"Miss Elinor NaylorThe Belhaven, Boston
"Miss Elinor NaylorThe Belhaven, Boston
and now that I look at it closely I can see that this is not one of our trunks. But how did it come here, Angelina?"
"Oh, Miss Martine, we brought the trunk with us from Boston. It was in the storeroom. I don't know anything about it, except it came the day before Class Day. There was a laundress working there that afternoon, and I remember she told me she had had a trunk sent to the trunk-room. I supposed you told her, and of course when we moved, all the trunks came here. You told me they were to come."
"Perhaps you are not altogether to blame, Angelina, although I wish that you had said something to mamma or me, and I still don't understand why the trunk was sent to us."
It was now Elinor's turn to explain. "I understand it all. When I left Bar Harbor for Class Day, I simply put on a tag with my name and I didn't notice this old label, which was the one I used when I spent a day or two with you in the spring. The expressman followed the Belhaven tag, instead of keeping my trunk with Kate's aunt,—so if any one is to blame, it is I for leaving that tag on."
"I am not so sure of that," replied Martine. "If I had been a really up-to-date housekeeper I should have known exactly what trunks came down to York. Now I only hope that our burglar didn't make way with any of your things."
"We'll soon know;" already Elinor was on her knees before the trunk.
"No" she said, "I hardly think he took anything. The trunk is closely packed below the tray, and the tray would hold little more than these things he tumbled out. But I remember a set of topaz studs in a box that I put in this corner. The box is not here."
After a careful search neither she nor Martine could find the studs. But Elinor was philosophical over this loss.
"In finding the trunk I feel as if I had recovered a small fortune—and I can bear the loss of the studs. I daresay Kate will be pleased to get back her things, although she is so up-to-date, that she may consider these class-day clothes old-fashioned now, as they were made to wear two months ago."
"How ridiculous!" exclaimed Martine, "and yet," she admitted, "I can remember when I would not wear anything that was not of the very latest, but now—why this is a last year's shirt-waist, and you know how the sleeves have changed."
A few hours later Martine and Elinor were telling the story of the "Class-day trunk," as they dubbed it, to a group of merry young people on the piazza of the hotel, and every one teased Martine about her skill in abstracting so important a part of Elinor's wardrobe.
After a day or two at the hotel, Elinor began a visit at Martine's that lengthened itself into a week, and during her friend's stay Martine's life was as gay as that of the gayest at the Harbor. She drove, she sat at noon with the gay throng under the pavilion to watch the bathers. She would not bathe, because she had brought no bathing-suit to York, and because it was too late in the season, she said, to begin a course of spectacular bathing. She went with a sailing party on Herbert's cat-boat, although before Elinor's arrival she had refused all his invitations. She spent two mornings at the Club watching the tennis tournament, and she accepted invitations to two luncheons given in Elinor's honor.
"Martine," said Mrs. Stratford, two or three days after Elinor's arrival, "Would you not like to have a luncheon for Elinor? On a small scale we could manage it very well."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Stratford," interposed Angelina, who overheard the suggestion. "I've just been longing for Miss Martine to have some kind of an entertainment. There's something going on every day, and I don't like Miss Martine to be the only one that doesn't entertain—not that I'd be so presuming as to talk of anything you hadn't spoken of yourself," she concluded hastily. She was bright enough to notice an expression of surprise on Mrs. Stratford's face.
"It would make some trouble for you," said Martine.
"Oh, I wouldn't mind that, and I'm always happy when there's something going on."
"Lucian's last letter was more cheerful;" Martine said this to draw her mother out.
"Yes, my dear, and I am sure you need not let your father's health stand in the way of your party. I am sure that he is better."
"But ought we to spend money in that way?"
"It will not cost much."
"I know,—but still."
"There, write your notes. They should be sent at once."
"Instead of a luncheon, mamma, let me have a tea late in the afternoon and ask boys as well. Herbert has been very good to Elinor, and Atherton has given us a lot of time, and there are several others. I wish I needn't ask Carlotta, but I must. However, I can leave out the most of her crowd."
Elinor helped Martine write the notes, and Angelina took hold of the preparations with a heartiness that spoke for success.
The tables were spread out-doors, one for serving chocolate and coffee, one for lemonade. Elinor and Clare gathered flowers in abundance, especially great clusters of St. Anne's lace, that proved a most effective table decoration.
In spite of the short notice nearly all whom Martine invited accepted the invitation, even Carlotta and two or three of her set, who "never would be missed," said Martine almost ruefully as she read their replies.
"Then why did you ask them?" Elinor's tone was reproachful.
"Oh, because—well, because I had no good reason for leaving them out. They have all invited me to something or other, and of course in one way I want them, only Carlotta is so critical that I hate to think of her making fun of things here."
"She will have cause to be critical if you do not hurry down to the village for that extra cream. It's strange they forgot to leave it this morning. Of course," concluded Elinor, "I think that Carlotta might have been prompter in answering your invitation, but when she comes she'll be on her best behavior."
Now it chanced that as Martine was returning from the village, warm and a little tired, carrying a large bottle of cream under one arm and a package of odds and ends on the other, she met Carlotta and three or four others driving rapidly down from the Club. How it happened Martine never knew, but an unlucky stumble made her lose her hold of the bottle, and as it flew into the road the cream emptied itself in a sticky pool in the dusty road.
Poor Martine! The drag slowed up. She thought she heard a half-suppressed outburst of laughter. But in a moment Herbert stood beside her. He had slipped down from the drag, and he looked at her now as if waiting for her to tell him what to do.
"Let me help you," he said at last.
"Help me!" cried Martine scornfully.
"'Oh, Phoebe you have torn your dress!Where are your berries, child?'
"'Oh, Phoebe you have torn your dress!Where are your berries, child?'
"There, Herbert, that is the way I feel. To think that I must go back to the village for a second bottle of cream! We are all in a hurry, and they are waiting for me. Angelina herself could not have done worse."
"Of course you won't turn back. Go home with the other things, and I will bring you your cream."
So eager was Herbert to be of use that he hardly listened to Martine's thanks, and Martine, to her own great surprise, for once in her life found herself ready to obey one to whom she was not in the habit of looking up. For Herbert, although nearer Lucian's age than Martine's, always seemed to the latter like a younger boy whom she could order around. In the present emergency she was thankful for Herbert's help and pleased enough to receive the cream that he brought from the village.
When her guests arrived at the appointed hour, Martine was fairly proud of the appearance of Red Knoll. She had had the grass clipped the day before, and the lawn, if stubbly on close inspection, at least was of a vivid green. The old-fashioned garden at the side that had been the pride of the former occupants of the farm, was now in full bloom, and almost all the chairs had been brought from the house to be set under the trees or farther up in the meadow, where those who wished could enjoy the rather unusual view.
With the chairs removed, the dining-room seemed almost spacious, and there Peggy at one end of the table and Clare at the other served chocolate and lemonade. The afternoon passed quickly away. Martine forgot her first anxiety when she saw that her friends were evidently enjoying themselves.
"I am surprised to see you here," Peggy exclaimed to Herbert. "Isn't it a great condescension? I thought you had vowed never to go to a tea at York."
"Generally this kind of thing is a bore, and I had fairly hard work to get the other fellows to come. But I told them that anything Martine did was sure to pass off well, and it's true."
"This is just like any other tea," protested Peggy, remembering that Herbert had never accepted one of her invitations.
"Oh, it's smaller than others," responded Herbert, "and every one knows every one and we all feel that we can do as we like—and no one is wearing white gloves," he concluded, as if he had made a special discovery.
"There are no gloves of any color so far as I can see," retorted Peggy.
"That's just it, we can have a good time here, because everything is unconventional. But, alas, here is Carlotta—" and Herbert moved rapidly in the opposite direction from his sister.
Although Carlotta seldom said really disagreeable things, something in her manner excited Martine's antagonism.
"She need not have referred to the spilt cream," thought the latter, after a word or two with Carlotta. "She must know I hate to be reminded that I cut a ridiculous figure."
"Oh yes," she continued aloud, "I am too busy to do much pleasuring this summer. The house gives me plenty to do, and I have some extra studying."
"We heard you were going to college," said one of Martine's friends.
"Yes," added Carlotta, "but I shouldn't think you'd quite like to. It makes a girl so conspicuous to go to college."
"A college girl isn't half so conspicuous as a golf-champion. Why, I saw your picture in a Sunday paper last month, Carlotta, beside a prize bicycle rider's, and your weight and height and all kinds of things about you were there, too."
Martine spoke hotly, as she was apt to when excited, and Carlotta made no reply.
"If I go to college," continued Martine, "I fear I'll never be distinguished enough to have my portrait in print." Then, remembering that personal speeches of this kind were not in good taste from a hostess to a guest, she changed the subject to something less irritating. But Carlotta turned away, only half mollified.
"Elinor," cried Martine, as the last of her guests went home, "this tea has been bad for me; it has given me a taste for society that will worry me the rest of the summer."
"There's no reason why you shouldn't be a little gayer."
"Oh, yes, there is, every reason. If things go better, I'll have my turn in a year or two when I am really out, and if things go ill, why I shall bury myself in work. Really, I meant what I said to Carlotta. I do mean to try for college. It would be fun to pass the examinations with Priscilla, even if I couldn't go through. For, of course, if we are very poor, I shall have to work for a living."
"Martine," cried Elinor, "you are very absurd. When I think of your cousin Mrs. Stanley at Bar Harbor—"
"Yes, and my cousin Mrs. Blair, who has one of the handsomest places on the North Shore. But unluckily what is theirs is not mine, and I have never been a beggar."
"Of course not, but from one extreme you have gone to the other, and I think that you ought to hope for the best."
"If hoping were having," murmured Martine.
Mr. Gamut was one of the guests whom Martine invited in Elinor's honor.
"Where's your young conductor?" he asked, when he had a moment alone with her.
"We invited him, but he wrote that he couldn't get off. Mamma felt pretty sure he wouldn't have come, even if he had time to spare. He is in this part of the world for business, not pleasure."
"Just so, just so, he's a fine fellow, though, and I mean to keep an eye on him. I can offer him a good place when he's through studying. I have no prejudice against the college man in business, and he'll be none the worse for taking his degree. I liked the way he ran after that fellow the other night, and he's done some clever detective work since. You'll hear about it soon."
"Martine," said Mrs. Stratford, when her daughter later told her what Mr. Gamut had said; "you may congratulate yourself on this one thing, if on nothing else this summer. By bringing Mr. Gamut and Balfour together you have accomplished more than you realize."
"But it was the burglar and not I," said Martine, "who really had the most to do with it. It was the way Balfour ran that impressed Mr. Gamut the most."
"However it came about, you have had a good share in bringing them together, and with Mr. Gamut's good will, Balfour is sure to prosper."
"I'm glad of that, mamma. Sometimes I feel that I have been so useless this summer."
"My dear—" and then Mrs. Stratford said no more. She was really afraid of spoiling Martine by praise, but she thought it better for the latter to find out certain things for herself.
When Elinor left York for the mountains, she took the little trunk with her, after carefully removing the Belhaven label. The label itself she carried in her card-case. "I shall need it," she said, "to illustrate my tale of a trunk when I tell it. Every one who has heard it thus far thinks it the most amusing story that ever was—and if it hadn't happened no one could believe it. This label is a proof of its truth."
Martine missed Elinor more than she admitted even to her mother. It was part of her summer plan to seem perfectly contented with everything. Mrs. Stratford noted with some concern that Martine was growing paler, if not a little thinner. Could it be that she was less happy than she professed to be, less contented?
Whatever she did, she did with her utmost energy, and in summer it was possible for a young girl to have too much of housework, gardening and study. It had become almost a passion with her to make up one or two deficiencies before her return to school. Strangely enough, it was Herbert now, on whom she began to depend for help in carrying on her work, and this is how it came about.
Herbert, after the so-called rescue on the Piscataqua, made light of the affair, in spite of Martine's reiteration that except for him she knew that she and Clare—not to mention Angelina—must have capsized.
"We might not have met a watery grave—but we certainly should have reached shore very wet."
"Well, perhaps," responded Herbert, "but even if it meant something to you to be saved from your 'peril' as you call it, you must admit that Atherton and I ran no risk."
"That doesn't alter the fact that you were thoughtful as well as brave, and really, Herbert, if only you wouldn't pretend to be so lazy, you'd—"
Martine did not finish the sentence, for Herbert immediately tried to prove that he was not lazy.
"Of course I won't fall in with all of Carlotta's plans; if I did she'd keep me busy from morning to night. But I got into college without conditions—and that reminds me—Miss Martine Stratford—I heard you complaining the other day about your Cicero, and so, if you are not too lazy, I will come to you two or three times a week to read Latin with you. We'll make the orations fly like hot-cakes, and Carlotta will be more infuriated than ever that I have something to do that will keep me from trotting around after her."
"If that's your motive, I refuse to be helped."
"You ought to be very grateful, for in general I don't approve of a girl's going to college, and I understand it's because you have college in view that you wish to skip on with your Latin. But it's only because I think college won't spoil you that I consent to give you the benefit of my knowledge," and Herbert assumed a pompous air that greatly amused Martine. Thus it happened that a day or two after Elinor left York, Herbert entered on his self-appointed office of tutor. Mrs. Stratford had made no objection when Martine told her of Herbert's plan. She had known Herbert for a long time, and she understood some of the difficulties of his home surroundings. Carlotta and he were so unlike in temperament, that they were constantly at swords' points, and Mrs. Brownville was so absorbed in her own narrow interests that she had never found time to study her children.
Mrs. Stratford realized that Martine could do more for Herbert than he for her, as he never resented the sisterly advice that she bestowed on him.
Carlotta was the only one who seemed to object to Herbert's new occupation. She teased him unmercifully, and showed an inclination to snub Martine. The two girls, fortunately, did not meet often, for Martine had little part in the gayeties of August, while Carlotta was a leader of the younger set.
Carlotta, had she been so disposed, might have done much for Martine. On the other hand, Martine, with a little effort, could have shared in the pleasures of the young people of her own age. At last her mother remonstrated with her for holding herself aloof from those who were pleasantly disposed to her.
But Martine was firm.
"No, mother, I can't serve two masters. The summer has been flying away, and I haven't accomplished half that I had hoped to. I shan't dare to look Priscilla in the face if I haven't made up all that Latin. Then I shouldn't have a really good time if I 'mingled' more, as Angelina suggests. People here are cliquey, and Carlotta and Peggy are the only girls in the crowd that I've ever known before. Peggy is a regular will-o'-the-wisp, and Carlotta and I never could be intimate."
"But still—" began Mrs. Stratford.
"But still," echoed Martine, "you seem to forget, mother dear, that we came here to save money—and everything costs so much—and I don't want to spend my poor little allowance on dress and excursions, and sometimes I feel pretty blue, and until we know from Lucian how father really is, I couldn't plunge into things. There wouldn't be any half way with me; if I should begin to 'go,' I would just have to go all the time."
Here Martine stopped for sheer want of breath. But her mother, watching her closely, wondered if she really understood herself. Yet Martine was sincere. It was only when she heard of some particularly pleasant thing that she felt left out. A moonlight sail, an all-day picnic up the river, an excursion to Agamenticus, all seemed to her as she heard of them more delightful affairs than they actually were to those who took part in them.
Before Herbert and Clare, Martine maintained her Spartan indifference, even when they talked of their own experiences in a well-meant effort to make her express a desire to go with them on their next expedition.
But nothing could weaken Martine's determination to lead a quiet life.
"It isn't as if I never had had any fun, or never should have any more," she wrote to Priscilla, "but even as it is I believe I have been running about too much. For the next few weeks I mean to be quiet as a dormouse, and two pages of Latin a day will keep me pretty busy. You see, Prissie, if papa really has lost all his money, I shall want to earn my living at once. I never could be dependent on my relations, and Lucian will have all he can do for the next few years. Oh, how different this summer is from last, when I almost felt as if I owned the world, though I hope I didn't show it. Of course we are very comfortable here. The house is small, but we brought enough of our own things to make it homelike, and Angelina does pretty well, though I have to help out with things sometimes. We have radishes and peas and a few tomato plants in the kitchen garden, but the rest of the place is all in grass, except the flower garden, and that would do your heart good. There are all kinds of old-fashioned things that you would love. They have grown up in the wildest way, and I am kept very busy weeding the flowers as well as the vegetables. Now, Prissie, before we leave York you must make us a visit. Mother and I both want you, and York will suit you to a T. The summer people make it livelier than Plymouth, but there are enough queer old houses to make you feel quite at home. You'd enjoy the graveyard opposite the church. It is shaded with ancient trees, and every one browses around there at least once. The funniest stone that I saw there was Father Moody's; he was the father of Handkerchief Moody. The inscription is just what you might expect from a thrifty New Englander. I wonder more haven't tried the same thing. Instead of having a long inscription put on he just gave the chapter and verse, 2 Corinthians, III, 1-6, so that any one interested could read. I am sorry to say I haven't yet had time. There's another thing that might amuse you. There are a lot of little cottages down by the Long Beach beyond the harbor. They look as if they were made of cardboard, painted in bright colors, and have fancy names like 'Sea-crest' and 'Harbor View.' Well, the other day on our way to Cape Neddock, I noticed one called Gorgeana, and I thought the owners had given it this name because they meant to enjoy themselves by eating all they could, or gorging.
"I was awfully snubbed by Herbert when I asked him if it wasn't a shame for people to advertise their greediness. He laughed well at me when he reminded me that the name was in honor of Gorges, the founder of York, a fact which I really ought to have remembered, for of course I knew it.
"You need not be jealous of Clare, as you suggest. It is certainly pleasant to have a congenial girl so near. But she never could take your place—never in the world.
"She is something like you, however, quiet and dignified, and fond of history. Mrs. Ethridge is great fun, and would be good company for mother, except that she plays bridge from morning till night.
"You haven't told me what you think of my rescue, and of Balfour and the burglar. I wrote you a few days ago.
"I had a letter from Brenda last week. Isn't it wonderful that she should find time to think of me when she is so far away. She is delighted because all the family are with her now, and they are to be in San Rafael the rest of the summer.
"She is not sure whether she will be in Boston next winter. How I wish we might have her apartment again. But we can't tell what we shall do until father and Lucian return. She says she would like to be with me one winter, to be sure that I really deserve to be called her ward."
Then, with messages to Mrs. Danforth and the children, Martine concluded her letter.
It brought a quick reply, in which Priscilla laughed at Martine for her two rescues—if one can be said to laugh in a letter.
"For an independent person it seems to me that you succeed in getting rescued from extreme danger pretty often. Balfour, in the fog last summer, had the easier time I should say, and I only hope that he and Herbert Brownville may not come to blows in trying to decide which is the greater hero.
"If I am called on to help to decide, I should have to decide against Balfour, for you could not be half as much lost on a horse as in a boat."
Although Priscilla was correct in her diagnosis of the different kinds of dangers, Balfour and Herbert gave no signs of coming to blows on the subject of their prowess. On the contrary, they showed an inclination to be very good friends. As Balfour's time was so fully occupied with his duties, Herbert acquired the habit of taking long rides on the cars. Then at the end of the route, or when waiting at turn-outs, he and Balfour had chances for the snatches of conversation in which boys find more pleasure than girls.
Carlotta was as little pleased with Herbert's intimacy with Balfour, as with his interest in Martine's Latin. It might not be fair to say that she wished to keep her brother entirely under her thumb, and yet it annoyed her that he was so much less amenable to her than formerly. She liked to feel that he was ready to come and go as she wished. She especially needed him to help entertain her visitors, of whom she usually had two or three staying in the house.
Now it happened one evening that Martine reading a Boston newspaper came upon something that excited her mightily.
"O, mamma," she exclaimed, "Only think! Mrs. Dundonald is coming here—just listen; Mrs. Dundonald, the well-known artist, passed through Boston to-day on her way to York Harbor where she is to spend a few days with friends."
"Well, my dear, what of it?" responded Mrs. Stratford.
"Oh, you know how I admire Mrs. Dundonald's work. She does exactly the kind of thing I should like to do, and they say she is perfectly charming. To think she is coming here! Oh, I do hope we shall meet her!"
Then Martine paused suddenly, remembering that for the present she and her mother were not likely to meet any distinguished stranger visiting York. From Clare she learned the next day that Mrs. Dundonald was staying with Miss Stark, an elderly lady whose house was next that of the Brownvilles'. Clare offered to take Martine to call on Miss Stark and Mrs. Dundonald, but Martine hesitated because she had heard that Miss Stark was a rigid upholder of formal etiquette.
"I have had one or two little snubs," she said, "and I should hate to be treated with scorn because I had made the first call on an older woman."
"There is no danger of that," replied Clare, "but still, there will probably be some other way, for you ought to have a chance to meet Mrs. Dundonald."
Just at this time Herbert happened to be away on a short yachting trip, so that Martine could not tell him of her desire. The Brownvilles were cousins as well as neighbors of Miss Stark's, and had Herbert been at home he could easily have arranged a meeting between Martine and the artist.
"Martine," said Clare a day after their conversation about Miss Stark and her guest, "I saw Carlotta at the beach this morning and I told her how anxious you were to meet Mrs. Dundonald. She knows her very well, and—"
"She didn't promise to introduce me immediately?"
Martine's tone was sarcastic. She knew very well that Carlotta would hardly exert herself to do her a favor. The girls were seated on Mrs. Ethridge's piazza at this moment, and before Clare could reply to Martine, the maid handed her a note that had come by special messenger. Martine watched her friend as she read, and noticed that she made no comment as she slipped the note back in its envelope. Then for a few moments neither girl spoke. Martine had recognized the man who had given the note to the maid. He was one of the Brownvilles' coachmen.
"Martine," said Clare, at length, "Carlotta is giving a large stand-up luncheon for Mrs. Dundonald the day after to-morrow. It is just to let the girls here at York have a chance to meet her. Of course you will find your invitation when you go home."
"Perhaps," replied Martine, and this word found an echo in Clare's heart.
When Martine returned home she found no invitation from Carlotta, nor did one come before the luncheon. Strange as it may seem, in view of Martine's repeated declaration that she hated formal festivities in summer, she felt aggrieved that Carlotta had left her out.
"Perhaps Carlotta has heard you express yourself. You know my dear, you have been a little scornful about the doings of the younger set."
"Oh, no, mamma, I have seldom taken the trouble to express my opinions to Carlotta. Besides, she knows I am anxious to meet Mrs. Dundonald. Unluckily Clare has told her this, so my snubbing is all the harder to bear."
Nor was Martine's disappointment lessened by the fact that Clare gave up the luncheon. "You might as well have gone," she said. "It is all the worse for me to know that I have kept you out of something you would have enjoyed."
"But I have met so many artists," replied Clare, smiling, "that one more or less makes little difference to me. You know I do not care for crowds, and although Carlotta speaks of this luncheon as 'small,' I know there will be a crush. I'd much rather go off somewhere with you for the day. Cousin Mary has been urging me to come over to Portsmouth for the day. She would love to see you too. Let us go to-morrow; it will be much more fun than Carlotta's luncheon."
But when to-morrow came, a strange thing happened. By some means known only to her, Angelina had heard that a man had been arrested in Portsmouth for breaking and entering a little shop.
"I want to go over and identify him; I know he's our burglar, and that, of course, makes him Miguel Silva, who took Miss Brenda's money."
"But you would better wait until you are sent for. You may be needed as a witness."
"Oh, I don't know about that. The law is slow, they say, so I want to go now and look at him, and shake my fist at him, and tell him that I am Angelina Rosa, and then, please, I am going on in the trolley to Boston. I had a letter from my mother. She'd like to see me, and I want to tell her about Miguel Silva."
"Would you leave us now, with no one to help us?"
Mrs. Stratford spoke sharply. Martine was too surprised to speak.
"I am sorry, of course," said Angelina, "the place isn't hard, and you've been like a mother to me. But it's very quiet for me at York. You see we're not exactly in things, and I think I'd better be nearer home. My trunk is all packed, and I'll get the express to call to-day."
"Very well," said Mrs. Stratford, turning away with a dignity that gave Angelina no chance to reply.
"Maggie would never have done this, and I am surprised at you," remonstrated Martine as Angelina bade her good-bye.
"I am sorry you feel so," rejoined Angelina, "for I haven't a fault to find with you and Mrs. Stratford. I have heard of a wash-lady that would come in by the day, and I'll stop at her house on the way."
"Oh, no, we can look out for ourselves."
"It isn't that it hasn't been pleasant here," continued Angelina; "I've had a real good time almost always, but I'm homesick, and I have a duty to my family, and I think I'd better go while Miguel Silva is where I can get at him; for after to-day they might lock him up where I couldn't see him, and I want him to know what I think. There's only one thing I want to confess, Miss Martine. You remember when the cook went away last winter,—so unexpectedly, you know, before your dinner? Well, it was I who discharged her. I told her you wanted her to go, and I paid her for the rest of the week. I was so anxious to have things all to myself, so I could show what I could do. But it didn't do me much good,—after the expense of paying her,—for you kept getting cooks that wouldn't let me meddle. But I hope you'll think kindly of me, Miss Martine, and so now good-bye."
After this extraordinary speech, Angelina tripped gayly down the path in the direction of the cars.
"It's frightful ingratitude!" said Martine. "I feel as if I should never wish to do anything for any one again."
"Angelina has earned her money," responded Mrs. Stratford. "She has worked pretty faithfully. As I have studied her character, I have sometimes wondered that she should stay so contentedly with us, when we have given her so little opportunity to indulge in her favorite gossip."
"But what shall we do now? That is the question, mamma. Of course I will help all I can, but I am feeling tired, and you are not strong enough, and we must stay here."
"There, there, Martine, do not borrow trouble. To-day will take care of itself, and as for to-morrow—"
"To-morrow," cried Clare, suddenly coming upon them, "will be the best day for our Portsmouth excursion, and mamma has sent me over to invite you, Mrs. Stratford, to spend the day with her."
"There, Martine, to-morrow is provided for. Tell your mother, Clare, that I am only too happy to accept her invitation. I must leave you now, while Martine relates the story of Angelina."
As her mother turned toward the house, Martine told Clare of Angelina's departure.
"You must find some one to take her place," said Clare. "You are thinner than when you came to York, and if you don't mind my saying so, you look tired."
To Clare's great surprise, her friend, instead of replying, shed a tear or two. But the tears were followed by smiles, as Martine exclaimed:
"There, I am almost as bad as Priscilla."
"But do you suppose that Angelina was right about the burglar? I wonder if your friend Balfour Airton has heard—"
"Oh, if the burglar has been caught, I am sure Balfour knows all about it. He was really very anxious himself to discover the fellow. If he is off duty, he will probably come over to see us this evening—at least if he has anything to tell."
It was not until they were on their way to Portsmouth, that Clare and Martine had their first good chance to talk to Balfour about the burglar.
"It is really true," said Balfour, "that the fellow has been arrested for entering a Portsmouth shop. I was pretty sure of him, and when this shop was entered, I told the police about this man. He was wearing a pair of topaz sleeve-links, and you said, I remember, that these were the only things missing from Miss Elinor's trunk."
Balfour spoke modestly. From him the girls could get no idea of the many hours he had put into the case until he had assured himself that this was the very man wanted by the police of more than one city.
"How excited Angelina will be if she really identifies him as the man who took her mother's money long ago."
"Yes," added Martine, "if she is only called in court as a witness, she will be perfectly happy."
At Kittery, as on the day they went to the Shoals, Balfour was left with his car on the Kittery Shore.
"I believe this will be the pleasantest of all our excursions," said Martine to Clare as the two strolled about. "A crowd would seem out of place in these quiet old streets."
"Is there anything you especially care to see before we go to Cousin Mary's?" asked Clare. "You know she expects us there to luncheon, and she always has any number of stories to tell."
"I'd like to see Strawberry Bank," replied Martine. "It sounded so attractive when I came across it in my History as the first name of Portsmouth."
"I fear there are no strawberries there now, though the first settlers are said to have built the Great House in the centre of ground covered with wild strawberry-vines. There's little to see there now, though you have enough imagination to picture where the Great House stood in the time of Mason."
So they went down on Water Street, and thence to the substantial little house where Washington's secretary, Tobias Lear, lived. Here Washington himself called on Madame Lear when he visited Portsmouth soon after his inauguration.
As they turned back toward the statelier mansions of Congress and Pleasant Streets, Clare tried to fit the things she had heard about old Portsmouth to the right persons and people.
"I remember that some distinguished French nobleman described the Langdon House as elegant and well furnished. Washington, too, called it the handsomest house in Portsmouth, and when Louis Philippe was in exile here, he lived for some time in this house. But I like this old Wentworth House better because I really remember one of the romantic stories connected with it."
"Tell me, please."
"Oh, this is simply about Frances Wentworth who jilted her cousin John because he was too poor. John went to England, and Frances married Theodore Atkinson, who was rich and amiable and delicate. In the course of time John Wentworth returned from London as governor of the Province, and when two years later the husband of Frances died, she mourned only ten days, and then became the bride of her cousin John. But here we are at Cousin Mary's, and I ought to have left this story for her. She can tell it so dramatically."
Cousin Mary lived near the old Warner house, and she had much to say to the girls about a former owner of this historic dwelling, whom her mother remembered as one of the last of the townsmen to wear a cocked hat and knee-breeches. After luncheon she took her young visitors to call at the Warner mansion, where they saw the curious wall paintings that no one had known about, until the removal of several layers of paper brought the paintings to the light a few years ago.
"You can see how little this house has been changed," said the owner, proudly. "It is really an eighteenth century house of the best type."
"Such as Amy Wentworth dwelt in," added Martine, reciting.
"'With stately stairways wornBy feet of old Colonial knights,And ladies gentle-born.And on her from the wainscot oldAncestral faces frown,And this has worn the soldier's sword,And that—the judge's gown?'
"'With stately stairways wornBy feet of old Colonial knights,And ladies gentle-born.And on her from the wainscot oldAncestral faces frown,And this has worn the soldier's sword,And that—the judge's gown?'
"You did not know I could quote Portsmouth poetry?" asked Martine, turning mischievously to Clare, "but I caught the habit from Amy last summer, as she had a ballad or a story for every place we visited."
"Portsmouth is full of stories," responded Clare; "I wish, Cousin Mary, we could stay here three or four days. Martine would enjoy everything—old stories as well as old houses—"
"We have plenty of both, my dear," said Cousin Mary, laying her hand on Martine's arm.
"I have been wondering about the houses, there are so many more of what you might call 'stately mansions,' than there are in Plymouth," and Martine looked enquiringly at Cousin Mary.
"Oh, that is easily explained," replied the older woman, understanding Martine's unexpressed question. "Portsmouth was a Royal Province, and its merchants were prosperous and fond of the good things of life. They vied with one another in the eighteenth century in building handsome dwellings. There were also many government officials here, who felt that fine surroundings were their rightful due. When the Revolution came, Portsmouth was full of Tories, as you may have read in some of the recent historical novels. They were far from pleased with the change in government."
"Martine and I certainly must come over again," cried Clare, looking at her watch, "there are two or three special stories that I hope you will tell her, though they are too long for to-day. I am afraid we have barely time for the church, if we mean to get back to York to-night."
"This church," explained Cousin Mary, as they drew near old St. John's, "is interesting because it succeeds the old Queen's Chapel. It may surprise you to learn that in Portsmouth the first church observed the forms of the Church of England. But after the earliest years, for a long time there was no Episcopal church until the Queen's Chapel was built in the early eighteenth century."
"They couldn't have a Queen's Chapel after the Revolution!" exclaimed Martine.
"Well, it was Queen's Chapel for a few years. This was its name when Washington attended service here. But in 1791, when the parish was re-organized, the new church was known as 'St. John's.'"
The girls made the most of the short time they had to spend at the old church. There were a number of things to see, but nothing, not even the famous Queen Caroline chairs interested Martine more than the old bell in the tower. For Cousin Mary told her that it had been brought from an old church at Louisburg by Sir William Pepperell's victorious men.
"I must come down some Sunday," she said, "just to hear it. In Nova Scotia they tell some weird stories about these old French bells," and as she spoke, Martine recalled her afternoon with Balfour and Amy near the site of the Acadian church.
"You certainly must spend a day or two with me soon," said Cousin Mary, and when the girls bade her good-bye, the day was set for a longer visit from Clare and Martine.
A slight fog overtook them as they rode home, and this, perhaps, lowered Martine's spirits. Had Clare known Martine longer, she would have been even more surprised than she was at her friend's despondent tone, for those who knew her best had seldom seen her out of spirits.
It was Clare herself, however, who had turned the conversation in a direction not exactly enlivening.
"I suppose we shall see Herbert to-morrow," she said. "He won't be exactly pleased when he hears about Carlotta's luncheon."
"You mean my being left out? Oh, he won't care. Boys never take up those things. Besides, I hope no one will tell him. Besides, I shouldn't have cared if it hadn't been for Mrs. Dundonald, though I shall probably have a chance to meet her again, somewhere."
"Of course," responded Clare, "she is likely to be in Boston, and you know so many people. I think you have been very amiable about the whole thing. For certainly it was hard to bear."
Now sympathy is often the last straw to break one down, and as she replied to Clare, Martine did not control a little quaver in her voice.
"Naturally no one likes to be slighted, but then nothing has gone exactly right this summer. I have hardly done a thing I wanted to, and I have been left out of things I might have gone to."
"But, my dear, I have heard you say over and over again that you wouldn't have any gayety on account of your father and—"
"Yes, that is true," replied Martine, undisturbed by her own inconsistency, "but all the same it isn't pleasant to be left out, and I really don't like being economical, although I have to pretend I don't mind. I suppose that's why some people slight me. I never believed before that money made any difference, but now I know."
"Martine," said Clare, "you are ridiculous. I believe you have been working too hard, and so are a little run down."
"I haven't slept well lately," Martine admitted, "I have been thinking so much about my father and Lucian."
"Isn't your father improving?"
"The last letter was more cheerful. But we haven't heard for three weeks, and I am wondering what we shall do next year if he has lostallhis money. It will be so hard for Lucian to give up college."
Clare was at a loss for a reply. Mrs. Stratford and Martine were new friends and she really knew little about their affairs. She had to content herself with rather vague attempts to cheer Martine, and she was gratified before they reached their stopping place to see the smiles return to Martine's face.
It was almost dusk as the car sped down a long hill near the Country Club.
"Why, that was Carlotta driving," exclaimed Clare, as they passed a restive horse that was driven by a girl in a high cart.
"She has poor control of her horse," rejoined Martine.
"It's curious," added Clare, "that Carlotta, who is so good at other sports, knows so little about a horse. She seldom drives alone. I wonder how it happens that no one is with her now."
"She may swim better than I," rejoined Martine, "but I believe I could give her points about managing a horse."
Soon the two friends had reached their corner and were about to part when they heard the clatter of hoofs and wheels.
"Keep to the side, Clare," cried Martine. "It's Carlotta, the horse is running away."
Hardly had she uttered these words when the horse and carriage were upon them. The reins had fallen, and Carlotta, helpless, was clinging to the side of the carriage. Martine did not hesitate. Instantly she plunged forward, and unheeding Clare's warning scream, flung herself before the horse. Yet, in spite of her impetuosity, she knew what she was doing. The creature's speed was less than it seemed to the frightened Clare. Martine with a sure aim reached the bridle. Although she was dragged a few steps, the horse slackened his pace, and stopped. Carlotta, too much shaken to resume control, jumped to the ground on the opposite side from Martine.
"Look!" cried Clare, running up to her as she came to the horse's head.
"Is she hurt?" asked Carlotta, anxiously, as Clare stooped down toward Martine, who had fallen to the ground.
"She must be," replied Clare. "What shall we do?"
"I cannot very well leave my horse," responded Carlotta, still with her hand on the bridle; "if only somebody—"
At that moment "somebody" did appear, in the shape of Mr. Gamut.
"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "What is this? An accident?"
Martine lay white and still. Clare, stooping down, could not rouse her.
"Let us take her to the house, and then I will go for Mrs. Stratford," cried Clare; "she has been spending the day with my mother."
"I was on my way to Red Knoll," said Mr. Gamut. "I came on the afternoon train, and I felt anxious to talk over the good news; but now, this looks serious," he continued, as together he and Clare lifted Martine from the ground.
"May I take my horse to your stable, Clare?" asked Carlotta. "He is quiet enough, but I would rather not drive now, and then I will hurry to the village for a doctor. I am so sorry for all this," she concluded.
"There are certainly no bones broken," said the practical Clare; "she has simply fainted."
Clare and Mr. Gamut slowly carried Martine to the side of the road, and now Clare was supporting her friend's head on her knee, while Mr. Gamut had gone to Red Knoll for water.
As Carlotta disappeared down the lane leading to the Ethridge house, Martine stirred slightly, and opened her eyes.
"Where am I?" she asked, faintly. "Oh—yes—I remember," and though she closed her eyes again, she no longer lay a dead weight against Clare's arm.
One afternoon in late September, Martine sat under the trees in her mother's corner of the Red Knoll garden. A number of letters lay before her on a little round table, and beside her, swinging lazily in a hammock, was Priscilla, the practical, who had often been heard to say that she despised hammocks.
After a moment Priscilla, bringing herself to a full stop, leaned forward and gazed intently at Martine.
"I cannot see," she said at length, "that you look soverythin."
"Why should I beverythin?"
"Well, from what I heard I thought you must be. They said you weren't eating, and you are thinner than you were in the spring. I am sure your eyes look larger."
"Probably my eyes have grown; I am sure my waistbands have."
There was a twinkle in Martine's brown eyes, as she pushed back a wavy lock of hair.
"You are just a little paler, too," persisted Priscilla, "but except for that, no one would believe that you had been so ill."
"I don't believe it myself," replied Martine, "though I am perfectly willing to take the word of those who say they know. To tell you the truth, I am rather ashamed to hear that I barely escaped nervous prostration, just because I tried to stop a horse from running away."
"But youdidstop him."
"Then he wasn't running away. It was only that Carlotta had let go the reins."
"Well, they all say that if you hadn't seized the bridle, he would have gone straight down the little embankment."
"Nonsense—at any rate I spoilt the effect of it all by fainting, and yet I shouldn't have fainted if I hadn't been following your example. The horse had nothing to do with it."
"Oh, Martine!"
"Yes, my dear Prissie. I had been following your old example of borrowing trouble, and I had been keeping my tribulations to myself, until I just couldn't bear them. You see it was this way. I was sure that father wouldn't get well, and that the shock of his death would kill mother, and Lucian would have to leave college, and I would have to start out at once to earn my living. Then little things were bothering me too, like Carlotta's being mean, and Angelina's leaving us with no one to help, and I was tired of being economical, so the horse was just the last straw."
Though Martine's explanation was not very lucid, Priscilla certainly understood her.
"I believe Clare was disappointed," she continued, "that I hadn't at least one bone broken. She wanted to make a heroine of me, and she isn't at all pleased when I tell her I wasn't in danger."
"Well, if you were not, Carlotta was. She is very grateful."
"I know, I know," said Martine, hastily. "But when you are not very fond of people, it is rather disagreeable to have them grateful, especially for nothing at all. I was really sorry that the person in the carriage was Carlotta. I suppose this sounds very hateful, for she has written me a fine letter—says she is sorry she couldn't see me before she went to the mountains, but still—"
"But still," echoed Priscilla.
"Oh, nothing, except that I like Mrs. Brownville's letter so much better. She says that I have been a great help to Herbert this summer—keeping him away from a set of young men the family didn't care for, and giving him ideals. I shouldn't expect Mrs. Brownville to know an ideal when she saw it. However, I dare say she's right, only it was unconscious goodness on my part. I didn't know Herbert had to be kept away from any set of foolish companions. I simply found him good company, and I am so used to giving advice to Lucian and Robert that I naturally favored Herbert in the same way. Then he was tremendously good in reading Latin with me. Except for this accident I should have been ahead of you, Prissie dear."
"I should like to have seen Herbert Brownville."
"Yes, it's a pity he had to go back to college before you came. But you'll see him in Boston some time."
"When do you expect your father?" asked Priscilla.
"Oh, in a week—just think of it—in a week, and he is almost well, and although he has lost money, things are not going to be so very dreadful,—not at all as I feared. I looked too far ahead."
"Yes," said Priscilla, mischievously, "jumping at conclusions is almost as bad as borrowing trouble. They mean much the same thing."
"I am not so sure. I cannot imagine a slow, deliberate person like you jumping at conclusions, though I have known you to borrow trouble."
"Sometimes I am very hasty," responded Priscilla, slowly, as if reflecting on something. "There is one thing I ought to tell you. Do you remember your prize essay last spring?"
"Oh, yes, but I didn't set out to get a prize."
"I know. If you had, I suppose you would have written it all alone."
"What do you mean? I did write it alone."
Then remembering Lucian's help, Martine flushed to the roots of her hair.
"I did not mean to offend you," continued Priscilla, "for even if Lucian helped you a little, this was all right; I was only thinking how unfair I had been. I accidentally saw some notes for your essay in Lucian's handwriting, and for a little while I felt that you had acted unfairly. Do you remember one week last spring, when I was stiff and disagreeable and wouldn't go anywhere with you?"
"Oneweek!" exclaimed Martine, roguishly.
"Oh, I dare say there were others. Only I remember the why of that particular week."
"But it's so long ago," cried Martine, "Let's not remember it now."
"It's only fair that you should know that I sometimes jump to conclusions."
"As long as you are ready to jump away from them again, there's no great harm done."
"That's what I wanted to say. I realized after all that there was no rule in school against getting help in an essay, and that you didn't know a prize was to be given when you wrote yours. But I always thought you ought to know how unfair I had been."
"Then we are friends again," said Martine, laughing, "though I didn't know we had ever been anything else." Secretly, she thought Priscilla had made a great ado about nothing. "It's the Puritan way, I suppose," she said to herself. Then aloud,—
"As I have forgiven you, we may call it square about those Christmas photographs. Thus far I have always been able to prevent your paying me for them. But to-day, when I found your note with this money on my bureau—really, Priscilla, I was almost offended. So here, child," and she held out an envelope, "if you will take back this money, I will forgive you for your unfair thoughts."
Under the circumstances Priscilla could not refuse Martine, and thus both girls were satisfied.
"There's one thing," said Martine, to change the subject, "I have had some lovely letters lately. Just think of little Esther's writing me. Nora must have told her where I was. She hopes I will be able to go on with the Mansion Class next year—but dear me, Priscilla, she has got far beyond me; only look at this pen and ink," and she displayed the last page of the letter, in which Esther had drawn a picture that Priscilla at once recognized as Martine herself. "Then Alexander Babet has written me about Yvonne, that she is much stronger, and so happy with her music lessons,—and would you believe it, they still have some of that hundred dollars left. It's wonderful how far some people can make a little money go."
Here Martine sighed, recalling the time when she would not have thought a hundred dollars too much to spend in gratifying a single small wish.
"Do you know," she continued, "it may be that I can really do something for Yvonne next year. If papa can't spare the money, why I can give up something of my own—riding lessons, for example,—and spend what it would cost for Yvonne. This year I have been so frightfully useless; it seems as if I hadn't done anything for anybody."
"How foolish you are," exclaimed Priscilla. "If there were nothing else, you certainly have helped Yvonne and Esther, and just think what Mrs. Brownville writes about Herbert, and your mother says you have been a wonderful housekeeper, and that you have taken so much care off her shoulders, and Angelina—"
"Well, Angelina is rather absurd," interposed Martine; "I was just coming to myself that evening after—what shall I call it—the Carlotta incident, when Angelina rushed into the room, and almost threw herself on my neck. She seemed to think that something awful had happened to me because she had undertaken to leave us, and that my salvation depended on her. She said she had had queer feelings all day, and that she just felt drawn back to Red Knoll, which she never, never, would desert again. Really it was just as well that she came back, for although mother was able to get an extra helper, Angelina knew exactly where things were. Of course she was tremendously proud of what she had accomplished in her trip to Portsmouth, for she made the house-breaker admit that he was Miguel Silva, and though she can't recover her money, she has a kind of wicked satisfaction in knowing that he will be punished for his other misdeeds."
"She doesn't seem to be quite as Spanish as she was last winter. At least she doesn't say as much about it."
"No, she gives me the credit for that. She says that I have shown her that it is wrong to pretend anything. However, on that same Portsmouth trip, she went down the harbor to look at the island where Cervera's men were prisoners, and now she likes to speak of the Spaniards in a patronizing tone as people to be spoken of as inferiors rather than kinsmen."
"It's astonishing," mused Priscilla, "how many friends you make!"
"Why should it be astonishing? Why shouldn't I make friends?"
"I only meant it was astonishing in comparison with me. No one ever attaches importance to me. In the past year I have hardly made a new friend—while you—"
"You have made a friend of me for one thing, and Lucian thinks you are exactly right, and my mother considers you a perfect model. Oh, yes, and there's Eunice."
Priscilla, in spite of herself, smiled at Martine's droll tone.
"But think of all the people you have to your credit. Mr. Stacy says he never saw a young girl talk so intelligently about Plymouth, and the children are always asking me when you will come again, and in her secret heart I believe Aunt Tilworth prefers you to me,—and my mother—"
"What nonsense, Priscilla! It's only because people think me so very empty-headed when they first meet me, that they are surprised later to find that there's anything to me, just as I am surprised some times to discover these quiet dignified girls, like Elinor, and Clare, are really very good fun when you come to know them better."
"Then," continued Priscilla, "there are Balfour and Mr. Gamut. If you hadn't been considerate of Balfour's feelings, and invited him to your house, he wouldn't have met Mr. Gamut, and Eunice says he has made him a splendid offer, and he will take it as soon as he's through college."
"Oh, well, things may have happened that way; but you know yourself that I haven't any particular talent for anything, and I never go out of my way to help people."
"You help them just by being bright and pleasant and making them think the best of themselves."
"Perhaps; but as to Balfour, I am glad that he's to be helped by Mr. Gamut, and not by Mr. Blair, or even papa, as I once hoped. For, as it is, he's much more independent, without feeling that anything has been done for him, because he's a connection of ours, even though the cousinship is rather far away. It was so funny, though, to see Mr. Gamut the evening Carlotta's horse tried to run. He appeared on the scene just as I fainted, and later, when I came to, he was hopping about, anxious to do something, but not knowing what to do. Faint as I was, I almost laughed at him. But that would have been mean, for he had come almost expressly to bring me news that he had just heard about papa's affairs. He said he knew I had been worrying, and he wanted to be the first to tell me. Naturally, he was surprised to find me lying on my back in the middle of the road. But come, we mustn't waste all the morning here," and seizing Priscilla by the arm, Martine fairly dragged her from the hammock.
"I feel so energetic now," she cried, "that we must do something exciting—take a long walk to work off my energy—if we could gather a party, I believe I could climb Agamenticus. What would you say to that, Prissie?"
The diminutive no longer annoyed Priscilla. She had learned to understand Martine.
"It isn't necessary for me to say anything. Your mother will tell you what she thinks about your climbing Agamenticus."
"I suppose it is too far. You always do know better than I. I believe that next year I shall have to be known as Priscilla's, instead of Brenda's ward"—and with her hand in Priscilla's, Martine went into the house.
The Boston Heraldsays: "Miss Reed's girls have all the impulses and likes of real girls as their characters are developing, and her record of their thoughts and actions reads like a chapter snatched from the page of life. It is bright, genial, merry, wholesome, and full of good characterizations."
A charming picture of vacation life along the famous North Shore of Massachusetts.
The Outlooksays: "The author is one of the best equipped of our writers for girls of larger growth. Her stories are strong, intelligent, and wholesome."
A remarkably real and fascinating story of a college girl's career, excelling in interest Miss Reed's first "Brenda" book. TheProvidence Newssays of it: "No better college story has been written." The author is a graduate of Radcliffe College which she describes.
No better college story has been written.—Providence News.
Miss Reed is herself a Radcliffe woman, and she has made a sympathetic and accurate study of the woman's college at Cambridge.—Chicago Evening Post.
The author is one of the best equipped of our writers for girls of larger growth. Her stories are strong, intelligent, and wholesome.—The Outlook, N. Y.
The book has the background of old Cambridge, a little of Harvard, and Boston in the distance.... The heroine is a fine girl, and the other characters are girls of many varieties and from many places.—New York Commercial Advertiser.
She brings out all sides of the life, and, while making much of the fun and good fellowship, does not let it be forgotten that work and growth are the end and object of it all.—Chicago Tribune.
"The fourth and last of the 'Brenda' books," saysThe Bookman, "deals with social settlement work, under conditions with which the author is familiar." TheBoston Transcriptadds: "This book is by far the best of the series."
A delightful scene for a tale that arouses and holds the young reader's attention and sympathies from the beginning.—Washington Star.
The entire story is full of life, action, and entertainment, as well as information.—Newark Advertiser.
Amy, now a college senior, and some of her friends have various unique experiences, and incidentally introduce a great many historical details concerning the descendants of the exiled Acadians in the romantic region of Clare in Nova Scotia.—New York Sun.
A splendid tale for girls, carefully written, interesting, and full of information concerning the romantic region made famous by the vicissitudes of Evangeline.—Toronto Globe.
The adventures of Amy and her girl friends among the descendants of the exiled Acadians have a spice of novelty to them.—Philadelphia Press.
So well written that it holds the attention of the young reader, and so well developed in its story as to prove without question another popular addition to the young folks' library.—Boston Journal.
A brightly written story about children from eleven to thirteen years of age, who live in a suburban town, and attend a public grammar school. The book is full of incident of school and home life.
The story deals with real life, and is told in the simple and natural style which characterized Miss Reed's popular "Brenda" stories.—Washington Post.
There are little people in this sweetly written story with whom all will feel at once that they have been long acquainted, so real do they seem, as well as their plans, their play, and their school and home and everyday life.—Boston Courier.
Her children are real; her style also is natural and pleasing.—The Outlook, New York.
Miss Reed's children are perfectly natural and act as real girls would under the same circumstances. Nap is a lively little dog, who takes an important part in the development of the story.—Christian Register, Boston.
A clever story, not a bit preachy, but with much influence for right living in evidence throughout.—Chicago Evening Post.