XII

"Bed not made until ten o'clock Monday.Bureau drawers untidy for three days.Forgot to put salt in the bread.Let the kitchen fire go out.Spilled ink on my best apron.Broke one of our blue cups," etc.

Most of the girls were contented with one or two faults, and some were inclined to forget that they had any, until reminded by nudges from some of their neighbors. These "confession meetings" were held once a week, between four and five o'clock. A girl would have had to show herself unusually bad to be excluded from the pleasant hour that followed when Miss Julia played for them to sing, and then around the open fire gave them good advice for half an hour,—good advice that they never imagined to be anything but a bit of pleasant conversation, although they all said that they went away feeling as if they could be good forever.

It is true that the girls whose conduct was especially approved by Julia, regardless in many cases of their reports, were permitted to borrow some book from her bookcase that they especially wished to read. At first she had been surprised to find that few of these girls had any idea about choosing books.

Haleema didn't care to read; she liked to do other things better. Concetta loved to read, but had actually never read anything but stories; indeed, she was surprised to hear that people ever read anything else.

Little did Brenda realize that she was sowing the seeds of jealousy. She felt much pride in Maggie as having been her own discovery. She thought, with some complacence, that but for her Maggie might still have been condemned to the tiresome round of a cash-girl's duties. She did several little kind things of which Maggie herself was unaware, that enabled Julia and Miss South to enlarge the work of the school in directions that were especially helpful to Maggie.

But with the best intentions in the world, Brenda could not help showing her preference for the pretty Concetta, whose dark eyes seemed mirrors of truth, and whose manners were always so charmingly deferential. Had she known that she was giving pain to Maggie by showing her preference in this way she would herself have been always ready enough to admit that this was not wise. But Maggie, although her tears flowed so easily, had the ability to keep her thought to herself.

Mrs. McSorley herself, with her Scotch canniness, had an exalted opinion of Brenda, and on Maggie's weekly visits home impressed on her the great advantages that she might expect from having the interest of a Back Bay young lady. "And if she likes any other girl better than you, it will be all your fault, and I'll take it a sign that you ain't doing your very best."

So Maggie had never said a word to her aunt about Miss Barlow's growing preference for Concetta. To have spoken of this would only have drawn a reproof upon herself. It was hard enough to confess her real faults, to tell over the list of things she had broken during the week. She had promised on first entering the Mansion to do this, and thus far she had kept her promise.

Now Maggie had her own little bit of a secret, and sometimes she drew from her pocket a crumpled half-sheet of paper, and wept when she saw at the bottom:

"From your loving Tim."

What would her aunt say, what would Miss Brenda say, if they knew that at intervals she received these misspelled letters from a jail-bird. Yes! "a jail-bird," that was what her aunt had called him, and though it was true that he had only been in the reformatory, and that his offence, as he had explained it, was due more to the fault of another man. Still he had been imprisoned, and Maggie was forbidden ever to speak to him again.

Yet he was her uncle more than Mrs. McSorley was her aunt. The latter was only an aunt-in-law, while Tim was her own uncle, and in spite of his faults she loved him. Of course he was a ne'er-do-well, but his smile was so jolly in contrast with the long-drawn, severe expression of Mrs. McSorley. The latter said that it was very easy for him to be jolly, when he never had the least care in the world for himself or for any one else. But Maggie remembered many kind things that he had done. "Since for him I'd never have been to the circus, and it was a whole day we spent at Nantasket, and he gave me that plush box of pink note-paper;" and Maggie would wipe away one of her ready tears as she thought of Tim, and she gazed at the tintype that she kept with a few other treasures in the plush-covered box.

Many a time she pondered what she should do if he should ever come to Boston, for he was now in Connecticut looking, as he said, for work. "And it won't be so very long," he wrote, "before I'll have me own house, and you for housekeeper; so learn all you can, for it won't be long."

For Maggie had written him once or twice since coming to the Mansion, and her letters had been more cheerful than those that had found their way to him when she was living with her aunt.

So Maggie had her day dreams; and the real secret of her patience, and her anxiety to learn everything relating to the work of the house, came from this hope, that she was to have the chance of showing her uncle what a good housekeeper she could be. Now Maggie should have realized that her aunt had done much more for her than her uncle; that Mrs. McSorley had shown her kindness in comparison with which Tim's occasional bursts of liberality were very small indeed. Where would she and her mother have been but for Mrs. McSorley? And Mrs. McSorley was only a sister-in-law, whereas Tim was her mother's own brother. Yet the kindness of Mrs. McSorley had been so overladen with good advice and reprimands, that it did not stand out as kindness pure and simple. Maggie was as sure that Mrs. McSorley did not love her as she was positive that Tim did love her.

Among the girls at the home she found little Haleema almost the most sympathetic. At least Concetta disliked them both, and this was their first bond of sympathy. The girls were apt to be sent in pairs on errands, and occasionally on pleasure walks, and it had come to be the habit for Maggie and Haleema to go together. They had gone together in company with Julia to present their scrap-books and dolls to the Children's Hospital, and there it was that they had fallen in love with the prettiest little blue-eyed girl, who had been sent to the hospital with a broken leg. She was then almost well, and when Miss South saw how deeply interested the two were in her she allowed them to go each week on visiting day. Later, when little Jennie went home, the two continued to visit her; sometimes they even brought her to the Mansion to visit. There she soon became a great favorite, and poor Maggie saw that Jennie no longer owed everything to her and Haleema. Concetta won the child's heart by dressing her a beautiful doll, and all the others vied with one another in doing things for her.

It was especially hard for her when, in answer to a request from Concetta, Brenda herself sent a box of useful and pretty things for Jennie's use.

"It might just as well have gone through me," thought poor Maggie; though, on further reflection, she had to admit that Concetta deserved these things, because she had been bright enough and quick enough to think of asking for them.

A few days later, when she went to see Jennie she took with her a beautiful bouquet, purchased with money taken from the little hoard that she had so carefully saved. This was a real sacrifice on Maggie's part, and when she saw the joy with which the little girl received her gift she was more than repaid.

Moreover, in the hour that she spent with the little girl she was sure that Jennie cared for her as much as ever. Indeed, had she been able to reason more deeply, she would have discovered that a child discriminates very slightly as to the value of different gifts. Jennie, like other children, loved Maggie quite as well as she loved Concetta, and though she enjoyed the presents that each one brought her, she had no scale of values by which to measure them.

"But of course you haven't given up your music. If I thought that you had, I should march straight East, and find the reason why. If it's on account of that Mansion school, you'd have to leave it instantly; so when you write tell me what you've been composing, and whom you are studying with this year. As for me, I really am rather idle, and I'm learning that a college education isn't really wasted, even if one practises only the domestic virtues. My mother has been far from well this year, and she's luxuriating in having me here to run things. Running things, you know, is rather in my line. But ah! how I wish that I could see you and Pamela and Lois again, and all the others of our class who are enjoying themselves fairly near the classic shades. I suppose that you go out to Radcliffe at least once a week, and do you feel as blue as I do to think it's all over? But don't forget to tell me about your music."Ever your "Clarissa."

"Ever your "Clarissa."

As Julia folded up this letter from her old classmate her face grew thoughtful. She certainly was not even studying this year, nor had she composed a note. It was kind in Clarissa to remember her little talent. Even Lois had spoken to her recently about hiding her light under a bushel. Was she doing this? Might her little candle, properly tended, shine out large enough to be seen in the world? Her uncle and aunt had remonstrated with her for neglecting her music, and Julia had promised to resume her work later. But thus far the exact time had not come, and she hesitated to tell them that she doubted that she had the talent that they attributed to her. This feeling of discouragement had come to her in the last year at Radcliffe, when she began to see that her ability as a composer had its limits. Now, with Clarissa's letter before her, she wondered if she had been right in letting one or two slight set-backs discourage her. She had continued her practising, and her rendering of the great composers was a continual uplifting to those who heard her. But the other,—her work in harmony,—was she right or wrong in laying it aside for the present? Was this the talent that she should be called to account for? Ought she to keep it concealed in a napkin? As she thought of this, Julia longed more than ever for Ruth—Ruth, with whom she had found it easier to discuss these personal questions than with any other of her friends. But Ruth, on her wedding trip, was thousands of miles away. It would be six months, at least, before they could meet, and she glanced at the map on which she marked a record of Ruth's wanderings, and noted that now she was in the neighborhood of Calcutta. "The other side of the world," she thought. "Ah! well, I will let things go on as they have been going, and next year, perhaps, I shall see more clearly what I ought to do."

Pamela was perhaps carrying out her ideals more thoroughly than Julia, for all her teaching was along the artistic lines that she loved the best. She was not always sure that the girls got just what she intended them to get from her little talks on the nature of beauty, and the relations of beauty to utility. She used the simplest language, however, and made her illustrations of a kind that they could easily comprehend. She had tried to show them the meaning of "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful," and in expounding this she saw that she must try to train them to understand the truly beautiful. For her own room she had had some mottoes done in pen and ink artistically lettered, and one at a time she would set them in a conspicuous place, sure to attract the attention of the girls at their lessons.

Ruskin's "Every right action and true thought sets the seal of its beauty on person and face; every wrong action and foul thought, its seal of distortion," put up in plain sight, though at first it was not thoroughly understood, served as the text for a little talk, and each girl for the time being decided to curb her tongue, lest her face should show the effect of backbiting.

Samples of dress fabrics, samples of wall papers, gaudy chromos contrasted with simple photographs, queer and over-decorated vases in comparison with graceful Greek shapes, were all used by Pamela to enforce her lessons. Yet she often had misgivings that her words were not accepted as actual gospel by Nellie and Haleema and one or two others, whose preference for crude colors and fantastic decorations often came unexpectedly to the surface.

Nora laughed at her efforts to develop an æsthetic sense in these girls.

"They'll never have the chance to own the really beautiful things, and they might as well think that these cheap and gaudy objects are beautiful."

But Pamela shook her head at this.

"Why, Nora, you surprise me! What I am trying to teach is the fact that beautiful things are often as cheap as ugly things. Of course, in one sense, they are always cheaper, because they give more pleasure and often last longer. But when a girl's taste is cultivated she can often find more attractive things for less money. Who wouldn't rather have a wicker chair than one of those hideous red and green plush upholstered affairs, and the wicker chair certainly costs less."

"You are absolutely correct, Pamela Northcote, and your sentiments do not savor of anarchism, though I hear that Mrs. Blair is greatly perturbed lest this work at the Mansion should interfere with the labor market, and prevent the householder of the future from getting her rightful quota of domestics."

"It would not surprise me," said Pamela, "if not more than two of the girls here actually became domestics. I think that Julia and Miss South are right in encouraging them to live up to their highest aspirations."

"Well, I doubt if any of them have begun to aspire very strongly yet. On the whole they are remarkably short-sighted, and when I ask them what they intend to be they are usually so taken by surprise that they can make no reply."

"Miss South feels that she can judge them only very superficially this year; but she hopes that next year she will know them so well that she can give them definite advice. In the mean time they are at the mercy of laymen like yourself and myself, and we have the responsibility of guiding them toward the heights of art, whether in the æsthetic or the culinary line."

Theoretically Pamela took some of the girls each Saturday to the Art Museum; really the average was hardly oftener than every other week. There were rainy Saturdays, there were days when Pamela had special work of her own, or an occasional invitation would come for her to go out of town. Three girls at a time were invited to go. Julia would not permit Pamela to leave the house with more than that number, lest she should be mistaken for the head of an orphan asylum.

Pamela made these trips so interesting that for a girl to be forbidden to go when her day came was the greatest punishment that could be inflicted on her. Julia and Miss South had discovered this, and the discovery had solved one of their greatest problems,—this question of punishment; for although the girls were old enough to be beyond the need of punishment, yet there were certain rules that only the very best never broke, and to the breaking of which certain penalties were attached.

Thus it happened that on this particular Saturday afternoon Haleema, whose turn it was to go, was not of the trio, and in her place was Maggie, triumphant in the knowledge that for a whole week she had not broken a single cup or saucer, nor in fact a dish of any kind.

"That means that I have my whole quarter to do as I like with," she said as they left the house.

"That means," interpolated Concetta, "that you'll put it in your little bank. She's a regular miser, Miss Northcote."

"No, I ain't," responded Maggie, "only just now I'm saving."

"That's right," said Pamela. "'Many a little make a mickle.'"

"Yes, 'm," and Maggie lapsed into her wonted silence.

Concetta, however, was inclined to be more talkative.

"Oh, she isn't simply saving, she's mean. Why, she got Nellie to buy her blue necktie last week; sold it for ten cents. Just think of that!"

"Well, well, that is no affair of ours."

"She sold a lovely story-book that her aunt gave her Christmas. She said it was too young for her, and she'd rather have the money."

"That may be, Concetta; but still I say that this is none of our business."

Yet although she thus reproved Concetta for her comments, Pamela wondered why Maggie wished to save. Economy was not a characteristic of girls of her age; though, recalling her own past need of money, Pamela felt that thrift was not a thing to be discouraged.

"Oh, please let us go to the paintings first," begged Concetta.

"No! no! to the jewelry," cried Gretchen; while Maggie, knowing as well as the others that they would first go where Miss Northcote chose, wisely said nothing, expressed no preference.

On their first visit they had walked through all the galleries to get the necessary bird's-eye view, and a second visit had been given almost wholly to the old Greek room. But all the casts and reliefs were as nothing in Concetta's eyes compared with the richness of color in Corot's "Dante and Virgil in the Forest," and the wonderful realism of La Rolle's two peasant women.

"I don't know whether they're Italians," said Concetta of the latter, "but there's something about them that makes me think of Italy;" for Concetta had vague remembrances of her native land and of the picturesque costumes of the Italian women. Although she was proud enough to consider herself an American citizen, she still was pleased when people called her a true daughter of Italy, and she loved everything that reminded her of her old home.

Of all the things that she had seen, Gretchen declared that she would much prefer the great crystal ball to which a fabulous value was attached, although there were some exquisite gold necklaces that had an especial charm for her.

Now on this special day Pamela meant to combine instruction with pleasure, and so the quartette quickly found themselves in the Egyptian room.

"You don't think that beautiful, do you, Miss Northcote?" and there was more than a little doubt in Concetta's tone as she pointed to a granite bust of a ruler in one of the earliest dynasties.

"I like it better than the mummies," interposed Gretchen, before Pamela could reply; "they give me the shivers."

"I wish you'd take us into the mummy room," continued Concetta seductively; "there are some lovely blue beads there."

But Pamela was sternly steadfast to her purpose, reminding them that there would be other opportunities for them to wander about indefinitely, whereas now she wished them to get a little idea of history through these reliefs and statues. But I am afraid that of the three Maggie alone really listened very attentively to her explanation of the difference between the Egyptians and the Assyrians, which their works of art brought out so well.

But neither Thotmes, nor Assur-bani-pal, nor Nimrod, nor Rameses were names to conjure with, and in spite of her efforts to make her subject interesting, by connecting things she told them with Bible incidents, Pamela could not always hold their attention. To give up too easily would have seemed ignominious, and she decided to allow them a diversion in the shape of a visit to her favorite Tanagra figurines.

"That will be good," said Gretchen, in her rather quaint English, as they turned their backs on the grim relics of Egypt; "and we'll try to remember every word you've told us to-day."

"Then whatdoyou remember?" said Pamela with a suspicion of mischief in her voice.

The three looked uncomfortable. On their faces was the same expression that Pamela often saw on the faces of her pupils in school when unable to answer her questions.

"The names were rather hard," ventured Concetta.

"Yes, but you must remember one fact,—at least one among all the things that I have been telling you."

"I remember one," ventured Maggie.

"Well, then, we shall be glad to hear it."

"Why the Assyrians used to make their enemies look smaller than they when they made reliefs of battles," ventured Maggie.

"And the Egyptians were very fond of cats," added Gretchen; and with all her efforts this was all the information Pamela gleaned from the girls after her hour's work.

But before she had a chance to try a new and better way of presenting the Tanagra figures to them, she heard her name pronounced in a well-known voice, and looking up she saw Philip Blair gazing at her charges, and at her too, with an air of amusement.

"This is a surprise. I did not realize that you were a lover of art," she said a little awkwardly.

"Oh, yes, indeed, though I can't tell you when I've been in this museum before. It looks just about the same, though, as it did when I was a kid."

"There are some new paintings upstairs," said Pamela; "though it's almost closing time now," she added, glancing at her watch.

When they saw that Pamela was fairly absorbed in conversation, the three girls wandered off toward another room where, Concetta whispered, there were prettier things to be seen.

"Do you bring them here often?" There was something quizzical in Philip's tone as he watched the three for a moment.

"Some of them every week; it's a great pleasure." Pamela was bound not to apologize.

"Do you think they'll get an idea of household art by coming here?"

"I'm sure I hope so, though that isn't my whole aim. It will take more than these visits here to get them to change their views of the really beautiful. Concetta is always telling me about some of the beauties in the house of her cousin, who married a saloon-keeper. They have green and red brocade furniture in their sitting-room, and a piano that is decorated with a kind of stucco-work, as well as I can understand her description, for it can hardly be hand-carving."

Emboldened by Philip's hearty laugh Pamela continued:

"She also thinks our pictures far too simple, 'too neat and plain,' I think she called them. Certainly she told me that she likes chromos in gilt frames."

"It is clearly, then, your duty to raise her ideals, though when it comes to a whole houseful of new ideas, you will certainly have all that you can do."

But from this lighter talk Philip and Pamela turned to more serious things, and as they walked through the long galleries, unconsciously they were showing themselves in a new aspect to each other. Philip, at least, who had had so many trips abroad, had profited more than many young men by his opportunities; and as they walked, Pamela, for almost the first time in her life, felt a little envious as he talked of this great painting and then of that,—of paintings that she had longed to see,—speaking of them as casually as she would speak of the flower-beds on the Public Garden. Ah! was she never to have this chance of crossing the ocean? It was but a passing shadow; for a swift calculation of her probable savings showed that, though the time might be long, there was still every probability that some time she could take herself to Europe. But meanwhile—

"Ah! you should see a real Titian, or a Velasquez like the one the National Gallery bought a few years ago; I saw it the last time I was over. Oh! I should love to show you some of my favorites in the Dresden Gallery."

"Yes, yes!" Pamela spoke absent-mindedly. She had suddenly remembered the existence of her charges.

"I wonder," she began, when her speech was cut short by Gretchen, who ran rapidly up to her from the broad hall outside, a look of alarm on her face as she grasped Pamela's arm.

"It's—it's Maggie!" she exclaimed excitedly.

"What is it? Has anything happened? Is she hurt?"

"I can't say as she's exactly hurt," responded Gretchen, "though she gave an awful scream; but you'd better come."

With Gretchen leaning on her arm, or rather dragging her on, Pamela hastened to the large room with its tapestries and cases of embroideries.

"No, no, not here; this little room," and Pamela soon saw Concetta and Maggie. The latter was weeping bitterly, the former stood near looking rather sulky. One of the custodians, with severity in every line of his face and figure, was talking to them "for all he was worth," as Gretchen phrased it.

In a glance Pamela saw what had happened. There was a hole in the top of the glass case, and the man held in his hand a large glass marble. Pamela remembered that Maggie had been tossing it up and down on her way across the Common.

"I didn't do it." Maggie was crying.

"Nonsense, Maggie! I saw you playing with it myself."

"But not now—not now."

Pamela glanced suspiciously at Concetta, but the little Italian was already at the other side of the room, pretending a great interest in a case of ivories. For the moment Pamela was overcome. Her old shyness had returned. Several bystanders were gazing at the strange group, and Pamela was at a loss what to say. Clearly it was her duty to offer to make restitution, but she could not speak; she did not know what to say; and when Gretchen, too impressed, doubtless, by the brass buttons on the coat of the official, said anxiously, "If he's a p'liceman, will he put us all in jail?" the climax had been reached, and Pamela herself felt ready to cry.

In a moment she saw Philip pass her; he had been not far behind all the time, and the few words that he spoke in a low voice made the grim features of the official relax.

"Oh, certainly, sir, certainly," he said, as Philip gave him his card. "I'll go with you to the office."

Philip paused only a moment to say to Pamela, "There, I leave you to your charges; let me know if they break anything more on the way home." Then, as if this was an afterthought, "By the way, it's all right about that glass; my father's a trustee, you know; I'm going to fix it in the office downstairs."

When Pamela told her of the incident, Julia only laughed. "I dare say it cost Philip a pretty penny; that kind of glass is very expensive."

"Oh, I feel so ashamed," said Pamela. "It was really my fault. I should not have let them leave me. I must repay the cost of the glass."

"Nonsense! Philip might as well spend his money for that as for other things. He never has been considered especially economical. Besides, it was at least partly his fault that you left the girls, or let them leave you;" and this was a fact that Pamela could not deny.

When the "Leaguers" announced that they intended to have a valentine party, Julia and Miss South gave their assent with hesitation.

"It has a sentimental sound," said Julia,—"a valentine party! and I do wonder whom they wish to invite."

But when they were questioned the girls explained that they did not intend to ask a single person from outside, and, of course, not a single boy. The valentines that they most enjoyed sending were to other girls, and they wanted only girls at their valentine party.

These, at least, were the words of Concetta, their spokesman, and if any of the others dissented, they did not express their disagreement.

"But we expect you, Miss South, and Miss Bourne and Miss Barlow, and all the ladies who have been so very kind to us. Miss Northcote is in the secret, but every one else is going to be very much surprised."

"We'll try not to be curious, and I suppose that you wouldn't let us bribe Angelina to tell us."

"Oh, no'm; no, indeed. Miss Angelina," and Gretchen turned to Angelina, who was standing near, "if you tell we'll never—never—"

"Oh, I'm not afraid."

"We'll never call you Miss Angelina again—just plain Angelina."

"I wouldn't stand being called 'plain Angelina,'" said Miss South, patting Angelina's shoulder as she passed by.

Now for a week or two there was much secrecy, much whispering, many hours spent in the gymnasium at times when the rules about exercising did not require the girls to be there. Snippings of bright-colored paper were found in the hall, and not only bits of paper but of colored cambric; and Julia, and Nora when she came to the cooking-class, and all the other older persons interested in the Mansion, professed to be entirely mystified by what was going on.

But at last the eventful fourteenth of February arrived, and all the guests had assembled in the dining-room. The little stage had been set up, and the audience awaited the performance with great interest. Each girl, as before, had been permitted to invite two guests, and a number of boys and men were present,—brothers, cousins, uncles, and an occasional father, and the women relatives were out in full force.

Angelina's sister had come in from Shiloh to spend a day or two, and she was doorkeeper in Angelina's place. As the guests went to their places, each one was given a heart-shaped card, the edges gilded, to which was attached by a pink cord a small pencil shaped like an arrow.

"Evidently we are to keep some kind of a score," said Nora, "but what it is to be I cannot imagine."

"Nor I," responded Brenda; "I haven't been taken into the secret, but I know that it is to be something exciting."

Brenda had not yet outgrown her love for emphatic words, and "exciting" once in a while reappeared as a reminder of her childish years.

They had not waited very long when the door from the little room behind was opened, and a barefooted maiden with a broad straw hat torn at the rim, and a blue calico gown looped up over a paler blue petticoat, appeared. She carried a rake, and "Maud Muller" was breathed around the room before Angelina, coming from behind the scenes,—that is, from the other room,—had had time to say, "Ladies and gentlemen, you are asked to listen to each character, and to make a record of two things: First, those who look the best, then those who speak the best, that is,—I mean—" and for the first time almost in the memory of those present Angelina seemed to have stage fright, and was unable to translate her sentences into the clearer and more elegant phrases that she had intended to use. Thereupon she retired in some confusion, and Maud, who was really Nellie, recited the simple lines of the charming poem:

"'Maud Muller, on a summer's day,Raked the meadow sweet with hay,Under her torn hat glowed the wealthOf simple beauty and rustic health.'"

"I doubt that Maud had exactly that brogue," said Nora. "If she had, I believe that the judge would have been too thoroughly fascinated to ride away."

After this came a strange, Spanish-looking figure, who took a kneeling attitude with bowed head. The solemnity of the effect was somewhat marred when Concetta—for she it was—turned her head around slightly to make sure that the audience was fully appreciative of her. Many were the guesses as to what she portrayed, and indeed it was one of the guests, a thoughtful girl, who ventured Ximena, "the angel of Buena Vista," and then every one else wondered why she had not been clever enough to think of this.

"'From its smoking hell of battle, love and pity send their prayer,And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air.'"

After the women of Marblehead and Barbara Freitchie had made themselves known, "The Witch's Daughter" was given in series of tableaux, in which Maggie took the part of Mabel, and Angelina the part of Esek Harden, in a coat which, if not historically accurate, was at least a suitable kind of masculine attire for a girl to wear. Next came Haleema as the Countess, and Luisa as Amy Wentworth, in rather elegant clothes that surely must have come from one of the chests in the end room; and last, but not least, Anna and Rhoda, the two sisters in their long white gowns,—Anna timid and shrinking and Rhoda vehemently denouncing her; Inez the former and Phœbe the latter,—reciting some of the more tragic stanzas of the poem.

"Must we give up these pretty hearts?" asked one after another as Phoebe began to collect the cards.

"Oh, you can have them back again if your names are on them, we only want to count the votes;" and then there was a general murmur, for some people had forgotten to record their opinions and a little time was lost. But in the interval Julia played a Chopin waltz that several of the girls especially liked, and followed this with a few chords of one of the choruses they had been learning, in which they all joined very heartily.

When the score cards were brought back it was found that there was a tie for the favorite character between Haleema as the Countess, and Maggie and Angelina as Mabel Martin and Esek.

Angelina was in a state of excitement when this result was announced, and was determined that the decision should be immediately in her favor; while Maggie, disturbed by being so conspicuous, hoped that the prize might be given to Haleema.

"It isn't for you to decide," said Phœbe sagely; "they'll find some way of settling it—the ladies, I mean."

This, of course, proved to be the case, and when an umpire had been chosen whose decision all present agreed to respect, he decided that the first prize should go to the Mabel Martin actors. This was not entirely to the satisfaction of the followers of the Countess, and Concetta, who was sometimes on Haleema's side and sometimes against her, now became a very active partisan, and the two younger girls frowned ominously on Angelina and Maggie. So far at least as prizes were concerned, Anstiss, as President of the League, had brought it about that every actor should have a prize, in each case an attractively bound book, with the only advantage for the winners of the first prize that they were allowed to have first choice. But there was a book for each of the others, and each girl, too, had the pleasure of hearing from her own friends that she really had made the very best representation of all. It was simply a case of where all were so good it was almost impossible to choose the very best.

Mrs. McSorley was especially proud of Maggie's performance, and her face almost lost its wonted grimness as she walked about among the girls and their guests. "I'm thinking that you'll amount to something, after all," she vouchsafed to her niece; and as this was almost the highest praise she had ever given, Maggie was more than content. It may be said here that in Turquoise Street Mrs. McSorley was much more eloquent than she had been to Maggie's face, and the neighbors for many a day heard the story of this very brilliant evening at the Mansion, and of the remarkable manner in which Maggie McSorley had recited and acted the part of the witch's daughter.

Another pleasant result of the evening was that Haleema became more friendly toward Maggie, for she had been impressed by Maggie's generosity in being willing to resign the first prize to her.

This, however, did not mean the winning of Concetta, who still seemed to feel it her duty to refrain from any direct praise or showing any friendliness for Maggie. But after this an observer would have seen that she seldom showed any direct unfriendliness, and this was one of the things that Maggie especially observed.

The fun of the valentine party was quite forgotten in the excitement that the girls of the Mansion, like every one else in the country, felt on that sixteenth of February; for that was the day when news was brought of the destruction of the "Maine." Angelina was the first to report it when she broke into the dining-room with a newspaper that she had bought from a boy at the front door. It had headlines in enormous, heavy black letters, and Miss South, in spite of her general disapproval of the headlines, could not resist reading the sheet that Angelina handed her.

"It means war, doesn't it?" cried Angelina in a tone that implied that she hoped that it meant war. But neither Miss South nor the other residents, nor the great world outside, knew whether peace or war was to follow the awful disaster. It was useless to forbid the girls reading the harrowing details. All, indeed, except Maggie and Inez seemed to take a special delight in perusing them, and in speculating about the families of the victims and the guilt of the Spaniards; for of course the Spaniards had done this thing. There were no two opinions on the subject, so far as the girls were concerned. Gretchen quickly became the heroine of the day when it was learned that she had a cousin who was a seaman on the "Maine," and when his name was read in the list of those who had escaped, her special friends, Concetta and Luisa, seemed to think that they, too, shared in the distinction, and they offered to do her share of the housework that she might have time to think it all over. Angelina was not altogether pleased that this honor had come to Gretchen.

"Julia," said Nora, whose day it was at the home, "I believe that she'd be willing to sacrifice John for the sake of being the sister of a victim," and in fact Angelina scanned the list of names, in the hope that she might find one that she might claim as a relative. But unluckily she could not fix on a single name that she could properly claim. When she read aloud the President's message to Sigsbee, her voice trembled with emotion:

"The President directs me to express for himself and the people of the United States his profound sympathy for the officers and crew of the 'Maine,' and desires that no expense be spared in providing for the survivors, and the care of the dead."John D. Long,Secretary."Sigsbee, U. S. S. 'Maine.'"

"John D. Long,Secretary.

"Sigsbee, U. S. S. 'Maine.'"

"But there isn't any 'Maine' now," said Maggie, as Angelina read the last words, and then was the young girl moved to a word of genuine eloquence. "There will always be a 'Maine;' it will always live in the hearts of the American people!" and Julia, who happened to approach the group just at this moment, said "Bravo! bravo! Angelina, you are a true patriot."

One day not so very long after the valentine party, when it was still rather uncertain whether Maggie and Concetta were to be friends or enemies, the former had a chance to do Concetta a real favor. It was a morning when she had been very busy herself, as it was her week for taking care of the large reading-room, and she had been up very early in order to finish certain things before breakfast. First of all she had cleaned mirrors with powdered whiting until they shone; then she had polished the brasses; and finally, after spreading covers over everything that might harbor dust, she had swept the long room.

"Don't you hate sweeping?" asked Haleema, who was to help her dust and arrange the rooms.

"Not half as much as dusting. I really do hate that, it is so fussy, and, do you know," dropping her voice, "I heard Miss Julia the other day saying that she didn't like dusting either."

In spite of any dislike that she may have had for the work, Maggie was a willing worker, and soon she had the long room in perfect order.

Soon after breakfast, passing through the back hall, they came upon an array of lamps ranged on a long table.

"Where's Concetta?"

"I don't know. She was here a little while ago."

"Well, I've looked all over the house, and I haven't seen her for an hour."

"It's her day to do the lamps. She'll get a scolding if she doesn't fill them."

"Who'll scold her? I never heard any one in this house scold."

"Well, Miss Dreen, for one, is very particular, and she said that she'd punish the next girl who neglected the lamps."

"Oh, well," said Maggie, "perhaps she won't be back in time to do them,—that is, if she has gone off anywhere."

"She hasn't any right to go off in the morning."

"I don't mind doing the lamps," said Maggie,—"that is, I'm not so very fond of doing them, but I'd just as lieves, and it will save Concetta a scolding. I don't mind a bit."

So Maggie set to work with a will. She filled the lamps, trimmed one or two wicks, put in one or two new ones, washed and polished the chimneys, and when they were finished set them on a large tray to be ready for evening.

"Well, that's more than I would do," said Haleema.

"I wonder how these lamps get used," said Maggie; "except in the library they mostly use gas—the young ladies, I mean—and, of course, we only have gas in our room."

"Why, that's so," said Haleema, "though I never thought of it before."

But neither of the girls put her mind sufficiently on the subject to see that the care of the lamps was one of the devices of the two head workers at the Mansion for getting a certain kind of exact service from the young girls. The lamps were not needed. Often two of them were set in a little-used room where they burned just long enough to sear the wicks and cloud the shades, so that the young housekeepers could show their skill in cleaning them. Miss South made it her duty usually to keep in mind the girl whose task for the week it was to attend to the lamps, and when the results were thoroughly satisfactory she was loud in her praise, just as she felt it her duty to blame when the reverse was true. From the lamps the two little girls went to the bathroom.

"Oh, you oughtn't to dust without lifting down those bottles. Miss Dreen says that we ought never to leave a corner untouched."

"But I've dusted in between; it doesn't matter what there is under the bottles."

But Haleema was not to be rebuffed.

"I like bottles," she added. "They almost always have things in them that smell good," and she reached up on tiptoe toward the shelf. The first bottle that she reached just came within her grasp, and she pulled it toward her. When she pulled the stopper, it proved to be a fragrant toilet water, and even Maggie, admitting that it was delightful, yielded to the pleasure of inhaling it directly from the bottle. Emboldened by her success, Haleema drew another bottle down toward her and made a feint of drinking from it.

"Oh, don't!" cried Maggie, in genuine alarm, "it may be poison."

"Oh, they wouldn't leave poisons around like this. I'd just as lief as not taste anything here. I ain't afraid."

But although she spoke thus bravely, Haleema really did not venture to put the liquid to her mouth. Then she touched a third bottle, filled with a colorless liquid. She tried to pull out the rubber stopper, but it would not stir. Holding the bottle under one arm, she gave a second, more vigorous pull, when the stopper not only came out, but in some way the liquid flew out, and then—a loud scream from Maggie, who was wiping the edge of the bathtub. Haleema herself, half suffocated by the fumes of the ammonia from the harmless-looking bottle, had enough presence of mind to set it up on the marble washstand. But, alas! she set it down so hard that the glass broke and the ammonia trickled down, destroying the glossy surface of the hardwood floor.

All these things, of course, had happened in a very short time; not a minute, indeed, had passed after Maggie's first shriek before Julia and Miss South and two or three girls had rushed to the room.

The ammonia fumes at once told the story to Miss South, and without waiting for an explanation she had raised Maggie from the floor.

"Oh, dear, my eyes!" sobbed Maggie, and for a moment Miss South was frightened. Ammonia can work great havoc when it touches the eyes. Fortunately, however, as it happened it was not Maggie's eyes but her face that the ammonia had really hurt. Her eyes were inflamed, and she had to be kept in a dark room for a day or two, and her face had to be salved and swathed in cloths. But in the end no great injury had been done, and she won Haleema's everlasting gratitude by resisting the temptation to tell enquirers that Haleema's carelessness had caused the disaster; for great injury had been done the polished floor, and Haleema knew that she deserved reproof and punishment. Yet such was Maggie's reputation for destructiveness that she was supposed to have broken the bottle, and in the injury to her face she was thought to have paid a sufficient penalty.

When Concetta returned to the house an hour later, great was her surprise to find that her lamps had been cleaned, and when Haleema told her of Maggie's kindness she could not understand it.

"Perhaps she's trying for a prize."

"What prize?"

"Why, don't you know? At the end of the year the very best girl at the Mansion is to have a prize. I shouldn't wonder if it would be a gold watch."

"Oh, I don't believe it."

"Then you can ask Miss Bourne."

A few days later Concetta had a chance to put the question to Julia.

"Yes, indeed, there are to be two prizes: one for the girl who has tried the hardest, and the other for the one who has succeeded the best."

"Which will get them, Miss Bourne?"

"Ah, how can I tell?"

"I don't see how any one can tell; no one is watching us all the time."

"Some one does take account, Inez, of almost everything that you say and do."

"Oh, dear, I hate to be spied on," grumbled Concetta.

"No one is spying, I can assure you; but there are certain things that we notice carefully, and you have all been here so long that we know pretty well just what you are likely to do."

"I expect some one marks everything down in a book, like they used to at school?" Maggie put this as a question, but Julia did not reply directly.

"All the advice I can give you is to do as well as you can, and whether things are written in a book or not you will fare very well—at least, you will all fare alike."

"What will the prizes be, Miss Bourne?"

"Ah, I cannot tell exactly."

Thereupon the girls all fell to speculating not only about the prizes, but about the kind of conduct that would win one. While they were discussing this, Julia called to them from the floor above, "Have you forgotten that this is your shopping day?"

Then there was a scampering, and the girls who were to go with her began to get ready. Each girl went shopping with one of the staff every three months, and to-day the group was to consist of Concetta, Inez, Maggie, and Nellie. It was Julia's turn to take them, and this was not wholly to the satisfaction of Concetta.

"I thought Miss Barlow said that she would go with us this time," she murmured, as they left the house. She knew very well that if Brenda were their shopping guide they would be able to purchase according to their own sweet wills. She would be likely to approve everything that they bought, provided that they had money to pay for it, and it was even possible that she might supplement their allowance from her ever generous purse. Thus, indeed, had she done on the one occasion when she had taken them out, and her liberality had been even magnified by the lively tongues of those who had described it.

Shopping was not, of course, intended to occupy a large share of the attention of these girls; yet to buy clothing properly was thought as important by the elders who had them in charge, as marketing for the table, and each girl was given a chance to market under the supervision of Miss Dreen. They already knew the most nutritious and least expensive cuts of meat. They could tell what vegetables could be most prudently bought at each season, and some of them had already begun to show a decided independence of judgment even in small matters relating to the table.

Hardly any of them, however, had the same degree of judgment in matters of dress. On this account it had been thought wise to give each one a small allowance, and let her spend it as she wished, with a certain amount of guidance that she need not feel to be restraint.

"What they spend for one thing they certainly will not have for another, and there is probably no other way in which they can better learn what to do."

To let them use their own judgment on this particular shopping trip, Julia made few restrictions. Each had the same amount of money to spend, and out of it they were to buy spring hats, shoes and stockings, and the material for two dresses, one of gingham and one of a heavier material. All that they had left after making these purchases they were to spend as they wished, and the sum had been so calculated as to leave a fair margin. There was only one restriction: to save time and energy that might be consumed in wandering around from one shop to another, Julia planned that they should do all their purchasing in one of the larger department stores, and while they were busy she did a few errands of her own. At intervals she met them at certain counters by agreement, but in almost every instance she found that they had made their purchase, so that her advice was usually superfluous.

"I thought that you were going to get a small sailor hat with a few flowers at the side," she could not forbear saying to Inez, who showed her a rather flimsy imitation tuscan, with some gaudy flowers and lace for trimming.

"Oh, but you should have seen the perfectly elegant hats they have upstairs, all tulle and flowers, and as big—" at a loss for an object of comparison. Concetta concluded, "as big as a bushel basket," after which Julia could not say that the hat that Inez had chosen was really of unreasonable size.

Concetta looked somewhat shamefaced as she announced that she had no hat.

"But you had the money for it."

"Yes, but I bought this, it's for the baby; I'd rather she'd have it," and Concetta opened a large box in which lay a pretty, pink silk coat. Closer examination showed that the silk was half cotton and the lace very tawdry, but Julia hadn't the heart to reprove her. Concetta's love for her baby cousin was genuine, and the coat undoubtedly represented a certain sacrifice on her part.

When they came to the dress materials, Maggie insisted on buying two cotton dresses instead of the woollen dress, the material for which had been provided by her money.

"Maggie's a miser," said Concetta, and Maggie reddened without making any explanation.

Some of the materials bought were open to more or less criticism, and later Julia meant to make certain of these mistakes the subject of a little talk. They had done very well, she thought, for the present, in buying practically all the things that she had intended to have them buy with their money. Each of them, too, had a small surplus, and Inez was the only one who proposed to use hers up by spending it at once for candy. A little persuasion turned her aside from this purpose, and Julia was careful that evening to offer her and the girls some especially fine confections when they gathered in her room after tea. They all seemed so receptive then that she thought it a good time to show them just how their fifteen dollars might have been spent to the best advantage,—a third for the dress materials, a third for shoes and hat, a third for stockings and the other smaller things; and comparing what they had done with her ideal purchases, she was interested to find that Nellie, the young Irish girl, had really come the nearest to her standard, and accordingly Nellie's face was wreathed in smiles as she learned that she was thought to have been the ideal purchaser; for although Maggie had also done very well, Julia was not wholly satisfied with her having substituted the cotton for the woollen dress.

That evening, as it was Saturday, they all played games in the large gymnasium, where there was space enough for the exciting French blindman's buff, in which, instead of having one of the players blinded, she had her hands tied behind her back, and do her best, often she could not catch the others.

When they were tired of active sports, hjalma and draughts and other games were ready for them, and occasionally they had charades or impromptu tableaux, in which all the powers of their elders were taxed; for the girls themselves lacked originality, and Miss South or one of the other older members of the household had to supervise all that they did.

In these sports sometimes little unexpected jealousies arose, and Julia, or Pamela, or Ruth, or Anstiss, as the case might be, had her hands full trying to keep peace. The least desirable characteristics of the girls came to the surface at times, and at times, too, their best qualities were displayed in an equally unexpected way. Phœbe alone of them all did not care for games. While the others were playing she was apt to bury herself in a book, and often Julia and Pamela would insist that she should put this aside to mingle with the others.

As the weeks went on, Angelina and her little group of special friends followed closely the newspaper reports of the troubles in Cuba; that is, Angelina read the despatches and surmises, and told the others how things were progressing. Except in the case of such definite events as the destruction of the "Maine," the others were not extremely interested in what Concetta called "stupid" accounts of distant happenings. Angelina, however, was all excitement, and her theories were an interesting supplement to all that the Board of Enquiry didn't find out. When she read of Mr. Cannon's bill appropriating fifty millions for defence she was sure that war was near at hand. When Maggie said that there would be no money left in the country if so much was spent in war, Angelina made a rapid calculation that this meant less than a dollar for every person in the whole land, "and it would be a strange thing," she said, "if we couldn't afford that."

Even at the meetings of the League the conversation turned to war, and they hastened through their readings of the Quaker poet to talk about things that were rather far away from his teachings, except that he was always on the side of the oppressed, and in the war of his time was heard with no uncertain voice.

The stripping of the fleet for war and the movement of the troops that began early in April were described vividly by Angelina, after she had read about them. The girls all took more interest when war seemed really at hand, and Angelina was called upon to explain many things in which her knowledge hardly equalled her willingness to impart it.

"The mosquito fleet; oh, what can that be? Is it to bite the Spaniards?" Inez had asked, and Angelina had replied most scornfully:

"Of course not; it's a lot of long, thin iron boats that skim over the water as fast as a mosquito flies—all made of iron, of course, with long, thin legs that go out from the side like a mosquito's."

"Legs," exclaimed Haleema dubiously; "on a boat!" and Angelina responded hastily:

"Well, not real legs, only kind of paddles, that make them go faster;" and as no older person heard this original explanation, the girls continued to have their very special interest in the curious mosquito fleet.

When the first shot was fired and the little "Buena Ventura" was captured on April 22, young and old knew that peace was at an end, and there was no surprise when the declaration of war came a few days later.

"I've been looking for it," said Angelina, "ever since the 'Maine' was destroyed, and I should have been dreadfully disappointed if war hadn't come. But I was quite certain that there'd be fighting soon when I heard that an officer had been sent abroad to buy warships; for what in the world shouldwe," with a strong emphasis on the "we," "want of warships if we hadn't made up our minds to have a war?"

During all these weeks Brenda had been no less interested than the younger girls in the question of what should be done for Cuba. Washington had become the centre of the world for her in the strongest sense of the word, and evidently for the time it was the centre of interest for the whole country.

Arthur's letters to her continued rather brief. He spoke of being overworked, and Belle in writing rarely failed to say that she had seen him at this or that social function, and almost as often she mentioned how popular he was. Brenda at last wrote one or two brief notes to Arthur, asking him to return for a dinner that she was giving before Lent; but he took no notice of these missives, at least he did not write to her until Lent itself was half over, and then he made a simple little reference to her request with a mere "I was sorry that I could not do what you wished, but you must have known that I could not before you wrote."

Then Brenda came to the point of deciding that she would never write to him again, and she threw herself into the work at the Mansion with much more zeal than Julia had ever expected from her. She was far less cheerful than the Brenda of old. It was not merely because she could not have her own way, but rather that she felt the shadow of the impending war cloud hanging over the country.

Every Thursday she assisted Agnes at the informal studio tea, and this was really her only amusement, and in the early spring the conversation around the tea-table hovered between the two subjects,—the prospect of war and the correct costume for the Festival.

The Artists' Festival was an institution that the artists of the city planned and enjoyed with the assistance of their friends. Each year those who were invited were asked to appear in costumes suited to a chosen period, the range of which might be several hundred years, but within the limits of time and place each costume had to be artistically correct, and meet the approval of the costume committee. This was to be Brenda's first experience of the Festival, and earlier in the season, when she and Arthur had talked about it, she had planned a certain style of fourteenth-century costume, and Arthur was to go as her page. Ralph had selected the plates, and though the time was then far off, they had talked very definitely of what they should expect from the Festival. But now—

Brenda decided to make a final test of Arthur. She would remind him of the approaching Artists' Festival.

"I shall be mortified to death," she had said to Agnes, "if Arthur does not return in season for it."

"Oh, I fear that he cannot, Brenda, from what he writes Ralph; I should judge that he has work enough to keep him busy all the spring."

"Well, it would be nothing for him to come here for two or three days and then return to Washington; he used to be so fond of travelling."

"You might write," responded Agnes. "Perhaps he may come."

But in answer to Brenda's brief and rather imperative note Arthur wrote simply that it was impossible for him to leave Washington now, greatly as he should have enjoyed the Festival. Then after a page of more personal matter he added that even if he could go to Boston, he should feel indisposed to take part in gayeties at a season when the affairs of the country were so unsettled.

"Humph!" said Ralph, when Brenda repeated this part of the letter to him. "They must be nearer war in Washington than we are here, for I can contemplate an Artists' Festival without feeling that I am deserting my country in its hour of need."

As for Brenda herself, when Arthur's letter was closely followed by one from Belle, in which she described a delightful dinner of the evening before at Senator Harmon's, she tore Belle's letter as well as Arthur's into small pieces; for Belle had told her that Arthur was one of the gayest of the guests at the dinner.

Yet even those who were pretty certain that war was near felt that there could be no harm in planning for the Festival. Pamela was naturally interested, but the medieval period chosen demanded more expensive materials and a more elaborate costume than she felt disposed to prepare. Julia was uncertain whether she cared to give the time to it, and Miss South declared that she herself had not the energy to go.

"So you, Anstiss, are the only one of us who will ornament the scene," said Julia; "though I really think that Pamela ought to go, it is so directly in line with the things that she likes."

"As to that, it is ridiculous, Julia, that you shouldn't be there. When you were out at Radcliffe you used to encourage operettas and tableaux and all such things, but now—"

"Well, now," responded Julia, "I feel as if I were working for a living and ought not to waste my time in frivolities."

"That is where you are very foolish. Soon we shall hear loud protests from your aunt and uncle; indeed, they will probably come and drag you away. They would be justified, too, if you continue in your determination to have your whole life bounded by these walls."

"Very comfortable walls they are, too, but I hate to wander too far in search of costumes, and the thousand and one little things that are necessary to make them complete. It is too much trouble for one evening's enjoyment."

"There!" exclaimed Miss South as Julia had finished, "I have an idea; come with me."

It was late and the pupils had all gone to bed, and Concetta, hearing unwonted steps going to the upper story, pushed her door open a little, and was surprised to see the strange procession winding upwards.

It took its way to the end room in the attic, and when she had lit the gas Miss South asked Anstiss to help her lift out a chest from a corner of the closet. Selecting a small key from her ring and opening the trunk, she began to unfold one or two garments.

"Oh, how beautiful! But who could have worn it?" exclaimed Julia, as a velvet gown trimmed with ermine and with a long train unfolded itself before them.

"Ah, but this is lovelier!" she added, as a dove-colored brocade with pattern outlined in pink was shown, intended evidently to be worn with the pink satin petticoat that accompanied it. Further delving into the trunk brought out pointed shoes, elaborate head-dresses, and other fantastic things.

"Did your grandmother ever wear these clothes?" asked Anstiss in surprise. "I should hardly think that they were of the style even of her day."

"Oh, these things are intended for costume parties," returned Miss South. "My grandmother described some of the occasions when she first wore them abroad. She took the greatest care of them, and every spring she herself supervised her maid when she shook them and did them up again in camphor. Strangely enough I have been so busy the past year that I had forgotten about these particular things. There are two complete costumes. One of them is entirely in the period of the Festival, and the other needs so little alteration that you and Pamela, Julia, will be completely equipped, with almost no thought in the matter."

"But why won't you go yourself?"

"I have quite made up my mind about that; for the present, at least, I have no desire for gayety."

It was really amazing that these two costumes should have been found so perfectly to meet all the requirements of the Festival. Julia, of course, could have had a costume especially designed for her by a costumer, but as she had said, in talking it over with Brenda, she was by no means in the mood for this, and she would have stayed home rather than waste the time in this way.

Brenda threw herself into the preparations for the Festival as if she had no other interest in the world. She was to be a principal figure in the group that Ralph had arranged. With an artist's sense of beauty, and an accuracy that no one had ever before suspected, Ralph planned the costumes, and insisted that they should deviate in no particular from his design. To effect this proved an unending occupation for Brenda and Agnes.

"There's one thing, Ralph, that has come out of this," said his wife one day after he had given her a lecture on the unsuitability of certain trimmings that she had selected. "After this I shall never worry about our future."

"Have you been doing so?" he asked in some surprise.

"Well, I have had misgivings as to what might happen if you should become blind, or if your pictures should fail to sell, or if Papa should lose his money, or—"

"How many more 'ifs,'" he asked; "I had no idea that you were a borrower of trouble. What have I done to deserve this thoughtfulness, or perhaps I should say thoughtlessness, on your part; for you say that now you have ceased to worry."

"Why, I am sure that you could transform yourself into a man milliner; in fact, I'm not sure that I may not try to persuade you to change to a more lucrative profession than that of a mere painter of portraits. From the very way in which you hold that little pincushion under your arm, I am sure that you would be a great success."

Ralph only smiled as he snipped a bit from the end of a velvet train. Then he moved off a little, that he might survey his work from a distance.

"It looks like a milliner's shop," said Brenda, pointing to the litter of silk and velvets, embroideries and fur, strewn over chairs, tables, and divan.

"Yes, and I feel much as if I were waiting for customers. I believe, however, that no more are expected this afternoon. I can therefore attend to my mail orders. Tom Hearst, by the way, is coming on, and I am designing something for him."

"Well, if Tom can spare the time, I should think that Arthur might."

"Ah, Arthur writes that he is too much concerned at the prospect of war. He apparently does not approve of our frivolous doings. The times are too serious."

"I do not see why he need take things so to heart. He is not a—a reconcentrado." Brenda's words may have seemed like an attempt at levity, but, indeed, she felt far from cheerful. She concluded with a weak, little "But you don't think that there will be a war, do you, Ralph?"

"I do, indeed, think that there will be a war, dear sister-in-law, but I also think that it may be some distance off, and that we might as well eat, drink, and be merry, in other words, enjoy the Artists' Festival," he rejoined.

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