encouragement to their artless confidences. Dorothy gazed with half
fearful fascination at his wealth of snowy hair, looking all the whiter
in contrast to his florid complexion. Whether or not Santa Claus in the
flesh fell short of her expectations, Peggy did not know, but whatever
the explanation, she found it necessary almost to drag Dorothy to the
august presence.
Her turn came after an interminable waiting. A big hand patted the top
of Dorothy’s head and a deep voice asked, "An’ what are you afther
wantin’ for Christmas?" Considering a life-long residence at the North
Pole, Santa Claus’ accent was surprisingly suggestive of Tipperary.
Dorothy did not reply and Peggy nudged her. "Tell him what you want for
Christmas, darling."
"A pair of mittens," Dorothy said faintly.
"Mittens!" exclaimed the astonished Peggy. "Why, I thought--" But Santa
had nodded, and clapped his hand on the red head of the boy next in
line. "And what would this foine lad be wantin’ for Christmas?"
The two moved on. Then Dorothy hid her face in Peggy’s skirts,
smothering a wail.
"I don’t like Santa Claus," she sobbed. "And I hate mittens. I’ll frow
’em away. I’ll let Taffy eat ’em up."
"Then why did you tell him you wanted mittens?" asked Peggy, fighting
back her laughter, as she realized the seriousness of the situation,
from Dorothy’s point of view.
"Cause he didn’t look as if he’d give me a doll-carriage. He looked as
if I hadn’t been a good girl. O, dear! O, dear!"
The situation was becoming embarrassing as Dorothy’s sobs grew more and
more violent. People turned to stare, and Peggy hastily suggested a
remedy.
"I tell you what, Dorothy. We’ll go back and tell him it was a mistake,
and that what you really wanted was a doll-carriage."
Though this suggestion had the effect of drying Dorothy’s tears, it was
some time before she could be persuaded to act upon it. When they again
presented themselves in the line of supplicants, Dorothy hung back, and
Peggy acted as spokesman.
"Santa Claus, this little girl made a mistake when she asked you for
mittens. What she really wants is a nice doll-carriage, so she can take
her dolly out riding."
Santa Claus looked at Dorothy’s pink eyelids, and cheeks still stained
with tears, and a sudden attractive change came over him. He looked less
like a tired, red-faced man, getting through with the drudgery of his
day’s work, and more like the jolly saint of the chimney and fireplace.
A twinkle appeared in his eye.
"I think mesilf ’tis a sinsible change," said Santa Claus, still with a
surprising richness of accent. "An’ ’twud be no wonder, my little dear,
if you got thim both, and a matter o’ small trifles beside." And with
the gorgeous indefiniteness of this promise sounding in her ears, it was
small wonder that Dorothy went away radiant.
Twenty-six cents is easily spent under certain conditions, and then
again, its investment is a matter requiring the most profound
deliberation, and accompanied by frequent changes of mind. The amount
of time and consideration Dorothy found necessary before reaching a
conclusion, passed belief. The good-natured Christmas crowd surged
about her as she stood immovable before a counter, gazing dreamily on
the articles displayed, and responding to Peggy’s hints with a reproving
"Sh! I’m thinking." But at last her funds were expended, and presents
provided for the entire family. As Dorothy would not listen to the
suggestion that anything should be sent, both she and Peggy had their
arms full of knobby packages anything but small, for the size of a
Christmas gift bears little relation to the cost.
Once outside, Peggy drew a breath of relief. "That’s over for a year,"
she congratulated herself. "Dorothy, dear, let’s walk down to the next
block. I want to get some Christmas seals."
Dorothy who had borne up surprisingly while her own shopping was in
progress, now developed symptoms of weariness. "I’m getting awful tired
in the legs, Aunt Peggy."
"We’ll go home in a very few minutes, Dorothy. Won’t grandma be
surprised to see all these lovely packages, and won’t she wish she knew
what was inside?" Thus skilfully did Peggy divert the thoughts of her
small companion, till the tired little feet were trotting jubilantly
over the pavements, keeping time to joyful thoughts.
Half way down the block a young man stood before a jeweller’s window,
intent on the display. Something in his attitude struck Peggy as
familiar. She looked at him very closely, and then her eyes flew to the
sign over the door, King and Kennedy.
Peggy came to an abrupt halt. A sudden anger blazed in her eyes.
Righteous indignation made her oblivious to everything but its exciting
cause. For the young man by the jeweller’s window was Graham Wylie, and
Peggy could not doubt that he was racking his brains to decide on a
suitable Christmas gift for Maud.
It was not Peggy’s habit to evade responsibility by the thought that a
thing was none of her business. She pushed her way through the crowd,
and stood at Graham’s elbow. "Good afternoon."
Graham’s start was of course due to a guilty conscience, though the face
he turned on Peggy was exasperatingly non-committal and cheerful.
"Hello, Peggy. Come over to see the sparklers?"
"I don’t care much about jewellers’ windows," Peggy said with severity.
"What’s the use of looking at a lot of things you can’t afford to buy,
and then getting to want them, and making yourself miserable?"
Graham chuckled.
"That may be all right for some folks," he replied. "But your remarks
don’t apply, of course, to wealthy individuals like myself. I’m thinking
of buying up a few of the novelties before I go home, as Christmas
remembrances for my friends."
He looked at Peggy smilingly, as if he expected her to appreciate the
joke. Meeting the unblinking gravity of her gaze, his face changed
slightly.
"I don’t believe any real friend of yours would want a very expensive
present from you," exclaimed Peggy, too indignant to realize that she
was on dangerous ground. "Because, of course, you can’t afford it."
A little irritation mingled with Graham’s surprise.
"Naturally a fellow just finishing college and dependent on his father
for every cent, isn’t going to blow in much for jewelry," he replied
with an air of wishing to change the subject. "Some of these designs are
great, Peggy, even if we can’t buy them."
"Are they?" Peggy looked resolutely over the display, as if defying
temptation.
"It’s an enterprising firm," continued Graham, mystified by her unusual
manner. "They’re great on advertising. The first ad. I got from them
nearly took me off my feet. It was gotten up like a letter."
"What!" Peggy’s sudden accession of breathless interest was as
incomprehensible as her previous air of disapproval. "A letter? Tell me
about it, Graham."
"Why, there isn’t much to tell. It reads like a note of thanks for
different presents you’ve sent. It brings in the name of the firm once
or twice, and puffs ’em up in an accidental way. The mother of one of
the fellows read his, and thought it was the real thing. He had no end
of trouble explaining."
This time Peggy joined in Graham’s laughter, and she was thankful that
Ruth’s unconscious brother did not guess the tension of feeling beneath
her merriment. Peggy only wished she had wings to fly to Ruth, and tell
her that all was well. She fought against an alarming impulse to cry on
the spot, to relieve her own overcharged heart. But as it happened, the
fates had provided another outlet. There was no immediate danger of
Peggy’s losing her head from joy.
"Where’s Dorothy?"
She flung the frightened question full in Graham’s face. The young
fellow stood staring.
"Dorothy? Was she with you?"
"Yes. She was right here. She can’t have gotten far away. O, how
could I forget her? How could I?"
They pushed through the crowd to the curb, looking wildly in both
directions. Standing at Graham’s elbow, Peggy babbled on almost
incoherently.
"Red coat, Graham, and a red hood. It was only a minute ago. O, why
did I do it? Can’t you see a little girl all in red? O, what will
mother say?"
"Look here, Peggy, you want to keep your head." The sharpness of
Graham’s tone was like a dash of cold water, disagreeable but effective.
"Dorothy won’t be hurt because she’s out of your sight for a minute.
But if you’re going to be any help, you must stop this."
Peggy gasped a little, and followed meekly, pale and trembling, but
controlling herself by a mighty effort. The policeman at the corner had
not seen any little girl in red wandering off by herself, but he took a
reassuring view of the situation.
"If you haven’t found her in twenty minutes call up the Stark Street
station. They’re getting ’em there just now at the rate of twenty a
day."
Twenty minutes! It was long before Peggy could hear that measure of
eternity named, without thinking immediately of a seemingly interminable
and altogether miserable stretch of time, in which she seemed to
experience enough contrition and agonized foreboding for a half-dozen
lives. "Isn’t it time to telephone, Graham?" she asked again and again,
and each time Graham answered with amazing patience. "Not yet, Peggy.
Don’t be scared. Everything will be all
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