“Oh, I wish you would tell me something about your school life in New York,” begged Helen wistfully; “I had a friend who used to go to one of the high schools. I hear they are very fine.”
It was Thursday, the day the Girl Pioneers were to call on Nathalie, and Helen Dame had run over a few moments before their arrival to have a short chat with her new friend.
“Oh—I,” Nathalie hesitated with rising color, “I did not go to high school. Yes, I know they are very fine, but I attended a private school kept by Madame Chemidlin.”
An “oh!” escaped Helen involuntarily, as her eyes gloomed a little, but her companion plunged recklessly on.
“It is considered one of the finest schools in the city, because, well, for one thing, Madame is adorable, her father was one of the nobility, a political refugee from France, and then because the girls who attend come from the best families in New York. They were just dears—” with a sigh of regret—“Nellie Blinton, shewas my chummiest chum, she’s the one I told you Miss Tyson reminded me of, she has the same kind of a face as Nell, with big, dark eyes and the same gentle, ladylike way about her that my friend has.
“Then there was Puss Davidson, she’s awfully clever. She writes stories, and last year won a gold medal from St. Nicholas. She was Valedictorian of our class last Spring. You know I graduated then, but took a post-graduate course last winter and expected to enter college this fall, but now, of course, things are different.” She spoke a little sadly.
Helen could not help feeling somewhat disappointed as she heard about these rich schoolmates of Nathalie’s; she had taken a great liking to this girl with the daintily colored face with its rounding curves, lighted by eyes that held you captive with their frank, direct gaze. Although bright and clever-looking, this Girl Pioneer possessed no claim to beauty, for, as she ruefully commented at times, she had a nose with a knob on it. For that reason, perhaps, being free from that enviousness that characterizes so many girls, she was a beauty-lover. Too often she had made friends with girls just because they appealed to her love for the beautiful, only to realize when it was too late that good looks do not always mean pleasing traits of character. In fact, Helen was somewhat tired of being disappointed, and had vowed to her mother that she was never again going to care for a pretty girl. She was not sure thatNathalie was a real beauty, but surely, with her lovely brown eyes and the gracious little way she had, not at all self-conscious, but just real “self,” she was in a fair way to become very popular with the girls.
Her eyes clouded momentarily and something caused an unpleasant jar. No, she was not jealous of Nathalie, for she was willing to have her know and be liked by the other girls, but as she had been the first one to know her, she wanted to be her special friend. But then if she had always had so many high-toned schoolmates, perhaps she would not care to be a friend to a girl who was learning to be a wage-earner. Helen had always felt proud to think that some day she could be ranked among that class of highly regarded women, but would Nathalie think as she did?
There was something so straightforward, however, so honest, about Nathalie as she went on and told of her studies, her friends, and a few of the incidents in her school life in the big city, that Helen forgot her fears, and was compelled to believe that she would be doing her an injustice in fearing that she would choose her companions for what they had and not for what they were.
“Oh, here they come!” cried Nathalie at this moment as she caught a glimpse of a group of girls in brown uniforms coming down the street. She half rose from her chair and with sparkling eyes watched them as they came, a dozen or more, perhaps, up thesteps of the veranda. In another second her eyes grew big as she saw each girl’s hand placed quickly over her heart, then up to her forehead, and lastly held with open palm at a level with the right shoulder. It was the Girl Pioneers’ salute to their leader, for Helen with a sudden straightening of the shoulders had responded to the greeting with a similar movement.
Nathalie had already stepped forward, leaning on Dick’s crutch,—he had been relegated to the couch in the hall,—and was crying, as her color came and went in pink flushes, “Oh, I am so glad to see you!” extending her hand to the foremost girl, Grace Tyson. “I think it’s just lovely for you all to come to see me!” nodding towards the rest of the group, with eyes that attested the cordiality of her welcome. She stopped abruptly, for the girls had broken forth into
“Hear! hear! hear! Girl Pioneer!Come, give a cheer, G-i-r-l Pi-o-neer!”
“And a cheer for our hostess!” added Grace Tyson, lifting up her hand as she faced her companions. Before Nathalie could catch her breath there came another ringing cheer as each girl with smiling eyes shouted,
“Hear! hear! a cheer for Nathalie dear!Girl Pi-o-neer! Girl Pi-o-neer!”
If Nathalie’s color had been going and coming, it now flooded her face as she laughingly held out herhand to each one in turn, giving a soft little squeeze that made each girl vote her a comrade.
Grace and Helen now led Nathalie back to her chair, somewhat solicitous as to the sprained foot; but she laughingly assured them that she was all right. Then with animated eyes she bowed and smiled as Helen, who was spokesman for the group, began to introduce each one of the Pioneers in turn, in an offhand, half quizzing way that relieved the formality of the ceremony.
“This is Miss Jessie Ford, our literary scribe and Editor-in-chief of ‘The Pioneer,’ a penny newspaper issued monthly, devoted to the news and doings of the Girl Pioneers.”
Jessie, a wholesome-looking girl with golden hair worn in a coronet braid, and with bright, keen eyes, shook hands pleasantly, half smiling at the words of their leader. “Yes, she is clever, our Jess, and progressive, too,” went on Helen, her eyes twinkling, “which means a lot in these times.” There was the suspicion of laughter in her tone.
“That she’s progressive can’t be denied,” interposed Grace Tyson laughingly, “for when we had a Pioneer party a short time ago, Jess wasn’t going to be outdone by any newspaper reporter and wrote a detailed description of each girl’s costume and sent it to the ‘Town Journal.’ The paper appeared the afternoon of the ‘come-off,’ one of the girls saw the article, and suggestedas a joke that we all change costumes. O dear, what a laugh we had on Jess!”
Miss Jessie, however, only smiled at all of this chaffing, as if proud of this proof of her alertness and stepped to one side.
“And this bluebird—oh, Miss Page did I tell you that each Pioneer group is named after a bird, and that ours is the Bluebird Group?” Helen had forgotten her teasing tone in her eagerness to impart this information.
“What a pretty idea,” responded Nathalie, “and bluebird, the name of your group!” thinking of the nest of bluebirds she had found down in the old cedar.
Helen nodded with pleasure and then said, “This is Miss Kitty Corwin; we call her our pot-boiler—that means that Kitty always manages to keep the pot boiling not only by holding up her end of the line, but all the other ends, too, when the derelict Girl Pioneers forget to do so.”
“And you might say she always carries all the pots and pans, too, when there’s a hike,” interposed the newcomer, with a nervous laugh. She was an awkward-looking girl about fourteen, all arms and elbows, but with a rather winsome face lighted by big, serious eyes. There was such nervous activity about her grip as she yanked Nathalie’s hand like a pump-handle that that young lady had no doubts as to her surplus energy. As Kitty tried to make her escape there was a suppressedhowl, and then a twitter, for alas, she had backed into one of her companions with such force that the victim almost lost her balance.
The girls, each one smiling, but with a palpitating heart as if doubtful what Helen would say when her turn came, all looked up expectantly as a tall girl, somewhat older than the others, but with a certain dash about her that added to her charm, came forward. She moved with willowy grace and had an ease of manner that accentuated the Pot-Boiler’s embarrassed movements.
“Miss Page, allow me to introduce you to Miss Lillie Bell.” There was a certain emphasis in Helen’s tone as she presented this pretty, attractive girl, that indicated her pride in one of the most popular girls belonging to the group.
Miss Bell smiled in a self-assured manner as Helen introduced her, and then greeted Nathalie with sweet graciousness as she waited expectantly for her characterization to be given.
“Lillie is our story-teller,” continued Helen with a gleam of mischief in her eyes, “a would-be thriller, for we all shiver with the creeps when she begins her yellow-journal romances. Her specialty is ghost tales, the kind that, as we sit in the dark around our cheer fire, its glare (blood-red, please note), casting weird shadows over our pallid faces—” Helen intoned in tragic burlesque, and then stopped with a laugh.
Lillie Bell, however, did not appear at all annoyed at this banter, but returned coolly, “I hope Miss Page, you will not believe all Helen says, for she dotes on teasing, but we get even with her when the chance comes.” From a certain gleam in the smiling gray eyes Nathalie did not doubt her, but as her voice was musical, and her manner impressive, bordering on the dramatic, she wished she could hear one of her thrillers.
“Observe,” tantalized the spokesman as Lillie disappeared and her place was taken by a young girl who looked as if she was all blood and muscle, with ruddy cheeks, alert eyes, and the poise and bearing of one who was a frequenter of the gym.
As Helen said, “This is Miss Edith Whiton,” she made an old-time curtsy, “generally dubbed the Sport, as she is the champion knee-doubler, arm-stretcher, toe-raiser, and all the rest of the ball-and-socket team.”
With attempted nonchalance Edith twisted her shoulders and flashed Helen a quick glance as much as to say, “Wait, my turn is coming later!” She then stepped forward and shook Nathalie’s hand, smiling pleasantly down at her with frank friendliness.
As she made her way back to her seat, a pale, studious-looking young girl with a head that looked almost top-heavy with its black braids, and who wore glasses, presented herself before Nathalie. She smiled nervously as Helen began, “Oh, this owl-like individual isBarbara Worth; she is very learned—she knows it all.”
“Oh, Helen!” came in pained expostulation from the girl, as her eyes turned distressfully upon her hostess in shamed embarrassment.
“Oh, Barbara, don’t mind,” spoke up Lillie Bell kindly, “Helen is only in fun.”
Barbara looked somewhat relieved at this brace to her injured feelings, and then stood nervously clasping and unclasping her hands together.
“Yes,” went on Helen relentlessly, “we call her the Encyclopedia for short. Wait until you want to know something in a hurry, she will help you out, for she has the best heart in the world.” With a little ripple of laughter Helen leaned forward and looking up at Barbara cried, “There, did I say anything so dreadful?”
Barbara smiled gratefully and then said quietly, “Yes, Miss Page, I have a fine library, it is grandfather’s, and I shall—” she drew a deep breath—“always be glad to live up to my name.”
There was loud clapping at this brave remark and then she was gone, but in her place stood a little lass who smiled bewitchingly at the girl in the chair, showing a coy little dimple in one cheek, and then with a slight frown waited for her executioner to behead her.
“This little damsel is Louise Gaynor,” introduced Helen; “she is the Flower of the family—spelt bothways. We call her flower, because she resembles one,” Louise bowed prettily with a surprised glance, “and then because she is an expert manipulator of the flour bag; she makes most edible flapjacks when we go on a hike. It is needless to say that we always have indigestion afterwards.” There was a laugh at this, and then as the Flower disappeared, Helen drew to her side a diminutive girl who wore her flaxen hair in two large braids down her back. With her broad, good-natured face and cornflower blue eyes she was a miniature Gretchen.
“This is Carol Tyke—we spell it T-i-k-e, because she is a tike and the fag of the group as well.” The little girl, who was about eleven, but small for her age, grinned at Nathalie and ducked her head. “She is a Junior Pioneer, not yet twelve. But we have her in training and she is taking tests daily, which doesn’t give her much leisure time, does it, Tike?”
At last, much to Nathalie’s relief, the introductions were over, and then she listened intently as the girls began to tell her of a hike they had taken the week before, when one of their number had found a hundred different leaf specimens.
“Yes, it was a leaf hike,” said Grace. “We all have our own note-books; and make impressions from the leaves; that is, we print them in our books, and then write the date of the hike, the name of the leaf, and any other data we have gathered.”
“I should think it would be very interesting,” remarked her listener, as she thought of the outings she and her schoolmates used to take on Saturday mornings when they visited Bronx Park, and studied “cooped-up nature” as one of the girls used to call it, when they eyed some fierce monarch of the forest in his iron cage, or exclaimed over the beauties of some hot-house flower.
“We are going to have a wild-flower hike soon,” volunteered the Tike, smiling at Nathalie in a most friendly manner. “The Sport says there are a lot of beautiful flowers in the woods near Edgemere, didn’t you, Sport?”
“But I wish you would tell me something about your tests—is that what you call them?” Nathalie asked. “I should think they would be no end of fun if they mean making one do stunts, or anything in the hazing line?”
“Oh, we do not haze, or anything of that sort, for that would not be kind, and kindness is one of the laws of the Girl Pioneer,” explained Grace. “By tests we mean trying to see what a girl can do that is useful, and if she can’t do it, we teach her. We have to sew, cook, and know all the emergency things.”
“You mean the First Aid to the Injured methods,” corrected Helen; “knowing what to do to revive a person when almost drowned, how to put out a fire—”
“How to bathe and bandage a sprained foot—”
“You needn’t tell me you know that,” cried Nathalie with sparkling eyes, “for I know by experience,” and then she told the girls what the doctor had said about Helen’s skillful way of binding her foot—in spite of that young lady’s blushes at this open praise—and how clever her mother thought the girls were for the ready way in which they had made the stretcher from their khaki skirts.
“Then we have to know how to restore a person who has fainted,” some one volunteered.
“And learn the Fireman’s Lift,” added another girl.
“Oh, let’s tell things from the beginning!” interrupted some methodical girl from the farther end of the porch.
“Oh, but I told Miss Page—” Helen stopped, for her hostess was looking at her with beseeching eyes, clearly due to the formal title.
“Won’t you please call me Nathalie?” the owner of that name ventured with a coaxing little smile.
“If you will say Helen,” replied the girl with evident delight.
The girls both laughed, shook hands on it, and then Helen continued. “Yes, I told Nathalie all about the tests for the third-class Pioneer. Well, to become a second-class Pioneer it is necessary to have been a third-class Pioneer for at least a month. Then you have to know how to cook a piece of meat properly—”
“Boil a potato as it should be done!” interruptedLillie Bell. This was impressively said, and followed by a chime of laughter from the girls.
“And make a coal fire in a cooking-stove—ye stars!” ejaculated Grace, “when I made my first, I literally smoked every one in the house to a ham—but when I made my first out-of-door fire—”
“You didn’t do any better,” cried Lillie Bell irrelevantly, “for you sooted the whole bunch of us.”
“Oh, Lillie,” cried Grace in dismayed tone, “that wasn’t from making the fire, for I was the only one who made it with a single match, but it was from putting it out.”
“Now girls, don’t tell tales; for, as Mrs. Morrow says, we are all breakable and no one should cast the first stone,” called out their leader.
“Oh, the tests are all easy but the next one,” cried Edith Whiton, “that is not a cinch by any means: how to remove a cinder from the eye—”
“Or any other foreign substance!”
“We have to know all the primary colors, too,” went on Edith.
“Pshaw, any kindergarten kid knows that,” spoke the Encyclopedia, who up to this moment had taken no part in this flow of information, “but to tie a bundle properly, that means hard labor.”
“Yes, indeed,” added Jessie Ford quickly, “one has to have an awful lot of practice to do that. I worked so hard tying up bundles at home for every one in thehouse that Father suggested I apply for a position as bundle-wrapper at some department store. And I would have, just for a joke, if I hadn’t succeeded in making every one for whom I tied a bundle give me five cents—and I made a dollar.” Her eyes gleamed reminiscently.
“You have forgotten about the trees!” called out the Sport.
“Yes, we have to name three kinds of trees, three flowers and three birds.”
“Easy!” chimed the girls in unison.
“But the hardest—that was for me—” exclaimed Grace (Nathalie bent forward eagerly, for somehow she did like Grace), “was to earn or to save fifty cents and put it in the bank.” There was a general shout at this, for, as Helen explained in an aside to Nathalie, Grace was the richest girl in the Pioneer group. She had a beautiful home, her own automobile, her own allowance, and yet she was always hard up.
“She’s awfully generous, you know, and doesn’t know how to count her pennies,” she added wisely, “the way we girls do, because we have to. But she’s learning.”
But Helen’s whispered comments about her friend were not all heard by Nathalie, who suddenly stiffened, and with a quick exclamation leaned forward and stared curiously at a gray figure that was walking past the house with strained, averted eyes, as if fearful thatshe might see the group of merry girls on the veranda.
“Who is that lady all in gray?” she demanded, abruptly clutching Helen’s arm as her eyes followed the gliding figure of the strange-appearing woman whose library card she had found the day of her accident in the woods.
Helen looked up quickly in response to Nathalie’s question, but before she could answer, Kitty Corwin cried hastily, “Girls, look! there goes ‘The Mystic’!”
“The Mystic!” echoed Nathalie in mild amazement, while one or two of the group turned and gazed curiously at the gray-shrouded figure hurrying by.
“You needn’t ask me to look at her,” asserted the Sport with a scowl, “after screwing up my courage as I did to ask her if we could use her terraced lawn for one of our drills; why, the glance she gave me almost froze me stiff!”
The girls laughed at Edith’s tragic tone, while Lillie Bell retorted teasingly, “Well, she must be a chill-raiser, Edith, if she could freeze the marrow in your spine.”
“Girls, you should not speak as you do about Mrs. Van Vorst,” admonished Helen, “you know Mrs. Morrow says that she has suffered a great sorrow.”
“Pshaw, we all know that,” returned the Sport unfeelingly, “but that is no reason why she should make every one else suffer, too.”
“Granted,” rejoined Helen, “but she has grown to look at things through morbid eyes.”
“I should think the gray gown she wears would make any one morbid,” suggested Lillie. “But what is the use of discussing her? I believe she is just a crank with a fad,” she added.
“Who is she, and why does she go about in that queer gray gown?” inquired Nathalie, insistently.
“She is Mrs. Van Vorst, the richest woman in town,” explained Grace. “She lives in that big, gray house surrounded by the stone wall. Haven’t you noticed it? It’s on Willow Street, up on the hill. You must have seen it.”
“Oh, the big house with the beautiful Dutch garden,” exclaimed Nathalie, “and the queer little house at one side of it?”
“Yes,” nodded Helen, “but that queer little house is an ancient landmark—a Dutch homestead—built on a grant of land given by Governor Stuyvesant to Janse Van Vorst way back in 1667. The Van Vorsts, or their descendants, have lived on that place for hundreds of years. Billy Van Vorst, the last of the line, married Betty Walton, a rich New York girl. He died some years ago, and—well, I don’t know the exact story—” Helen hesitated, “but they say Mrs. Van Vorst has an awful temper—oh, I hate to tell it—and then it may not be true.”
“But it is true,” asserted Jessie Ford, “for Mother used to know Billy and Betty, too. She said shortly after Billy’s death Mrs. Van Vorst became angry withher little child—I don’t know whether it is a boy or girl—and—”
“Whatever it is,” broke in Edith, “it is all distorted and twisted, looks like a monster, for I saw it one day in the garden, the day I was there. It is always muffled up so people can’t see it.”
“Well, anyway,” went on Jessie, “Mrs. Van Vorst got into a temper with the child and shut it up in a dark room, and then went off to a reception or something, and forgot all about it.”
“Oh, how could she?” ejaculated Nathalie with a shudder.
“Well, when she came home and remembered it—it wasn’t in the room—”
“And they found it all in a heap on the pavement in the yard,” again interrupted Edith, anxious to forestall the climax; “I have heard all about it, they say it was an awful sight.”
“Dead?” cried Nathalie in a shocked tone.
“No, not dead,” returned Jessie, “but it might as well have been. It had become frightened in the dark, said some one was chasing it, and in trying to escape climbed out on a shed and fell to the ground. Mrs. Van Vorst was ill for a long time, almost lost her mind. Then she gave up society and came down here and built this big house beside the homestead. She has lived in it ever since, but keeps to herself; she doesn’t seem to want to know people.”
“Oh, I don’t wonder she mourns in gray then!” exclaimed Nathalie. “I feel sorry for her!”
“And so do I!” chimed Helen squeezing her new friend’s hand responsively, “for she will have to suffer remorse all her life. Mother says she is to be pitied.”
“Well, I should have more pity for her if she would let us have the lawn back of her house for our flag drill,” remarked Lillie Bell, “or for one of our demonstrations.”
“You can be sure I’ll never ask her again,” declared the Sport, vehemently; “I believe she hates us just because we are young, and can enjoy life when her child can’t.”
At this moment Grace arose and handed Nathalie a peculiar-looking envelope of rough brown paper. “No, it won’t explode,” she giggled, as she saw Nathalie handling the quaintly-folded envelope rather gingerly.
“You needn’t think it is the butcher’s bill, either,” laughed Helen, “for it isn’t. It is simply an invitation to one of our group meetings, or Pioneer Rallies, as we call them. We always use that kind of paper when we invite guests, for it was the kind used in pioneer times.”
Reassured by Helen’s explanation, Nathalie opened the envelope, noting the old-style script printed by hand in scarlet letters, evidently the work of one of thePioneers. Then she slowly read aloud:
“They knew they were Pilgrims, and looked not much on those things, but lifted up their eyes to Heaven, their dearest country, and quieted their spirits within.”
—Bradford.
Yepresence of yeyoung maide, Mistress Nathalie Page is enjoined to appear on ye23^rdof this month at yeCommon House (Seton Hall) on yecorner of yecross roades to Bergen Town, to join with yemaides of yecolony of Westport in a seemly diversion and Mayflower Feast.Postscript: Kindly come apparelled in yemeeting-house cloathes and behave as a young maide should so do.From the Girl Pioneers of America, yeMany-greated-grand-daughters of yeMothers of yePilgrim Colony, who came to this new world in yegood sloop MAYFLOWER in 1620.
Yepresence of yeyoung maide, Mistress Nathalie Page is enjoined to appear on ye23^rdof this month at yeCommon House (Seton Hall) on yecorner of yecross roades to Bergen Town, to join with yemaides of yecolony of Westport in a seemly diversion and Mayflower Feast.
Postscript: Kindly come apparelled in yemeeting-house cloathes and behave as a young maide should so do.
From the Girl Pioneers of America, yeMany-greated-grand-daughters of yeMothers of yePilgrim Colony, who came to this new world in yegood sloop MAYFLOWER in 1620.
The expression of wonderment in Nathalie’s eyes changed to one of amusement as she laughingly cried, “My, but you are the real article!”
“Yes, the scribe did that,” said Helen proudly; “I think it ought to be put in a glass case.”
“Thank you!” promptly returned Jessie; “I accept your praise, but suggest, as industry is one of the laws of the Pioneers, that I should receive a specialbadge of merit, for if you could have seen me poking into those musty documents at the library to get the thing right, you would say I deserved it.”
“But what does it mean?” demanded Nathalie curiously. “What have you to do with the Pilgrims?”
“Why, it means,” explained Helen, “that we girls, to freshen up our minds on pioneer history, so that we may learn more about the women we emulate, name each of our rallies after some one group of pioneers, or some special pioneer woman, in memory of their service to us. Then we all talk about them, each one telling what she knows.”
“Or what she doesn’t know, generally,” broke in Lillie, dryly.
“I guess you are about right, Lillie,” added Grace, “for we are awfully rusty on pioneer history. It always seemed so stupid at school, but we have learned a lot since we started naming our rallies after pioneer things, and trying to see what we can cram. Why, girls,” she cried suddenly, as if impelled by inspiration to tell the latest thing she had learned, “do you know that there were almost thirty children who came over with the Pilgrims in theMayflower?”
“Well, I for one did not,” remarked Jessie candidly; “I didn’t know that the Pilgrims had any children; supposed they were just a lot of blue-nosed men who wore high ruffs and tall, round hats, and who wentabout with long faces, telling people they would go to the devil if they dared to smile.”
“There, Jess,” broke in Lillie Bell mischievously, “you needn’t get profane over it.”
“Of course they were grim and forbidding-looking,” supplemented Kitty, “and—”
“And sanctimonious,” added some one, “with their blue laws.”
“Girls, you are all wrong,” spoke up Helen, with a sort of call-you-down air, “it was the Connecticut elders who made the blue laws. The Pilgrims were sincere, earnest men. Remember what Mrs. Morrow said about them?”
There was a sudden silence for a moment, and then a faint voice was heard from the other end of the veranda. Every one pricked up her ears and craned her neck to see who was speaking.
“Ye Stars! it is the Flower of the Family,” whispered Edith; “what has come to her?”
The sweet, low voice went on slowly, perhaps a trifle unsteadily, “God sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain into the wilderness.”
“Hooray for the Flower!” shouted some one, and then of course they all had to clap, while the editor-in-chief of the “Pioneer,” who was sitting next to the speaker, jotted down this little saying with the air of an expert reporter.
“Now, do you suppose,” went on Helen, “that these picked men—”
“This choice grain,” corrected the Sport softly, who was trying hard to create a laugh.
“Edith, please be serious,” admonished Helen, looking at that young lady with reproving eyes, but she was sitting with folded arms and eyes cast down, the picture of innocent and bland decorum.
Helen, seeing she had subdued the Sport for the time being, continued: “Yes, this choice grain was composed of not only sincere and courageous men, as we know, but the most tolerant of any of the first settlers in this country. But, of course, in serious, solemn times one is not apt to be funny. They were not really sanctimonious, they just got that name because they tried to live up to their convictions.”
“But they got it!” retorted the Sport, who was always hard to convince in an argument. Helen flashed her eyes at her in rebuke, and then, turning toward Nathalie, said, “We are not only going to tell what we have learned about the Pilgrims at the rally, but we are to end with a Mayflower Feast. We do not expect to eat the things the colonists did, of course, but the table is to be decorated with May-flowers—that is with all the flowers that grow in May—so you see, it will really be a May-flower Feast.”
“The Boy Scouts are going to pick the flowers forus!” chimed the Tike, her good-natured face beaming good-fellowship at Nathalie.
“Dr. Homer—he is Mrs. Morrow’s brother—” supplemented Grace, “is the Scout Master of the Eagle Patrol, and as he is very anxious to make the boys chivalrous, he likes to have them help us all they can.”
“But we are to have a great big entertainment,” exclaimed Carol importantly, “very soon, and we’re to sell tickets so that we can make money for the Camping Fund.”
“And we have such a bright idea for getting up something novel in the way of entertainments,” spoke up Helen interestedly. “Each girl is to put on her thinking-cap and get to work on an idea; it has to be original, nothing borrowed, or that has been used before, and then turn it in to our Director in proper shape to be carried out. All of these novel ideas are to be kept secret until we have had all of the entertainments, and then we shall vote for the one we think the best. The winners will receive merit badges for their efficiency.”
“Oh, that will be great!” cried Nathalie, “but tell me, where are you going camping?” she questioned animatedly, for her thoughts had instantly reverted to a summer or so before when she and a party of school girls had camped up in the woods of Maine.
“We don’t know yet,” was Helen’s practical rejoinder,“for we have got to know how much money we shall have to spend. But come, girls, be serious and tell Nathalie some of our sports and activities. We want to show her that we can do things worth while, you know.”
“Oh, get Lillie Bell to tell us one of her stories!” cried the Sport, who was a warm admirer of the story-teller.
“Oh, I can’t think of any now!” replied Lillie lazily. And then as a chorus of voices seconded this plea, she cried, “Really girls, I can’t. I was up half the night studying for exam. But,” her face brightened, “I will tell you about the picked chicken if you like. As it has something to do with our pioneer law, it will come in all right.”
“Oh, yes, do!” pleaded her hostess, who had been wishing that she might hear one of the story-teller’s thrillers.
“It isn’t a blood-curdler this time, Miss Page,” apologized Lillie, “so I cannot give you an exhibition of my reputed talent as a fictionizer. It is simply that Mother had a headache, Father was going to bring home a swell friend to dine with us, and as it happened, the butcher sent a feathered fowl, and our little Dutch maid was ill.”
“Oh, it was maddening,” she sighed in dolorous reminiscence, “but there was no way out of it, for wehad to have that chick for dinner. So I set to work; some people say that when you try to do right everything rises up against you. So it proved to me, but I remembered our Pioneer motto, ‘I Can,’ and glued myself to that job. Verily, I thought that chicken must be a relative to the goose that laid the golden egg, for every feather I pulled, a dozen at least came to the funeral. But I won out, and went to bed with a clear conscience, and that fowl—inside of me!”
“Hooray for the Pioneer laws!” called several voices hilariously, and then at one and the same time, in their eagerness to give proof of well-doing, each one started to relate some personal experience. The effect of several story-tellers spinning yarns at the same time was so ludicrously funny that all the stories ended in merry laughter.
“Oh, let’s vary the entertainment,” suggested Grace, “and sing our Pioneer song for Miss Page.”
In another moment the fresh young voices, accompanied by a swing of heads and a tap of feet, were singing, to the tune of “Oh, Maryland, My Maryland”:
“We laugh, we sing, we jump, we run,We’re Pioneers, Girl Pioneers!We’re always having lots of fun;We’re Pioneers, Girl Pioneers!The wild birds answer to our call,These feathered friends in trees so tall;We learn to know them one and all.We’re Pioneers, Girl Pioneers!
Refrain.We’re Pioneers, Girl Pioneers!We’re Pioneers, Girl Pioneers!We will be brave, and kind, and true;We’re Pioneers, Girl Pioneers!”
Nathalie, who was enjoying this musical treat immensely, and longed to join in, suddenly gave a start. She had heard a familiar hand strike the keyboard of the piano, and then start in with the tune the girls were singing, while a clear, high, soprano voice—one that the girl had never heard before—took up the air, and in a moment was leading the girls in their song, and as though accustomed to do it.
She saw one or two of the girls smile at another in a mysterious way, and began to wonder what it all meant. As the last verse came to a close, and there were three, Mrs. Page stepped through the low French window from the living-room on the veranda, followed by a figure in white and Dick, who was hobbling along on a broom turned upside down.
There was a silent moment, and then the Girl Pioneers had jumped to their feet and were saluting the lady in white, for it was Mrs. Morrow, their Director. No, they did not touch their shoulders as in the salute to Helen, their group leader, but the forehead, in military salute.
Mrs. Morrow returned the salute, and then, as the girls broke into their Pioneer yell, came over to Nathalie without waiting for an introduction. But theyoung hostess had risen to her feet and was standing with outstretched hand.
“Oh, my dear! you must sit down, or you may strain your foot!” cried Mrs. Morrow anxiously, as she caught Nathalie’s hand in hers and smiled down at her with luminous gray eyes, the kind that seem to radiate hearty good-will and cheer. Her greeting was so gracious, and there was such an undefinable charm in the bright face of the young matron, that Nathalie surrendered immediately.
“I did not mean to intrude on your sport, girls,” cried Mrs. Morrow in a moment, turning toward the group, still holding Nathalie’s hand, “but I was as anxious as you all were to meet our new neighbor.”
The color deepened in Nathalie’s cheeks as she cried in her impulsive way, “Oh, but you are not intruding at all, Mrs. Morrow; I am more than anxious to meet you, for—” she stopped a moment, and then flashed, “the girls all say you are lovely!”
There was a wild cheer at this, whereupon, the gray-blue eyes smiled at Nathalie again. Then turning, the lady nodded to the compliments so boisterously expressed by the girls. For a few moments it seemed as if each girl was trying to outdo every other girl as to who should win in this race for tongue speed, as they crowded around Nathalie and their Director.
Presently Nathalie looked up and laughed, for Dick did look so funny as he hobbled from one girl toanother—he had always been a lover of girls—on his broomstick. As if divining why she laughed, Dick, who had heard her looked up. “Hello there, Blue Robin!” he cried teasingly, “what have you got to say about it?”
“Blue Robin?” repeated Mrs. Morrow in puzzled query, turning towards Nathalie, “why does he call you Blue Robin? That is the name of this group.”
“But I thought the name of this group was Bluebird,” answered Nathalie in some surprise.
“So it is,” returned Mrs. Morrow, “but you know, bluebird means blue robin, too.”
“There, Dick! I was not so far wrong after all!” cried Nathalie triumphantly, looking at her brother with convincing eyes. Then she turned and quickly told how she had found the bluebird’s nest in the old cedar, how she had called the birdlings blue robins, and how Dick—who was a terrible tease—had plagued her about it ever since.
“But please inform me, Mrs. Morrow,” now spoke that young man, “why you say bluebirds are blue robins?”
“Why, you know, the first bird seen by the Pilgrims when they came to this land was a bluebird—our earliest songster. As it resembled the robin so much, they wrote home to their friends and told of the beautiful blue robins they had seen in the new land.”
“Oh, Nathalie,” cried Helen with joy in her voice, “do you know the finding of the blue robin’s nest surely must be an omen for good! Keep the name your brother has given you, and become a real bluebird, or blue robin, by joining our group and becoming a Pioneer!”
“Oh, yes, Miss Page, do!” came quickly to Nathalie’s ears; “we should love to have you one of us.”
“I’ll coach you in the tests!” sang out Helen, who was ready to dance with pleasure to think that there was a prospect of her new friend becoming a Pioneer.
“And I’ll help!” added Grace. “And so will I,” “And I!” chimed several girlish voices.
Nathalie sat in embarrassed silence, hardly knowing what to answer to these many cordial invitations to join, and offers to help her do the tests. “I would love to be one of you,” she spoke hesitatingly, “but I am not at all clever at doing things, for I can’t sew, or cook, or do anything useful at all!” The girl’s voice was almost plaintive.
“Ah, you are just the one we want, then,” was Mrs. Morrow’s quick reply; “we want girls who don’t know how, so we can teach and train them in the right way.”
There was loud applause at this remark, and then as the hubbub subsided somewhat, Mrs. Morrow held up her hand for silence. “Now, girls,” she said, “give Miss Page time to think. Yes, we should be overjoyed to have you join the group, Miss Page, for later, inthe summer, one of our bluebirds is to emigrate South for the winter, and we should love to have you take her place. I agree with Helen that the finding of the bluebird’s nest in the old cedar meant that you were to become a true bluebird, or Blue Robin, as we shall have to call you.”
Nathalie looked at Dick, and then at her mother. Mrs. Page was smiling at her so reassuringly that Nathalie understood that she gave her consent, and joyfully signified her willingness to become a Pioneer. With a bob of her head at Dick she declared, that she would become one if only to show her brother that there was such a thing as a Blue Robin.
Mrs. Morrow then explained that they had selected the bluebird as their mascot not only because it was the bird of pioneer days, but because the word blue means true, and Girl Pioneers were to be true in word, and thought, and deed. And then as a bird means swift, they were to be swift to the truth.
“The bluebird is also noted for its cheerfulness,” she continued. “The Pioneers are to be cheerful. It is a loyal bird; the Pioneers are to be loyal to one another, to their pledges and laws, and to every one and to all things that are right, good, and pure. The bird is also very gentle, and we want the Pioneers to cultivate kindliness and gentleness. Flower,” she called suddenly, “sing us that pretty little bluebird song you know.”
In compliance with this request the Flower sang, in her sweet soprano, a funny little song about a bluebird courting his lady love. Each verse ended with the call-note, “Tru-al-lee,” which the girls caught up as a refrain and sang with sweet, low tones, the Flower’s bird-like trill rising high above the others.
“Do you know, Helen,” exclaimed Nathalie, looking at her friend with reminiscent eyes, “that it is only three weeks since I met you, but it seems like three months.”
“That is because you have been on probation for a Pioneer,” retorted Helen smilingly, “and are beginning to take life more seriously.”
“Not very seriously, I am afraid,” lamented Nathalie, “judging from the bungle I made in trying to learn that square knot.”
“Oh, you will learn,” encouraged Helen, “but I must be off, for I have some typing to do for to-morrow.” Yes, Helen’s new friend knew that she was learning to be a stenographer. When that little fact had been divulged in the natural course of events, Nathalie had listened with great interest to Helen’s declaration of her life purpose—to be independent—not only for the pleasure that independence would bring to her, but because she wanted to earn money so that she could give her mother little comforts and luxuriesthat Mrs. Dame had been denied because her husband’s income was limited.
Instead of scorning her, as the girl had feared, Nathalie had wished her great success, apparently appreciating the unselfish motive that actuated her, while lamenting that she herself was not as clever.
“O dear,” she had impulsively declared, “I want to earn money, too; oh, if I only had a purpose in life! I do not want to be a drone.” And then on the impulse of the moment she had confided to Helen her many disappointments, and how anxious they all were about her brother Dick, fearful that he might never recover the use of his leg. To Helen it had seemed that since these mutual confidences a closer friendship had grown up between them, much to that young lady’s joy.
She had just finished hearing Nathalie recite the Pioneer Pledge and laws, give the names of the Presidential party, as Nathalie called them, adding the name of the governor of the State in which she lived, describe the United States flag, sew a button on—as it should be done, she had declared with solemn unction—and then exhibit her skill at tying a square knot.
“After you become a Bluebird at the Pilgrim Rally to-morrow, I shall begin to drill you in the tests necessary to make you a Second-Class Pioneer,” Helen had declared when the lesson was over and she began to gather up her sewing materials.
“Oh, will you?” cried Nathalie, “but when can I become one?”
“In a month,” was the reply, “if you pass the tests; but there, I shall never get my work done if I stand here and talk,” and Helen started for the steps.
“Yes, and I am in a hurry to hear what Dr. Morrow says about Dick’s knee,” returned Nathalie as she followed her friend to the edge of the veranda. “You know he was in this morning to examine it; I am so anxious to hear what he had to say.”
“How did your brother injure his knee?” asked Helen as she paused at the foot of the steps, “I have often wanted to ask.”
“Why, he slipped on the ice just two days after Father’s death,” rejoined Nathalie, her eyes darkening sorrowfully. “The New York physician said it was only sprained ligaments and would be all right soon. But he has been growing worse—it pains him dreadfully sometimes—oh, you don’t know how worried we are—” her voice quavered, “suppose he should be lame for life!”
“Oh, don’t get nervous over it,” advised Helen cheerfully, “but hurry in and see what Dr. Morrow said. To be sure he is only a one-horse-town doctor, but it is claimed that he is an expert surgeon,” and then with a smile and a wave of her hand she hastened toward the gate.
Nathalie watched her friend with brightening eyesas she hurried across the lawn. Somehow the girl’s companionship had revived her drooping spirits; the many little chats they had had about the Pioneers and the tests, coupled with the anticipation of becoming one, had in a measure brightened her life. To be sure, they could never take the place of her friends of the city, but might perhaps dull the longing for the things of the past and the desires that at times threatened to overwhelm her. She realized that she was beginning to take a keener interest in her surroundings, and felt that it was all owing to the Pioneers.
“Nathalie, I am here—in the sitting-room!” called her mother’s voice faintly a few moments later as she heard the girl’s step in the hall. An apprehensive pang seized Nathalie’s heart as she flew to her mother’s side.
“What did the doctor say, Mumsie?” she demanded anxiously. “Will Dick be lame?”
“I hope not, Nathalie, but there will have to be an operation—” her mother’s voice sank to a whisper, “and oh, it will cost us several hundred dollars.” Here Mrs. Page broke down, and burying her face on her daughter’s shoulder wept silently. The girl gently patted the gray-streaked head as she hugged the slender form closely, but with intuitive divination she let her have her cry out, although she was seething with impatience, for she knew it would prove a relief to the mother heart.
“It is all right, I am just a coward.” Mrs. Pagechoked a moment, then imprinted a wet kiss on the rounded cheek so close to her own as she felt the comfort of her unspoken sympathy. “I am sure Dick will be all right in time—but I am so worried—I have had bad news, too. It does seem as if misfortunes never come singly, as they claim,” she said, thrusting a crumpled sheet of paper into her daughter’s hand.
The girl’s eyes swept the type-written page, once, twice, then in a tense tone she demanded, “Oh, Mother, do you mean that the Portland cement bonds are in danger—why, I thought—”
“They are to stop paying interest while the company is being reorganized; something has gone wrong. I was afraid of it, as they say cement is being sold at a very low figure.”
“But perhaps it will only be for a time, you are crossing your bridges before you get there as Father used to say,” Nathalie replied with attempted cheerfulness, “but did you not say that they were first mortgage bonds?”
“Yes, but child, we have got to live,” exclaimed her mother irritably; “that money, the interest, is part of my income, and it is little enough—expenses are so heavy. And where the money will come for Dick’s operation I am sure I don’t know—but there, don’t worry—it will be all right in time, I know.” Shesank back in her chair and dabbed her reddened eyelids with her moist handkerchief.
“But, Mumsie, tell me, why is it necessary for Dick to have an operation?” questioned Nathalie insistently with anxious eyes.
“The doctor says there is a bone in his leg infected. It will have to be removed, and a new bone put in.”
“A new bone put in!” ejaculated Nathalie, “why—”
“Yes, it is something new in surgery,” replied her mother. “Dr. Morrow says thousands of cripples have been made well by this new method of treating cases like Dick’s. He says—” a long sigh—“if Dick does not have an operation, he will probably be lame, if he is ever able to walk at all.” The tears began to glisten in Mrs. Page’s eyes again, as Nathalie, with a sudden sharp realization what this would mean for Dick and all of them, turned and rushed from the room with the dread that if she remained a moment longer she too would fall to weeping.
She hastened up the attic stairs to her den; she wanted time to think. Oh, suppose there should be no money for the operation, and Dick should be lame all the rest of his life, Dick, who had always been so well and robust, and who for his athletic prowess had won so many silver cups and medals! She threw herself into the low rocker, and leaning her head on herdesk began to cry softly; she did not want Mother to hear.
Oh, why did they have so much trouble? How hard it was to lose her father, her beautiful home and friends, to give up college, to have to live in that poky old town—even the Pioneers could not compensate for that—and then to have Dick lame because they had no money! Nathalie wept on in woeful lamentation, feeling with the untriedness of youth that she was a great martyr. Did not God’s world owe her happiness? Was it not sinning against her in denying her right to its joys?
But even sorrow has its limit, and gradually her sobs died away to a shiver, as her head dropped wearily on the back of her chair. Oh, if she were not so helpless, if she could only earn money like Helen! But what could she do? She couldn’t sew, she had no musical ability—like Lucille! A Bob White whistle, followed by a “Tru-al-lee!” beneath her window reminded her that she had promised to take a walk with Grace Tyson.
Yes, Nathalie knew that “Tru-al-lee!” for that young lady was the only Pioneer who could so successfully imitate that little bird’s sweet trill. She jumped up quickly, and then with the buoyancy of youth cast all her dismal forebodings skyward and hurried down to the lower floor.
“I’ll be down in a moment,” she called out to Grace, who had just entered the hall and was chatting withDick, who had been reading on the couch. She flew into the bath-room, scrubbed her face vigorously a moment, and then flying into her room grabbed her hat from its peg in the closet, and then hastened down the stairs humming blithely a new ragtime song as she went.
“I want to say good-by to Mother,” she exclaimed as she nodded to Grace and hurried into the sitting-room. But when she saw the big pile of mending on the table in front of Mrs. Page, a sudden guilty pang assailed her.
“Oh, Mumsie,” she cried, “don’t you do that mending. I will do it when I come back. I meant to do it yesterday,” she excused herself lamely, “but I forgot all about it.”
“Never mind, daughter, perhaps it will keep me from worrying,” was the reply; “as ’tis said, there is nothing like work to keep up one’s spirits.”
“Oh, Mumsie,” the girl cried impulsively, rubbing her hands caressingly over her mother’s cheek, “don’t let’s worry any more. We’re just silly to cry over what may not happen,” and then she added hopefully, “I’m sure things will come out all right.”
Mrs. Page’s eyes filled as she bent forward and kissed her would-be-comforter. “Yes, we are silly, no doubt,” she smiled through her tears, “to waste time and strength worrying over what, after all, may not happen.”
“But, Mother,” suddenly questioned the girl with uneasy eyes, “do—do you think I ought to become a Pioneer?”
“Why not, Nathalie?” inquired Mrs. Page in surprise. “Perhaps it will teach you some of the many things you should know, for if we are to be poor, you may have to earn your own living. Resourcefulness, courage, those will be the things—” her mother’s voice ceased abruptly.
Nathalie remained silent; there was a note in her mother’s voice that seemed like reproof. A sudden depression seized her again as it came to her with renewed force how helpless she was, what things Helen did to help her mother, and the many useful things the Pioneer girls—plain girls, too, who had never had the advantages that she had had—could do.
But mentally pushing these reproachful thoughts aside with the rebellious feeling that she had never been brought up to do these things, that she had been born a lady, she stooped and kissed her mother hastily and hurriedly joined Grace on the veranda.
“Where shall we walk?” she asked that young girl, as they passed down the street. She glanced up at the blue sky, where snowy clouds drifted like rudderless ships at sea.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, but Mrs. Morrow has asked me to deliver a note to ‘The Mystic.’”
“‘The Mystic?’” echoed Nathalie in doubtingamazement, “why I thought she had never had anything to do—”
“To do with the people of the town,” finished Grace. “Well, she doesn’t as a rule, but she is one of Dr. Morrow’s patients and had the grace to return Mrs. Morrow’s call. I hate to go, as I know she dislikes young people, but of course I could not say no to Mrs. Morrow, and then, too, I rather think she is writing to ask her if we could have her lawn for one of our demonstrations. We had a lovely idea for a May-Day celebration, but we had to give it up, as we had no place to hold it.”
“What were you going to have?” inquired Nathalie, as the two girls turned up the hill leading to the big gray house enclosed in its barrier of gray wall.
“We were going to get some ox carts and decorate them with Mayflowers, and parade to the grounds. There we were to choose a queen and dance around the May-pole in welcome to the goddess of spring. Fred was to be Robin Hood—O dear,” she suddenly ejaculated with a dismayed face, “I do believe I left the note at home. What a ninny I am! Why, I pinned it to the cushion so I wouldn’t forget it and then walked straight off and left it.”
The girls stared blankly at one another a moment and then Grace cried, “Come, we might as well go back for it; do you mind? It is only a few blocks out of our way.”
On receiving Nathalie’s assent she added contentedly, “I’ll get Dorcas to make us some lemonade to cool us off, and—why, I can show you my Pioneer room!”
“Oh, I should just love to see it!” enthused Nathalie; “Helen told me about it. She said she was going to suggest that the groups of the Pioneer band have a Pioneer room.”
“Isn’t it old-timey?” she mused a half hour later, as Grace ushered her into a low-ceiled room whose walls were flauntingly gay with a paper of many-colored tulips, which, Grace proudly admitted, was decidedly Dutch and for that reason had been selected.
Nathalie’s keen eyes were lured to the photographs, water-colors, etchings, and cuts from magazines, all representative of pioneer days, that peeped from between the gorgeous rows of tulips. An etching of New Amsterdam dated 1650, with rows of one story houses, with their gable ends notched like steps, and weather vanes surmounted with grotesque designs of horses, lions, and geese, proved a great contrast in its quaint simplicity to the New York of to-day.
Her eyes swept from this pictured history to the four-poster with its dimity valance, and then on to the oval dressing table, resplendent with silver candle-sticks, snuffers, and a curious little Dutch lamp with a funny mite of a tinder-box by its side.
“But that clock is a dear!” she murmured as her gaze lingered admiringly upon a tall grandfather’s clockin the corner, which returned her glance with such old-time solemnity on its ivory-tinted face that Nathalie’s brain became a movie screen, one scene after another presenting themselves to her vivid imagination.
“Father gave that clock to me last birthday,” informed Grace with pride; “it belonged to the Very Reverend Henricus Van Twiller, one of my forebears. See, there’s his picture over the mantel,” pointing to a seamed and dingy-looking canvass of said forebear, who looked down at them with stolid complacency.
“Yes, it is very old,” continued Grace, “some unimaginative relative of Papa was going to chop it up with Georgie’s little hatchet, but Father rescued it just in time. But you must look at the spinning-wheel. Grandmother gave it to me for being a thief.”
“Yes,” she rattled on, “I stole a satin bow from her old wedding gown for a souvenir, and when she discovered what I had done, the old dear not only forgave me, but added this spinning-wheel to my collection of things ancient. See, here is the bow on the distaff. But come, let’s go down and have the lemonade, I’m dying for a cooling drink.”
As the two girls sat sipping the beverage, Grace suddenly sprang up crying, “Oh, there’s Fred! I want you to meet him!” She began to wave and call frantically in the direction of the lawn, where a tall, well-formed youth was striding, nonchalantly swinging his tennis-racket.
“Oh, I say, kid, what do you want? I’m in a hurry!” came in response a moment later, as the youth stopped and eyed his sister impatiently, vigorously mopping his face, for the day was warm.
But as he caught sight of Nathalie, his excuses suddenly ceased, and with a few strides he reached the veranda and was eyeing the new girl’s health-flushed face and sparkling brown eyes with much favor. After a hearty shake of the hand in answer to his sister’s introduction, he dropped into a chair by Nathalie’s side, and soon they were all chatting and laughing merrily as Fred told of some Scout adventure that had happened on their last hike.
“But you had an adventure, too, did you not?” he asked suddenly, looking at the young girl by his side with a glint of mischief in his eyes, “the day you were rescued by the Pioneers?”
“Oh, did you hear about that?” Nathalie cried, her face taking on a deeper tinge of pink. She had always felt the least mite ashamed of that mishap.
“Yes, and how about the blue robins?” he continued in a quizzing tone.
“Oh, Grace,” exclaimed Nathalie, “you have been telling tales!” and then with a laugh, she told of finding the bluebird’s nest, excusing her ignorance by the plea that she was a city-bred girl.
The conversation soon drifted to Boy Scouts, Fred being a Patrol Leader, and greatly interested in theorganization. Finding that Nathalie had had some difficulty in learning knot-tying, he kindly volunteered to give her a lesson in that intricate art. His pupil proved an apt scholar, as it was not long before she had mastered the weaver’s, the overhand, the reef, and had gained a fair insight into several other knots. Before the lesson had ended Fred had asked if he might not come up some evening with Grace, and give her another lesson and meet her brother Dick.
Nathalie’s face dimpled; she hastened to assure him that she would be pleased to welcome them at the house, and that she knew her brother would be more than delighted to know a Westport lad. And then she told him all about her brother’s misfortune, and how depressed he grew at times without his chums to drop in and cheer him.
The clock had just struck four when the girls, escorted by Fred, who claimed he was going their way, neared the high stone wall overtopped with gray turrets and nodding trees that looked as if they yearned to leap beyond their barrier.
“Wasn’t it a queer idea to build a beautiful house like this and then fence it in like some old monastery?” questioned Grace. “See, here’s a bell in the stone gate, the way they used to have it in olden times.”
“Ugh! I hate to go in—the place gives me the creeps!” she shivered nervously. “Oh, Fred, do come in with us, we shall not be long.”
Fred took out his watch, and finding that he was not hurried for time yielded to his sister’s entreaties and rang the bell. Presently the door was opened by a stern-looking man in overalls, evidently a gardener.
He frowned unpleasantly when the girls asked to see Mrs. Van Vorst, but when Grace produced her note and said she had been sent by Dr. Morrow’s wife, he reluctantly held the gate open for them to enter.
Nathalie gazed eagerly down the garden path, with its old-time hedge and tall pines that swayed gently to the rhythm of the May breezes, leading to the handsome modern structure at the end. It was colonial in design, with low French windows and overhanging Juliet balconies here and there. A long veranda ran across the front, with high white pillars, and a porte-cochère.
“This is the old Dutch shack,” remarked Fred irreverently a moment or so later, as they stood in front of the weather-beaten landmark that clung like some ugly parasite to the stately mansion which towered above it.
Nathalie’s eyes were awe-struck as her glance traveled over the sloping roof with its red chimneys, where quaint dormer windows stood forth like thrust out heads from its gray shingles. The long, low porch, only a foot from the ground, was almost lost to view behind the vines of honeysuckle and rambling roses screening the trellis. Bushes of hollyhocks, whitepeonies and many old-time posies grew in a riotous hedge around it.
Fred showed her the hatchet-scarred door-lintel, a memento of savage ferocity, and told of the little Dutch maiden who, from a small window above the door, fired on a group of redskins as they hammered against it, killing two. In the rear of the homestead he pointed out a grass-grown mound, where it was claimed an outhouse once stood, leading to an underground passageway, where the settlers at times took refuge when hearing the fiendish war-whoop.
As the girls nervously ascended the low steps leading to the broad-floored veranda of the gray house, Fred turned back towards the gate, promising to wait outside for them.
As the great door swung open in answer to their ring, and the butler’s impassive face stared stonily at them, the girls were tempted to turn tail and follow Fred as he went whistling down the path. But Grace conquered the inclination, and with assumed boldness asked for Mrs. Van Vorst.
For an instant Nathalie thought the man was going to shut the door in their faces, but when Grace held out the note for confirmation of her words his impassivity relaxed somewhat, and with stiff formality he asked them to walk in. With hushed breath they gazed curiously about the hall, while a stag’s head above a quaintly-carved table eyed them glassily.
The rusty swords, the flint-locks, and many other curios that decorated the casement, beneath faded canvasses of ancient dames and sires, possessed a weird charm for the girl. She was particularly beguiled by the wide oaken staircase with its daintily carved balustrade that rose spiral-like to the floor above, and to her imaginative ear there came the swish of a brocade gown as some haughty fair one, kin to the canvassed beauties on the tapestried walls, came with tap of dainty heel down the broad stairway.
But no romantic thing occurred as the butler, still retaining his sphinx-like mask, ushered them into a little reception room opening from the hall fitted up to simulate a Chinese pagoda. The girls seated themselves on two teakwood chairs and stared silently at the many curios that gleamed from cabinet and screen, each betraying some eccentric custom of the land of the yellow peril.
“O dear, I feel as if I were a beggar!” observed Grace with an apprehensive shiver. “Ugh, I should hate to have that grim-looking man come back and tell me my company wasn’t wanted.”
Nathalie burst into a giggle, which was quickly suppressed in sympathetic recognition of her companion’s mood. Her eye was caught by a huge mandarin who grinned at her with a hideous leer, and she shivered, half wondering if some of the many evil spirits believed to inhabit China were not hidden behind his wrinkledbrown skin, and were looking at her through his bead-like eyes, trying to hypnotize her with his sinister glare. Surely those glittering, shiny specks of eyes did move—oh, what was that? She jumped to her feet, crouching all of a heap in abject fear as she stared with horror-stricken eyes at the mandarin, as if that weird, shrill scream that had suddenly broken the grim silence had come from his mummy-like lips.
“Oh, what is it?” whispered Grace in a hoarse whisper, as she stared in paralyzed appeal at Nathalie.
Before Nathalie could answer another cry, more piercing and, if could be, more blood-curdling than the first, came echoing down the hall, followed by a demoniacal laugh which assured Nathalie that the terror was something more human than an old Chinese idol. Grace, with a frantic scream of terror that almost equaled in its intensity the one that they had heard sprang into the hall and rushed frenziedly toward the door!