"Why," returned Edna, innocently, "the man said that the ladies of the fair gave them to me with their love, and I don't know why, for I didn't get a single vote but yours and Uncle Justus's."
Aunt Elizabeth smiled, but she did not explain. "Well, child," she said, "it was very kind of the ladies to pay the compliment to Mr. Martin's little guest."
"O, yes," replied Edna, "of course it was, and he liked it, too. I wish I had given him and Miss Martin more of the roses."
"You had better put them in water, or they will all fade," said Aunt Elizabeth; "I have no doubt the ladies will remember Mr. Martin. Now go to bed, and try to get up when you are called so as to be ready for Sunday-school."
"O, Aunt Elizabeth, just please tell me when I can take Maggie her doll."
"I am afraid I shall not be able to go with you on Monday, for I have a meeting in the afternoon," answered Aunt Elizabeth.
"Couldn't you find your way alone?" asked Uncle Justus.
"I think perhaps I could," replied Edna, a little doubtfully, "but I am not very good at finding my way about. Papa says my bump of locality was left out. I don't know what that means, but he said so."
"Perhaps if I put you on the cars and tell the conductor to let you out at Pearl Street you could find your way," said Uncle Justus.
"And what about the getting back?" put in Aunt Elizabeth. "I think Edna will have to wait."
But here again Miss Martin came to her aid, for the next morning after Sunday-school she made her way over to where Edna was standing waiting for Louis, and asked her about the matter.
"I can't go till Tuesday," Edna told her, "for Aunt Elizabeth hasn't time to take me, and I do so want Maggie to have her doll. Won't she be s'prised. Miss Martin? I am just crazy to take it to her."
"Let me see," returned Miss Martin, thoughtfully. "If your aunt will allow you to go, perhaps I can take you. How would that do? I will see Mrs. Horner after church, and we'll try and arrange it."
And so it was settled that Edna should go with Miss Martin to the Home the next afternoon. In the meantime it was a great temptation to have the pretty doll so near and not resist the temptation of being a little envious of it. Many a peep was taken at the fine lady laid away in state in one of Edna's bureau drawers; but the child was honorable enough not to run the risk of spoiling the freshness of her attire by taking her out of her place.
"I think you were a goose not to try for the doll yourself," said Louis.
"O, Louis!" replied Edna. "I never could have had all those votes, and besides I have Moggins, so you see I ought to make up to Maggie for that."
"Well, that's so," replied Louis. "Anyhow I am glad that that stuck-up Clara Adams did not get her."
Edna was thoughtful. "So am I," she confessed. "But," she added, "I heard Miss Martin say, 'Poor Clara Adams, I'm very sorry for that child.'"
"Poor!" exclaimed Louis. "I don't know where you get your rich people from if she's poor. I reckon Miss Martin doesn't know what she's talking about."
"I'm going to ask her," declared Edna. And true to her word she did ask, that very afternoon, "What made you say, 'Poor Clara Adams,' Miss Martin?"
"Did I say that? Well, dear, she is a very poor little girl; with all her rich clothes and her ornaments there is one ornament which I am afraid she will never be able to wear."
Edna opened her eyes. "What is it, Miss Martin?" she asked, wondering if Clara were in any way deformed so she could not wear rings.
Miss Martin smiled. "Did you never hear about the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit?" she said.
"O," returned Edna, only half understanding.
"Clara is a restless, discontented, envious little girl," continued Miss Martin; "and although her mother and father come to church every Sunday, and give liberally to charities, their little girl is not taught to find happiness by thinking of others rather than of herself, and so that poor little self of hers often feels as much neglected as Maggie Horn ever did."
"But Clara isn't neglected," interposed Edna.
"She thinks she is, unless some one is paying attention to her all the time. She wants to be noticed and considered and amused from morning till night, and feels slighted at being set aside for a single instant. So you see she is a little girl to be pitied. 'Contentment is better than wealth,' says the old proverb."
That was a new way to look at Clara Adams, Edna reflected; but she had not time then to think much of the matter, for by this time they had reached the Home where Maggie was.
This was not visitors' day, but a note from Mrs. Horner to Miss Barnes gave Edna special permission to see Maggie. She came into the room looking very clean and neat in her blue dress and gingham apron. Her face brightened as she caught sight of Edna.
"Why," she exclaimed, "how did you happen to come to-day? How is Moggins? I hope he doesn't bother your aunt."
"Moggins is as fat as butter," answered Edna, "and I came—O, Maggie—I came to bring you this," and she thrust the doll into the little girl's arms.
Maggie looked from the doll to Edna and back again, perfectly bewildered. "Why, why," she said, "not for me! You don't mean for me!"
Edna nodded, "Yes," most decidedly. "It's for you, and came from the fair. O, so many people voted for her—three hundred. Isn't she sweet?"
"O! O!" cried Maggie, "I never had nothin' like this. I never expected nothin' like it. I feel like it was Christmas, an' I was a-dreamin, an' it was a story book all to once. Da'st I kiss you?"
"Why, of course," replied Edna, heartily, and she threw her arms around the little girl and gave her a fervent embrace. Then followed a close examination of the dolly's pretty clothes by both little girls, till Miss Martin came in accompanied by Miss Barnes, who said she was sorry to take Maggie away, but that it was study hour; and the children separated, one about as happy as the other.
Then Edna and her friend turned toward home, where a new surprise was awaiting.
"Where is uncle?" was Edna's first question when she reached home.
"Listen to the dear," replied Ellen. "She doesn't know that the two of them has gone away suddint."
"Why, where?" asked Edna, in astonishment.
"To Mr. Horner's sisther's, darlin'; wurred came by the bhy from the telegraph office thot the poor leddy's tur'ble low, and would they come right away? So the madam t'rows a bit o' their clothes intil a bag, an' says she, 'Ellen, we'll be back the mornin; ye must look out for the childer.'"
"O," cried Edna, "then we can eat supper in the kitchen; and you'll let me pour out, won't you?"
"Will I thin? av coorse I will, an' I'll make ye a bit o' short cake."
"O, that will be fine," replied Edna, "I'm going up stairs to take off my wraps, and then I'm coming down into the kitchen."
"Moind ye change yer dhress," called Ellen; "an' put on an apron, so ye'll not get yer clothes hurted."
Edna was down again in a twinkling, the cause of the sudden departure of her uncle and aunt lost sight of in this "happening" of a cosy time.
MOGGINS.MOGGINS.
There was something particularly cheery and comfortable about the clean kitchen. Louis was already there playing with Moggins; the little kitty was whisking around after a string, his prancings and sidewise jumps making the children laugh merrily. Edna left this play to make a little short cake from some dough which Ellen gave her. She baked it on top of the stove, and, although it was neither very clean nor well baked, and was rather ragged looking, it was heartily enjoyed by the children and Moggins, who was a little cat ready to taste anything offered to him.
Edna poured out the cambric tea and mixed it with great gravity, giving Louis plenty of sugar in his, while the amount of short cake and syrup indulged in would have been considered shocking by Aunt Elizabeth. But the children had never so enjoyed a meal in that house.
Edna's doll, Ada, occupied a place at the table, being mounted upon a firkin placed upon a chair, and as Edna had to eat both her own and her doll's share of the short cake it was no wonder that the supply was more than she could manage.
Louis took Moggins under his care, but Moggins, it must be confessed, did not behave so well as Ada, for he slyly whipped off with his paw pieces of food from Louis' fork, and began lapping the cambric tea from his neighbor's cup, so finally he was sent from the table, a disgrace which did not affect him in the least, as it gave him a chance to scamper around after his tail, and race about without restraint.
"O, Louis," said Edna, when bedtime came, "aren't you afraid to sleep down here alone?"
Louis flushed up. "What did you say that for?" he replied. "I wasn't going to think about it, and now you've made me. I'm not exactly afraid, but it is a long way up to you and Ellen if anything should happen."
Ellen stood thoughtfully considering the question, one hand on her hip, and the other stroking her puckered-up lips. "Thrue for ye," she said. "I promised the mistress to hev an eye on ye, an' how can an eye pinitrate through the two flures? I'll bring a cot down for mesilf to your aunt's room, an' Edna shall sleep in the big bed, whilst I take the cot, so we'll all be commojus and neighborlylike."
There was much fun and laughter getting the cot down stairs, and Edna thought it a great experience to sleep in her aunt's big bed, while Louis was very glad not to be so far removed from the others, although he professed great indifference upon the subject after his first confession.
The next morning the school children began to gather. Nine o'clock came and no teacher, for, strange to say, even Miss Ashurst did not make her appearance. A note from her did arrive, but as it was addressed to Professor Horner no one opened it, and the cause of her absence was not explained.
"O, fun!" cried one of the girls. "No school to-day. We'll have a holiday."
"We'd better wait a little while," said Agnes Evans, who was the eldest as well as the brightest pupil in the school. "Professor and Mrs. Horner may come in any minute; we'll wait till ten o'clock. Come here, little sobersides," she said to Edna. "What are you so solemn about? What word did your aunt and uncle leave?"
"They left word that they would be back this morning," replied Edna. "Of course they supposed Miss Ashurst would be here, and that she would be able to get along till they came. Don't you think—" and Edna looked up hesitatingly.
"What, monkey dear?" said Agnes, passing her arm around the child. "Out with it."
"Don't you think we might have school just the same if you big girls were to take the teachers' places? Don't you think we ought to try to do the best we can?"
"You dear child," responded Agnes. "The idea of your having more conscience than us big girls! Of course that is what we should do. Miss Ashurst has been absent once or twice before, and one of us has always taken charge of the little girls. Helen Darby, come here," she called to one of her classmates. "Will you take charge of the little girls? We're going to be good and have school the best way we can. Find Florence Gittings and see if she'll undertake the boys. She'll be just the one to manage them," and springing forward to Professor Horner's desk, Agnes rapped sharply.
The girls who had been chattering like magpies suddenly became silent. "Girls!" said Agnes, "how many of you will stand by me, and do their best to-day? This little midget has made me ashamed of myself by telling me my duty, and I'll do my best to teach those in this room. Anyone who can't trust to my judgment can go home immediately, and any girl who can't promise to behave just as well as if the professor were here can also go home."
Not a girl left the room.
"Good!" cried Agnes. "Now let us go to work," and school was opened without further delay.
Agnes conscientiously kept strictly to the order of the day as mapped out by Professor Horner, and the girls, with good will, entered into the spirit of the occasion. "You are on your honor, girls," Agnes told them, "and I don't believe there is one here mean enough to slight her work." So even the most careless tried to keep up to the standard set for her, while the bright young teacher made everything as interesting as possible.
Florence Gittings managed the little boys fairly well, and Helen Darby did her best with the little girls. The latter, however, belonged to the most troublesome class, and Edna felt very much ashamed of some of them.
"O, dear!" she said to Miss Evans, "our class didn't behave well at all, and it will have to be reported to Uncle Justus."
"You dear thing!" replied Agnes, "you shall be reported for good behavior, I can tell you. I shall just tell your uncle what a dear little soul you were, and how you really were the one who started the plan of our day's doings."
Edna blushed at the praise. She was not often commended by Aunt Elizabeth, who did not believe in praising children, and so the little girl was very grateful for this.
"If anything happens to detain our teachers to-morrow, girls," said Agnes, at parting, "we shall do just as well, I hope. So please all put in an appearance."
Dinner was not served in the kitchen, and the two children ate their meal feeling a little forlorn at being so long left to themselves. It was very well for a time, but, as the day wore on, Edna missed Uncle Justus from his place in his easy chair, missed Aunt Elizabeth's heavy tread, and told Louis she did.
"Ho! that's just like a girl," he said. "I don't miss them that way, I can tell you. I'm glad enough to get a chance to have a fling. I know what I'm going to do this afternoon."
"What?" asked Edna.
"I'm going to have a lot of the boys in and have some fun."
"O!" exclaimed his cousin, with round eyes of disapproval.
"Why shouldn't I?" asked Louis, sharply. "I guess I have a right to do as I choose when there's nobody here to tell me I sha'n't."
Edna could not always answer Louis' arguments, but she knew it would be against the wishes of her aunt and uncle. "I wouldn't do it," she said.
"O, no,youwouldn't, good little baby girl; you're too much of a saint. I suppose you'll tattle, too."
The tears came into Edna's eyes. "Now, Louis, you know I never tell on you."
"Well, no, you don't; but if you're so down on a fellow's having any fun, what's he to expect?"
"I'm not down on your having fun, but I think we ought to do just as well as we can while uncle and aunt are away; better even, for it seems sort of—sort of dishonest to do things behind people's backs that you wouldn't do before their faces."
"Do you mean to say I am dishonest?" began Louis, blustering.
"O, no," cried Edna; "but—but—"
"Humph! I don't believe you know what you do mean. Now, see here; my father and mother ain't wicked people, are they?"
"Of course not."
"Well, then, if they let me have boys to come in and play with me at home, why isn't it just as right here? Answer me that!"
Edna could not answer, so she got up and walked away, Louis calling after her, "You needn't have anything to do with it, Miss Goody-goody. I don't suppose the boys will insist upon your playing with them." And a moment after Edna heard him go out of the house.
About a half hour later she heard him return, a troop of boys following him. They clattered into the house and up into the schoolroom. Ellen, hearing the noise, went up, but, as might have been expected, the boys only jeered at her, and paid no attention to what she said.
"Masther Louis must study his lessons," she told them.
"I don't have to," replied Louis. "I don't call that any school we had to-day, and I'm not going to study the same lessons twice. You don't know anything about it, Ellen. You just go along and tend to your business. We're not going to do any harm." And Ellen, after standing helplessly looking at them for a moment, went back to her work.
"Will she tell on you, Louis?" asked the boys.
"I don't care if she does," returned he. "If they make a fuss, I know what I can do. I can run away."
"Good for you!" cried Phil Blaney. "Of course you can. You can go out West. You can make your way to California, where your father and mother are. You'll have a fine time, Lou, for you'll meet cowboys, and maybe you'll have a whack at the Indians. That's what I'd like to do. You're no baby, to be ordered around by a little girl and a servant."
"You bet I'm not," returned Louis, feeling very big. "They'd better try bossing me. I'll let 'em know they can't do it."
The boys' play became more and more boisterous as time went on. The schoolroom presented a fine field for sport, and Edna, in her room above, trembled as now and then came a crash which made her jump.
"O, my!" she exclaimed; "I hope they won't go to Uncle Justus's chemical closet. I'm so afraid they will!" And, indeed, the boys were bent on investigating everything, with the intention of putting all in order before they left.
But in the midst of the din came a sudden quiet. Edna could stand it no longer, and she ran down stairs and peeped in the room. In flinging a book across the room one of the boys had upset a bottle of ink, the contents of which spattered floor and wall. The boys were busy mopping it up.
"You can say the cat got up here and did it," Phil Blaney was saying.
"No, he sha'n't," cried Edna, from the door, ready to defend Moggins.
The boys all stopped and looked fearfully around.
"O, it's only Louis' cousin! She won't tell; will you, Edna?"
"I sha'n't let Moggins be blamed when he can't speak for himself," she replied, firmly, although she was scared.
"If you dare to tell," began Phil, coming up to her threateningly, "I'll—I'll make it worse for you."
Edna grew very pale. She was afraid of this big, boastful boy, but she did not flinch.
"Say, will you tell?" demanded Phil, seizing her by the wrist.
Louis sprang forward. "Look out!" he cried. "Let my cousin alone, will you! Don't you dare to touch her."
Phil turned on him, the other boys standing off.
"You want to fight, do you?" cried Phil, with a swagger.
Louis' eyes flashed, and he made a step forward to wrench Phil's hold from Edna's wrist.
"O, don't, Louis; don't!" cried the little girl, making an effort and freeing herself to fling her arms around her cousin.
"Come on, boys!" called Phil "Don't let these youngsters down me."
The boys stood a little uncertain, till Charlie Stabler, who had been out of the room to get some water, returned. "Ah, let them alone!" he said. "Louis is littler than you, Phil."
"I don't care!" replied he. "I'll thrash him if Edna does not promise not to tell."
Poor little Edna! She trembled from head to foot. Louis had befriended her, and now, to choose between him and Moggins, what was she to do? But her courage came to her rescue. "You're a coward!" she cried.
Again Phil made a dive at her, but Charlie Stabler, leading the other boys, arose to the occasion, and made a rush forward, so that the little girl found herself in the midst of the group.
"Let her alone!" cried Louis.
"I shan't!" cried Phil, and the confusion arose higher and higher.
But suddenly a hush fell upon everyone, and, looking up, Edna saw Uncle Justus standing in the doorway.
It seemed to Edna, as she looked up, that she had never seen Uncle Justus's eyebrows appear so shaggy, nor his eyes snap so. "Boys!" he thundered out, "leave the house."
Every one slunk out of the room and down the stairs without a word.
"Edna," he said, when the last one had left, "go to your room. I thought I could trust you," he added. "Come with me, Louis."
Edna crept up stairs, her bosom heaving, and such a hurt, dreadful feeling in her heart. It was so terrible to be judged in that way, as if she had taken part in all that disorder. She felt as if she could not stand it, but there was no room left for explanation, and she cried as if her heart would break over this dreadful condition of things.
It was not long, however, before she heard some one coming up stairs. "Edna, my child, where are you?" a voice said, quite gently. "Your uncle didn't understand," she heard Aunt Elizabeth say. "He is very sorry he blamed you unjustly. One of the boys, Charlie Stabler, has been here to acknowledge his part in the affair, and to offer to pay for any damage done. He is a very manly boy, although he did not do quite right to join the others. He has also said that you had nothing to do with the trouble, and has told of Louis' defense of you, which in some degree lessens the fault."
Edna jumped up and threw her arms around her aunt. "O, auntie," she cried, "I am so glad you have come back." Aunt Elizabeth smiled and bade Edna bathe her face and go down and see her uncle, who was waiting for her.
Uncle Justus stood at the foot of the stairs; he opened his arms as his little niece came down, and as he held her closely she knew he meant to make amends for the harsh judgment.
"How is your sick sister?" asked the little girl.
"She is better—a little better, but still very ill," replied Uncle Justus.
"I am so glad she is better," returned Edna, "And you won't have to go away again, will you?"
"I hope not. You had a hard time getting along, did you?"
"We didn't at first," acknowledged Edna, truthfully. "We had fun, but to-day it has been just horrid. Why didn't you come back this morning, uncle?"
"We missed the train; there are only two trains a day from that junction, and something happened to the carriage on the way, so we were too late for the morning train. You didn't have school, of course. I found Miss Ashurst's note when I reached here. She has an attack of grippe."
"O, yes, we did have school. I am sorry, uncle, but the little girls weren't as good as the others."
"And you are one of the little girls," returned Uncle Justus, smiling, and looking down at her. But Edna felt that whatever he might hear of the rest, he would not include her with the number of those who had misbehaved.
That he was highly pleased with Agnes Evans's account of the day was evident from his manner to his pupils, and he did not even reprimand the little girls, who continued under Agnes Evans's teaching while Miss Ashurst remained away. To Edna's surprise Louis was not shut up, but there was a sullen look on his face which told of his feelings. Edna's gratitude for his defense of her increased her affection for her cousin, and she tried in every way to show him little attentions, which he took graciously enough, but which did not seem to add very much to his happiness, and at times Edna felt very indignant at the sternness with which he was treated, and the cold tones in which he was addressed. It was very nice to have Uncle Justus give her credit for trying to be a good girl, and to have Aunt Elizabeth smile upon her, but it made her feel the coldness of their manner to Louis all the more.
To be sure Aunt Elizabeth did not seem to think Edna ever could be cured of certain faults. "You are a very careless child," she would say. "I am afraid you will never be the neat housekeeper your grandmother was;" or, "Edna, that exhibition of temper over little things must be controlled; it is a very serious fault." Again it would be, "You are very babyish, and lack self-control; there is no need of crying over such a small matter as a little blister on your finger." And Edna wondered if she were expected to be like the Spartan boy who held the fox under his coat while it gnawed at his heart. Aunt Elizabeth never pitied her, and even the little caresses from Uncle Justus were few and far between.
"I should like a real lap," said the little girl, wistfully, to her doll. "I should like to have mamma to hug and hug as hard as I wanted, and I should like to have sister to be silly with. I like to be silly sometimes, and sister does, too. It is a long time, Ada, since we saw them all, the boys, and the kittens, and Snowflake, and all the rest. I am afraid it is going to be a long time more, for mamma wrote that it would have to be quite warm weather before they could come back."
To be sure Ellen had a lap ready whenever there was time for her to sit down, but she was kept very busy, the one servant in a large house, and even on the days when the wash-woman came she worked just as hard. Then Aunt Elizabeth did not approve of much time spent in the kitchen by her niece, and so, with Louis grumpy, Ellen busy, Uncle Justus reading, and Aunt Elizabeth absorbed in her many interests, there were days which seemed very long to the little girl, and once or twice she went to her room at night so homesick that she threw herself, crying, on the bed, with her doll hugged up to her, and fell fast asleep without undressing, to awaken in the middle of the night chilly and uncomfortable, finding herself on the outside of the covers. She would then shiver out of her clothes and creep into bed, after groping around to get Ada and place her safely under the bedclothes. But this was only sometimes; generally speaking, the days were not unhappy ones, for lessons and practicing, so many squares of patchwork, so many pages of reading filled up the hours, and the playtime was not so long as to become tiresome.
Once a week there was a visit to Maggie, who was always overjoyed to see her little friend.
"I don't know what I shall do when you go home," Maggie said, sadly, one day. "And when you take Moggins so far off, I'll never hear of him."
Edna was thoughtful. "What becomes of little girls who live here till they grow up?" she asked.
"Some of 'em don't stay that long, they get 'dopted," replied Maggie, "an' some of 'em get places." And Edna bore this information in mind.
"What do you have to do to get 'dopted?" she asked her aunt.
"You don't do anything but try to behave yourself," replied she. "What are you thinking about, Edna? Surely you do not need to have anyone to adopt you?"
"No," was the reply, "I was thinking of Maggie."
"Well, if some lonely, childless person were to come along and take a fancy to Maggie, she might be adopted, but usually the younger children are preferred; little girls of her age are not often chosen."
Edna was disappointed. She had thought that maybe her aunt's influence might be all that was necessary, provided Maggie should care to be chosen as some one's possible daughter.
But she did not give up the hope. "Maybe some one will 'dopt you, Maggie," she said, "and then, of course, you can have Moggins back again. Your new mamma would want you to have him." And so the two children talked over this possibility, as if it were a delightful fairy tale.
All this time Louis' discontent seemed to increase and he chafed more and more under restraint. It is quite true that the same kind of treatment did not suit the two children. Edna, on the one hand, an honest, conscientious, self-sacrificing little girl, and on the other hand Louis, a spoiled, proud, rather selfish little boy. Gentle firmness would have been best for Louis, but firmness without gentleness did not suit him at all, and he resented the methods of his uncle and aunt.
"I'm not going to stand being ordered about as I am, and treated as if I were the worst person in the world" he said to Edna. "They're all right when you are concerned, but they act as if I were a criminal, and I don't want to be good for them."
Edna looked distressed. "O, Louis," she said, "I don't believe they feel that way."
"They act that way," replied he, "and I know what I am going to do."
"What?" asked Edna. "Tell me, Louis; I won't tell."
"Sure you won't?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Give your word of honor that you won't tell anyone I know."
"Yes, I promise."
"Well," and Louis lifted his hand emphatically, "I'm going to run away."
"O, Louis."
"Yes, I'm going to find my mother and father."
"Why don't you write to them to come take you away?"
"I have asked them, but they wrote back that this was the best place for me, and that I must stay, and I won't—I won't."
"Please stay," pleaded Edna. "Just stand it a little while longer. I'm so afraid you'll get into a herd of cattle out on the prairies where they have whole stampedes, and you might get caught by the Indians, and I'd never see you again," and Edna's eyes filled at the possibility.
"Ho! no fear of that. I'd skulk as well as the best of them, and I'd keep out of the way of the cattle. I might stop over night with some of the cowboys, but I wouldn't stay," replied Louis, with a very dim idea of what he might have to encounter.
"Well, anyhow, it wouldn't be right," replied Edna.
"I'd like to know why; it isn't as if I were running awayfrommy father and mother. I'm going to runtothem; that makes all the difference."
But Louis had talked so before, and Edna did not take it very much to heart, especially as just about that time came an invitation from Agnes Evans which Uncle Justus accepted for Edna without consulting anyone.
Miss Evans asked if Edna might be allowed to spend Saturday and Sunday in the country. The girl had taken quite a fancy to the child, and had won her confidence so that nowadays Miss Agnes was consulted upon all points, and although Aunt Elizabeth frowned upon the decision, Uncle Justus would not allow it to be changed, and so Edna set out very gayly, and thought nothing could be more delightful than to spend this time with her beloved friend.
"You know," said Agnes, "I have a little sister, so I am sure we can make you have a good time. Do you like the country?"
"O, I like it much better than the city," was the reply. "I live in a half-and-half country place. We have chickens and a cow. O, it has been so long since I saw a real chicken."
Miss Agnes laughed. "Where did you see any make-believe ones?"
Edna laughed, too. "O, I mean live running-about chickens. I am a little afraid of cows. Ours hasn't any horns; it is the horny kind I am afraid of."
They were then on their way to the pretty country home in which Miss Evans lived. She spent her time during the week at a married sister's, in order to attend Professor Horner's school, but she always went home on Friday afternoons, returning Monday.
It was a mild day in March when the spring seemed quite near, although snow and frost might still be expected. At the station a carriage met them, and they were driven about half a mile to where a low, old-fashioned house stood. Two great cedar trees stood, one on each side the walk which led up to the house, and which was bordered by a box hedge so high that Edna could not see over it. A little girl, a trifle younger than Edna, came dancing down to meet them. She had yellow curly hair and big blue eyes. Edna thought her very pretty and was ready at once to make friends with her.
DOROTHY.DOROTHY.
"Take Edna up to your room, Dorothy," said Miss Agnes. "You are to be roommates, you know. Show her your dolls, and make her at home," and Edna followed her new acquaintance up the broad staircase, feeling that this was much more like being at home.
"She is a dear little child," Agnes said to her mother, "and I am sure is often homesick, and longs for her own little playmates."
"You must bring her out often," replied motherly Mrs. Evans. "I can imagine how glad I should be to have some one take a little notice of Dorothy if she were away from home."
"How long are you going to stay?" asked Dorothy, not meaning to be rude, but like most children, wanting to crowd all she could into the time.
"Till Monday evening," answered Edna. But it was not on the next Monday nor the one following that which found Edna back again in the city.
"To-morrow," said Dorothy, "we will have a good time. We can play the whole day long."
"That will be so nice," returned Edna, with a little sigh of content; "I just love to play with dolls—don't you? I believe if I had a hundred dolls I should love every one."
"I don't know about a hundred dolls," replied Dorothy; "but I know I could love twenty-five. I am going to hunt up all I have—broken ones and all. We'll get Agnes to help us mend them; then to-morrow we can divide them, and you can have half while you are here," said the little girl, generously.
So a delightful morning it was—choosing dolls, dressing them, playing party, and all done in such a merry humor that Mrs. Evans and Agnes, sitting in the room opposite the nursery, often smiled to hear peals of laughter.
"Those children are having a good time," remarked Mrs. Evans; "there has been nothing but peace between them."
"I thought they would suit one another," returned Agnes.
"I think I shall send them over to Mrs. MacDonald's this afternoon," Mrs. Evans went on. "Edna will like the walk, and I promised to let Mrs. MacDonald know about some flower bulbs."
Therefore, after an early dinner, the two little girls set out to take a walk over the country road to this neighbor's.
Mrs. MacDonald was a widow, who lived all alone in a big house, substantially built of gray stone. She had once been a dressmaker, had married when no longer young a man of wealth, who died a few years after their marriage, leaving her very well off. She had no children, was a little peculiar, but a thoroughly good woman, and a neighbor whom Mrs. Evans much esteemed. She was very fond of Dorothy, and met the little girls very cordially.
"Bless my little Goldilocks," she said, in greeting; "and who is this?"
"This is Edna Conway," Dorothy informed her. "She is making me a visit. O, Mrs. MacDonald, may I show her the greenhouse?"
"To be sure you may; but you must be hungry after your long walk. Go ask Lizzie to get you some doughnuts. You know where to find her."
Edna did not know whether or not to follow her friend, but thought it would be more polite to sit with her hostess. Mrs. MacDonald had nothing to say for a while, and Edna was puzzling her brain as to what suitable remark she could make, when Mrs. MacDonald surprised her by saying:
"How should you like to come here and be my little girl?"
This was a difficult question to answer, but Edna got through bravely by saying, "If I didn't have any mamma and papa of my own I should like it very much, 'cause it is very pretty here, and I'd like to be near Dorothy, and—" she added, timidly, "you look like a very good lady." She would like to have said, "You are a very pretty lady," but Mrs. MacDonald was not handsome.
A hearty laugh was the little girl's reply.
"Well, dear," was then made answer, "I'll not rob your father and mother of such a bonny little lass, if it is too big a place for one lonely old woman to have to herself."
"Are you lonely?" asked Edna, with much sympathy in her tones. She jumped down from her chair and came closer. A bright idea had occurred to her. "I know a little girl that wants very much to be 'dopted," she said, earnestly.
"You do? Tell me about her."
So Edna began a story which Dorothy's reappearance did not interrupt, so interested were both herself and her listener.
"You see," said Edna, in conclusion, folding her little, warm hands very closely, as was her fashion when much interested. "You see, Maggie doesn't have a chance to be 'dopted like the littler girls, 'cause people like the baby ones best, though if I were a grown-up lady like you I'd 'dopt Maggie," she concluded.
At this moment Lizzie made her appearance with the plate of doughnuts. She was a middle-aged woman, with rather a sad face, though a kindly one.
"What is Maggie's last name?" asked Mrs. MacDonald.
"Her name is Maggie Horn."
Lizzie, putting down the plate, turned with a look of surprise to Edna. "What Maggie Horn?" she asked. "What about her?"
"Why, do you know my Maggie?" asked Edna.
"I know a Maggie Horn," and she turned to Mrs. MacDonald. "Excuse me, ma'am, but my breath was quite taken away by hearing the young lady speak of a Maggie Horn."
"That is all right, Lizzie. Perhaps you can tell us something of the little girl who has been treated unkindly," said Mrs. MacDonald. "I am interested in Edna's story of her."
"Well, ma'am, the little child that I used to know was left quite alone by a poor lady who died in the house where I lodged. She had been quite well to-do in her day—a milliner, ma'am, and a good one, I take it—but she married a bad man, who went through with her bit of a fortune and then went on, leaving her with this one child. The trouble, and all, ma'am, wore on her, and with weak lungs, she grew worse and worse, poorer and poorer, though always proud, ma'am, and most a respectable lady, with a good education. She died when the little one was three years old, and left the child with me. But, as you know, ma'am, I had my own troubles; and when a family by the name of Hawkins moved into the street, as wanted a bit of a girl to give an eye to the baby, I thought it was a chance for Maggie to begin to make her living. Indeed, ma'am, I didn't mean to turn her off to be ill-treated, but I thought it was none too soon for her to begin to look out for herself. She was eight years old."
"Why, you must be Mrs. Ryan," exclaimed Edna, putting this and that together, "and you were good to Maggie. She was, Maggie told me so," she continued, turning to Mrs. MacDonald.
"It was a sorry day I parted from her," said Lizzie: "but, ma'am, I had my own flesh and blood to look after, and my husband's funeral and doctor's bills to stand, and so—I did my best."
"You meant to do right, I have no doubt," said Mrs. MacDonald. "It was an error of judgment. Now, when the children have finished their doughnuts, I want you to tell John to show them the greenhouses."
Lizzie led the way, asking many questions about Maggie, and expressing her thankfulness that she was freed from an unhappy life.
The greenhouses were a delight to Edna. She was specially pleased to see ripe strawberries this early in the year, and gave the gardener a beaming smile when he told her to pick one for herself.
"I am going to carry it home to Miss Agnes," she declared.
"And I'll take mine to mamma," determined Dorothy, who had been allowed the same privilege.
Mrs. MacDonald had ordered the gardener to give them each a little bunch of violets, so they said their good-byes, much pleased with the visit.
"Wasn't it queer that I should have seen Mrs. Ryan?" said Edna. "I shall have so much to tell Maggie."
"I think it is funny for you to be friends with a little orphan asylum girl," returned Dorothy.
"Well, you see, she isn't zactly a orphan, 'cause they don't know whether she has a father or not, and then, you know, I feel so sorry for her."
"So do I," replied Dorothy. "I don't mean I wouldn't help her if I could, but I never knew anyone before who had a friend like that."
"O!" said Edna, suddenly, "my strawberry is getting so soft I shall have to eat it. I wish I had held it by the stem, instead of in my hand. Yours isn't a bit soft."
"Perhaps yours was the ripest. I'll eat mine, too, if you eat yours, and we can give mamma and sister the violets."
This was agreed upon, and the children disposed of the strawberries lingeringly.
Miss Agnes was lying on the lounge when they found her in the sitting-room.
"I have a bad headache," she told Edna. "Did you enjoy your walk?"
MISS AGNES.MISS AGNES.
"Yes," replied she; "but I'm awfully tired."
"Come cuddle up here by me," said Miss Agnes. "You have had such an exciting time I don't wonder you are tired. You must go to bed early."
Edna was quite ready to share with Dorothy the pretty little brass bedstead, but she did not lie awake long, and in the morning was very loath to move when Dorothy called her.
"How red your face is," said Dorothy, as Edna sat up. "You look sort of queer."
"I feel sort of queer," replied she, putting her head down on the pillow again.
Dorothy slipped out of bed, and ran into the next room, where her sister slept. At her gentle little shake Agnes turned over with a sigh.
"What is it?" she asked, sleepily.
"Why—" began Dorothy. "O, sister, your face is red, too."
"Is it? I feel headachy."
"You and Edna look just the same way," declared Dorothy. And sure enough, both showed well-developed cases of measles.
Edna was not very ill, but it was not considered safe for her to go back to the city for some time, much to Dorothy's delight.
Hearing of the two sick girls, Mrs. MacDonald came over and took Edna under her especial care. She was an excellent nurse, and made the little child as comfortable as a tender mother could. Then when Edna was able to be up, and Mrs. MacDonald was no longer needed, every day came fruit or flowers from the kind woman.
One day Edna was much surprised by a visit from Uncle Justus. Two whole weeks since she had seen him; and he brought her—who would have thought it!—he brought Edna's doll, Ada, with him.
"Why, Uncle Justus," said Edna, looking at her doll with pleased eyes. "How did you happen to know that I wanted to see Ada so much?"
"I did not know; I only thought that a little girl who was so fond of her doll would be very likely to be glad to see it. When are we going to have you back again?"
"Next week," replied Mrs. Evans. "We cannot let her go till then. I am afraid that Dorothy will be very disconsolate at the loss of her little friend. They have had such good times together."
"I am afraid Edna will be very far behind her classes," said Uncle Justus, "and will have to study hard to make up for lost time."
Having seen Uncle Justus, and heard all the news, Edna felt that she should like to stay on indefinitely. It was very nice to be just sick enough to be considered, and to have good things to eat; to have such cosy little meals with Miss Agnes, before either of them were well enough to go down stairs; to receive from Mrs. MacDonald every day some dainty, and to have Mrs. Evans appear every evening with a delightful story book from which she would read aloud. Then it was pleasant to be thrown with such a bright companion as Dorothy, who was always ready to devise some new play or to shake out a bag of pretty pieces for doll clothes. Altogether, Edna thought herself very fortunate to have fallen into such good hands.
"It is almost like being at home," she said. "I wish you knew my mamma, Mrs. Evans."
"It will not be very long before you see her, will it?" asked Mrs. Evans, stooping to tuck in a shawl around the child.
"Not till May," replied Edna; "I s'pose mamma will stay till then."
"Well, perhaps you will come back next year, and then we shall see more of you."
Edna looked thoughtful. She knew there had been some talk of her returning another year. She loved all these friends, but she was still quite sure that home was best. Mrs. Evans' speech made her a little homesick. She wanted her mamma. To be sick without any mother at hand seemed a very unnatural thing. She was a little tired, perhaps. She would try to go to sleep.
She dozed off just as Dorothy came tiptoeing into the room. There was a look of pleased excitement upon her face, and she fidgeted about till Edna awoke from her little nap.
"Did I wake you?" she asked, contritely. "O, Edna, I know such a splendid something."
"What?" asked Edna, raising herself on her elbow.
"I can't tell you just now. You'll know pretty soon. O, you'll be so glad."
"I think you might tell me," returned Edna, a little peevishly.
"Don't be cross," said Dorothy, winningly. "I had to promise not to tell; but I did want you to expect something awfully nice."
"When shall I know?"
"To-morrow."
"O, I know what it is. I'm going to take a drive. Your mamma told me."
"That's not all," replied Dorothy, gleefully.
"I can hardly keep from telling, so please don't ask me. Here comes your supper—Mrs. MacDonald has sent you some lovely jelly."
Several times before bedtime Dorothy almost let out the secret, but Edna never suspected, so when the next day the carriage stood waiting to take her to drive she did not in the least know where they were going, nor why.
As the carriage turned into the driveway which led up to Mrs. MacDonald's house, Edna exclaimed, "O, I know the s'prise! We are going to see Mrs. MacDonald."
Dorothy clapped her two hands over her mouth as if to keep in the secret that trembled upon her lips. Then she looked up at her mother, repressing a little chuckle.
"Yes, we are going to Mrs. MacDonald's," said Mrs. Evans, smiling.
They were ushered into the cosy library, where an open wood fire was blazing. Some one was curled up in a big chair before the fire—a little girl with curly auburn locks falling about her face; she wore a soft cashmere frock, and was a very dainty-looking little maid. She glanced up quickly as the visitors entered the room. Then a bright smile broke over her face, and she ran forward to meet them.
"Why," exclaimed Edna, "it's Maggie! Maggie Horn!"
"No," and the auburn locks shook a decided negative; "no, it isn't Maggie Horn; it's Margaret MacDonald! O, Edna, I'm 'dopted!"
Edna danced up and down in sheer delight, and Dorothy followed suit. Then Edna gave Maggie a great hugging. "Tell me all about it," she said. "How did it happen? O, Dorothy, this is the most delicious secret that ever was. How did you keep it?"
Mrs. Evans left the children in order to find Mrs. MacDonald, who was in the conservatory, and Maggie began:
"Well," she said, smoothing down her frock, and taking a long breath, "I was in the schoolroom, you know, when Miss Barnes was called out to see a lady, and after a while she came back and said some one wanted to see me. I thought it was my beautiful Mrs. Ramsey, so I was very glad; but it wasn't Mrs. Ramsey at all, it was a lady I had never seen before. She looked at me very hard, and asked me a lot of questions, all about my mother and lots of things; and Miss Barnes told me to bring my Bible that belonged to my mother and show it to the lady, and when she saw my mother's name, 'Agnes Wallace, from her loving mother, Margaret Wallace, Glasgow, Scotland,' she said, 'Why, she has my name, Margaret, and she has Scotch blood in her, the same as I and my husband. She shall be my own little lassie!' That was what my mother called me, Mrs. Ryan used to say, and it sounded so natural. So she told me her name was Mrs. MacDonald, and asked me if I would like to be her own little girl, and—O, Edna! I was so glad. And that was three days ago. And O, it was like a dream, for when I got here who should run and meet me but dear old Mrs. Ryan. She told me my father died just after my mother did, and that nobody had a claim on me, so I could be Margaret MacDonald forever and ever."
"Well, chatterboxes," here a voice interrupted, "have you had your talk out? We must be going," and Mrs. Evans, with Mrs. MacDonald, entered the room.
Edna ran toward the latter. "O, Mrs. MacDonald," she cried, "I do want to kiss you. You won't be lonely any more, will you?"
"No, I think not," replied Mrs. MacDonald, "and I don't want my little daughter to be. So Mrs. Evans has promised that you and Dorothy shall spend day after to-morrow with us."
This was a delightful prospect, and Edna declared that the drive and the pleasure of seeing Maggie had made her feel entirely well.
"I can't get over it," she said. "To think of Maggie's living in that dear old house, and having that great big garden to play in and being just like any nice little girl. O, it is just too lovely for anything."
That was a happy day which the three little girls spent together. Margaret—as the two others delighted to call her—brought out the doll which had been awarded her at the fair, to be displayed to Dorothy's interested eyes.
"I must tell Miss Martin. She will be so glad," said Edna. "And O, Margaret, you must have Moggins. I shall have to send him out to you;" but there was a tinge of regret in her tone.
"Will Mrs. MacDonald let you keep him?" asked Dorothy, turning to Margaret.
"I'll go and ask her," decided Edna, and straightway took herself to Mrs. MacDonald, and was not long in winning her consent. But Margaret was not willing to rob her friend at once of such an amusing companion as Moggins. "Wait till you go home," she said, "and then you will not miss him." And Edna, although she protested, was secretly glad when this was decided upon.