The woman pretended to be surprised at the scarcity of silver, and the girls trembled lest she should, even now, send them off with no fortunes, just when they were on tiptoe with awe and curiosity.
But to the immense relief of the girls, the gypsy at last consented, most kindly, to accept the money, and after the cards had been "cut," proceeded to assort them, and read from their dirty faces Isabel's future destiny. "Dark complect?" said she, looking up at Isa. "Yes, yes, coal-black hair, or will be, and a pair of eyes! There's two kinds of eyes in this world, little miss: one's the oily blank eye, and the other's the snapping black eye. Yours is the snapping black eye. 'Twill break the hearts, my dear—break the hearts," repeated Mrs. Gypsy, approvingly. "Here you are, the queen of spades, the queen of beauty, and behind you there I see trouble."
The gypsy scanned the cards closely.
"Ah, I know it all, now. It's a child, a girl, dead since way back.Your sister: you were named for her."
The girls were dumb with surprise, and gazed at one another with parted lips. They had all heard of "the other Isa," and had seen her little head-stone in the graveyard.
"You have one brother," continued the gypsy; "light hair; name begins with a T."
"Thomas," cried the girls in a breath.
"Where could she have heard of Tommy?" cried Grace.
"Where, to be sure, miss?" was the tart reply. "Never heard of him till he looked up at me out of the cards."
By this time five pairs of eyes had grown very large, and five little hearts were throbbing high with awe and curiosity. How could these children know that the gypsy was acquainted with the history of her landlord's family? How were they to imagine that she purposely told Isa's fortune first in order to excite their wonder?
"I see here," said the gypsy, fumbling at the cards mysteriously, as if she could pierce quite through them with her sharp eyes, "I see a present for you: it's worth a power of money. I see a journey for you: it's across the waters. Here is a great nobleman; and O, how rich! He rolls in gold! He'll set great store by you, miss, and when you grow up you'll marry him, and you'll roll in gold, too."
Isa smiled; and it is worthy of notice that she did not wonder at all at this future husband, though, according to her promise to the Ruby Seal Society, she could no more think of marrying than a veiled nun.
"Such a lady as you'll be. You know of girls now that are prettythinwith you. You wish yourself as rich and grand. But never mind. The day'll come when they'll be glad of a smile from you."
The wicked woman continued this harangue for some time, painting in gorgeous colors the splendor which was to shine upon the happy Isa one of these days; while Isa sat listening to the romance in a tumult of delight. "What girls were those who felt themselves better? That must mean Grace Clifford, if anybody. She would come humbly to Isa Harrington, begging for a smile. Cassy Hallock would then have sunk into a nobody. O, how exquisite! Grace was cool and indifferent now—was she? Ah, well! the tables were about to be turned, and then maybe somebody else would know how to be cool and indifferent too."
"O, Isa," laughed Grace, "think of the lovely dresses you'll wear!Please give me one, Isa. I hope you'll not forget your old friends."
The gypsy scowled, but was keen to take observations.
"I reckon I'll know who are my real friends better than some people do," replied Isa, meaningly. "I'll have so many friends that I just hope I'll not have to pick out the meanest of the whole to go with; I just hope I'll not be such a stupid as that, and then feel cross when anybody says she isn't perfect."
Grace smiled, and so did the other girls. It was plain that Isa was so dazzled as to come very near fancying herself a great lady already. The glances which passed between the girls did not escape the sharp eyes of the gypsy.
"Ah, ha! I see how it is. Somebody jealous! I'll soon study it out."
Next came Diademia's turn, and she chose to have her fortune read by the zigzag lines on the palm of her hand. The woman declared that these lines were curved in just the right way on the little brown hand of Diademia, who was therefore sure to live in peace and plenty, and to receive a large legacy in five years. So it was with all. The gypsy fairly buried them under heaps of gold and precious stones, till it came to poor Grace Clifford. She bent her black brows, and looked upon this last candidate with a frown, pausing some time before she spoke. Grace did not understand this ominous scowl, but looked into the woman's face with a bright smile of anticipation.
"I'd like my fortune told by astrology, please, madam. That's the stars—isn't it?"
"First give me your hand, miss; not that—the left one, like the others did. Alas!" sighed the artful woman, poring over the soft little palm, "life-line short and crossed, matrimony-line and line of riches cut clean off! I daresn't to lift the tempestuous veil of fortune. Black, mighty black!"
Grace might have answered, "Very well, madam; then pray don't take the trouble to do it, but give me back my 'six bits,' and I'll buy that jelly for the soldiers." But Grace was by far too much interested; she could not go away now without hearing her fortune, however dark it might prove.
"Please go on, ma'am," said she, with a brave smile, though her heart quaked for fear.
"What day and year was you born, miss?"
"September 3d, 1851."
"Then you are under the influence of the planetMarcury," said the gypsy, after an intense study of the sky, during which she looked as wise as an astronomer calculating an eclipse. "Marcury, sorry to say. You have friends who have been—ahem!—who will go to the war." Here the gypsy paused and gazed at the heavens again, lost in thought.
"She means your pa," whispered Lucy, "when you supposed he was dead, and he wasn't."
"As I was saying, you have a very dear relation who was killed, or almost killed, in the wars," continued the gypsy, starting up from her reverie, and beginning where she had left off, without appearing to pay the slightest attention to Lucy's whisper. "I had to study a while to find out if he died; but the truth is, he's alive now—your father, I mean."
If possible the girls were more amazed than ever. What didn't the gypsy know? Wasn't it awful?
"Yes, at the time you was born, poor thing! the planets Marcury andHaskell were disjunctive. Whatever is to be will you'll see trouble.You have a dear friend: you set store by her."
Here the gypsy perceived that she had made another happy hit, forGrace looked surprised again.
"This friend pretends to have a heart for you; you think she's true; but mark my words,"—and the prophetess dropped her monotonous voice to a hoarse whisper; "mark my words: you never were more mistaken in your life."
Here Isa's face took on an expression of pleasure, and she touchedGrace's elbow, whispering, "Didn't I tell you so? There now!"
Grace grew an inch taller; would not look at Isa, but tossed a reply to her over her shoulder:—
"Please don't say any more, Isa. The woman may have told the other things right, but she's made a mistake about Cassy Hallock."
"Cassy Hallock! ah, that's the name," spoke up the gypsy. "What do you say about mistakes? I don't make mistakes! I tell you that smooth friend of yours is a snake in the grass. Flies buzz, girls talk. Don't trust that girl. Trouble's coming thick as sand."
The girls cast pitying glances upon Grace, as if they already saw her the victim of sorrow.
"Needn't curl your lip; you are soon to have a fever and lose all your pretty hair. When you're twelve and some odd, your father'll die, and the next year your mother'll die too. You're one of them that considers every rain-storm nothing but a clearing-off shower; but you'll find one storm that won't clear off. You'll near about come nigh starving, miss. It's an awful way to die; but you won't die so. You'll be bit by a rattlesnake, and won't live a day after you're sixteen year old."
Grace tried to laugh. "Come, girls," said she, "let's go."
"You're an awful unlucky child," cried the gypsy, pointing her finger at Grace, who did not look quite humble enough yet. "You're verypeartnow; but trouble's coming: now you mark my words."
So saying, the crazy woman arose to enter the house; but as she saw the smoke still clouding the air, a new freak seized her bewildered brain. She quite forgot her character of fortune-teller, and shouted aloud, "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness. Tell me one thing before I have you, little army of grasshoppers: what did John Baptist do with the locusts? Did he eat 'em raw, or did he smoke and roast 'em?"
Then with "tinsel-slippered" feet, the gypsy entered the house, and closed the door. The girls heard a shout of wild laughter. Could it be from the gypsy? They started with one accord, and ran till they were out of breath.
"Where are the baskets with our picnic?" cried Diademia, suddenly pausing.
"Under one of the 'simmon-trees," replied Lucy Lane, who was a natural housekeeper, and had carefully collected the scattered baskets, and put them together in what she considered a safe place.
Now, who would dare go for them? Tho girls were hungry, but they were also in a panic. Who could it be that had laughed so wildly? How did they know that the strange creature might not spring out upon them, and drag them into her den? Grace at last summoned courage, and the girls followed her, hoping that nothing dreadful could happen to any one but Grace, after such excellent fortunes.
They went to the persimmon-trees, but found no baskets. Lucy, usually timid and irresolute, was firm enough in this case. She had placed the baskets under a certain tree; but they were not there now, neither could they be found.
"Magic!" murmured Di.
"I wonder," said Grace, "if they've been magicked off? What if I go ask our gypsy?"
She stepped cautiously along towards the house.
"Gracie Clifford, you don't dare."
"How do you know that, Isa?"
"Don't go," whispered the girls, crouching together behind the trees. They were divided in their minds between superstitious terror and sharp hunger.
Grace's eyes were flashing with strong excitement. She was as much frightened as any of the others; but a spirit of desperation had seized her, and she walked up to the house and entered it in spite of the feeble remonstrances of the girls.
She did not come out again for several minutes, and by that time her companions were alarmed. Not that they really believed the "fortune-woman" was an ogress, who ate children; but they did not know clearly what they did believe, and herein was the chief perplexity. If the gypsy had only been like other human beings! But that she certainly was not.
Grace came out of the cottage at last.
"Did you find her?" cried the girls.
"Yes, but not the baskets. Where, think, she was? Sitting on the stove, muttering over some magic to top the smoke. There was her red robe, or whatever it is, on the floor, with something under it. I went up to her, and said I, 'Do you know, ma'am, where our baskets are?'—I reckon she doesn't like me. Why, girls, she glared at me like a wild tiger, and told me if I touched a hem of that red thing I'd be sorry, for she was the voice of one crying in the wilderness, and I don't know what all."
"O, fie! I wouldn't have minded that," said Di. "Why didn't you go right along and take up the cloak? I'd have done it in a twinkling."
"Then you may go do it, Di," retorted Grace, who thought such a scornful remark was but a poor return for her own valiant conduct. Di was dumb. "But," continued Grace, "I just feel as if those baskets were under that cloak; I doso."
"If she eats my cookies," said Isa, "I hope they'll choke her."
"There now, Gracie, what shall we do?" sighed Lucy Lane, trying to conceal her tears. "I brought three custards, and a silver teaspoon, and six slices of pound-cake; and Jane covered them up with one of ma's nice napkins. O, dear, dear, dear!"
"My basket," said Judith Pitcher, "was ma's sweet little French bird's-nest, they call it, with a bird at each end for a handle. I'd starve to death and never mind it; but it's that basket that breaks my heart."
"Girls, I'm going home to tell my pa to get a search-warrant, and a policeman, and a protest; see if I don't," cried Diademia, half frantic.
"Di Jones, if you do," interposed Isa, "if you let on one word about this fix, you'll be turned straight out of our society. Didn't we promise secrecy till death?"
"Hush!" said Grace, soothingly; "let's hunt the baskets a little longer."
Accordingly they searched in all directions as long as they dared, then set their faces towards home, tired and discouraged. Lucy Lane stealthily wiped a few tears from her eyes.
"Pretty doings!" whispered Di, confidentially. "Graciehas got us into a curious fix."
Lucy wondered how Grace could be blamed, but had not the courage to take her part; so she merely gave a little groan, which Di understood to mean, "Yes, dear; just so."
Lucy was what Grace Clifford called a "yes-yes sort of girl;" she agreed with everybody.
"You see now, Lucy, if Grace had said, up and down, she wouldn't go to see this horrid old witch, why, we would not have stirred a step. Grace is our queen; oughtn't she to keep us out of mischief, pray?"
"Yes," said Lucy, "I think so too.—O, my silver teaspoon!"
Grace and Isa were also talking in confidence. In spite of the lost baskets Isa "walked on thrones."
"So queer, Gracie, what she said about Cassy Hallock!"
"O, Isa, I believe she's the Witch of Endor."
"Now, Grace Clifford, I'll tell you how Cassy slanders you, only you can't make me say where I heard it. A forward little miss, she says, you are, always speaking up when you aren't spoken to. Mighty grand you feel. Right vain of your hair, she says; but it's not auburn—it's fire-red."
"Why, Isa Harrington," cried Grace, breathless with surprise, "Panoria Swan has fire-red hair. I'll leave it to you—does it look a speck like mine?"
"Dear me, no, indeed, Gracie. Nobody ever dreamed of such an idea but just Cassy. But that's not all, nor half. She says her ma don't like her to go with you so much. There, that's all I'll tell."
"Isa Harrington, I can't believe one word of that last part," saidGrace, indignantly; "it's a mistake, and you may take it back."
"I can't take back the sober, solemn, honest truth," returned Isa, firmly.
"Seems to me Cassy's changed amazingly, then," said Grace, with a quivering voice.
"Hasn't she seemed rather odder since the oyster party, Gracie? I meanMrs. Hallock?"
"Why, no," said Grace, hesitating; "no, indeed! Let me see: once or twice she wouldn't let Cassy go home with me farther than the acorn-tree; but that was because she must have her mind the baby.—Here we are at home."
Grace was not ready to believe that her friend and her friend's mother were both so treacherous; still, she entered the house in a state of much perplexity.
Mrs. Clifford wondered why her daughter should return from a picnic so eager for supper.
"Why, ma, we lost every single thing we carried to eat."
"Lost it! What, not all your five baskets?"
"Yes, ma," replied Grace, uneasily; "that's the solemn truth."
Mrs. Clifford was naturally surprised.
"But, ma, it's a secret. Don't ask me to break my promise, please.Some time, may be, I'll tell you. I will when I can."
At the tea-table, Horace's curiosity was very active. He wanted to know where the girls spread out their picnic, what games they played, and would have gone on with his trying questions if Mrs. Clifford had not kindly come to her daughter's relief, and turned the boy's attention to something else. Grace was grateful to her mother, but a sense of guilt weighed heavily on her mind. She had sunk very low in her own esteem, and envied little Horace the innocent frankness with which he dared look people in the face.
Added to these twinges of conscience, Grace was in a state of wretched doubt regarding Cassy. What charm would be left in this bleak world, she thought, if this only friend should prove false!
Grace's sleep was haunted that night by witches and goblins. She felt the fever which had been predicted "coming to pass" in her burning veins, and was greatly relieved next morning when she awoke as well as usual.
But the terrors of witchcraft still haunted her. In a few days another mysterious event took place. Grace lost her regard-ring. When she came from school one evening she was sure she had it on her finger. It must be lost in the house. All possible and impossible places were searched. So strange that Cassy's ring should disappear! Had it melted away like Cassy's friendship? At last Grace settled down to the conviction that Phebe, the little nurse, had stolen it. "What else could have gone with it, unless that wild woman had magicked it away?"
Flying into the nursery, she met Phebe walking the floor with littleKatie, who was wailing with the ache of some invisible little teeth.
"Black people have light fingers, everybody knows," thought Grace, by way of fortifying herself.
"Phebe Dolan, my beautiful regard-ring is gone—gone; and who do you suppose took it, Phebe Dolan?Youdid!"
Phebe's eyes rolled like wheels. In her surprise, she almost dropped the baby.
"Why, now, I done declar, Miss Grace, I never took it—never seen it; much as ever I knowed you had a ring."
"O, Phebe Dolan, you're trembling this minute. What could you want of my ring, you little wretch?"
"I declar for't, Miss Grace, I hope to die fust!"
"No, you mustn't hope to die, Phebe: you're too wicked to die!"
"Then I never, never, in all my born days in this world, and never did, and never will," moaned Phebe, looking about for a handkerchief.
It was the first time Grace had spoken sharply to her. She had been in Mrs. Clifford's family for two years, and in that time her excellent mistress had taught her much in regard to her duty; so, if Phebe had now broken the eighth commandment, it could not have been a sin of ignorance.
The moment Grace's whirlwind of anger was over, she regretted her hasty words to the desolate little orphan. "Everything has gone wrong since Cassy went away," mused Grace. "I wonder what I'll do or say next? But there, Phebe needn't steal, I declare! It's good enough for her, if she did; and where's my ring if she didn't?"
Grace would as soon have suspected one of Horace's pet doves, asBarbara Kinckle.
Up to this time the little girls had not found their baskets. But one noon, Captain Clifford came home with a strange account of a crazy woman who had escaped from an almshouse in an adjoining county. She had been wandering about the woods for weeks, fancying herself a prophetess, and sometimes crying out to passers-by, "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness; prepare ye the way." She had entered a country church and cut down one half of a pulpit curtain for a cloak. She had just been found now at Small's Enlargement, and had become so raving that she was carried away in a strait jacket.
"They say," said Captain Clifford, helping himself to venison, "she has been telling fortunes with a pack of dirty cards. I must confess I was surprised to hear that our Grace had been one of the rabble to visit her, Maria."
Mrs. Clifford looked at her husband in surprise. "Our Grace?"
"Yes, our Grace. It seems to be new to you. Mr. Harrington told me to-day that she was ringleader of a party of little girls who went out to Small's Enlargement on a picnic excursion. The woman stole their baskets, and said such hobgoblin things that his Isabel has been nearly frantic ever since."
"My daughter!" said Mrs. Clifford, in a sorrowful voice.
"O, ma, I've wanted every hour and minute to tell you, and pa too; butI promised not to!"
"Shame, shame!" cried Horace, pointing his index finger at his sister; "before I'd sneak off to a gypsy that way!"
"That will do, my son," remarked Captain Clifford. "You may finish your dinner."
"O, pa," said Grace, pushing back her chair, and burying her face in her handkerchief, "we all promised not to tell, you know, and I wouldn't, not for my right hand; and here's Isa, pa, she's gone and broken her word."
"Wrong, I grant," replied Captain Clifford, with a provoking smile; "there should he honor even among thieves."
Grace winced at this proverb. The subject was now dropped, for whatMrs. Clifford said to her daughter she preferred to say to her alone.
——-
Cassy Hallock came home. Her father, mother, and brother Johnny were at the wharf to meet her.
"Where's Gracie?" was her first salutation, after she had quietly kissed her relatives.
"Why, my dear, I've hardly seen Grace since you went away," said Mrs.Hallock.
"Goes with Isa Harrington nowadays," remarked brother John, thrusting his thumbs into his vest pockets: "just the way with girls. It's all their wonderful friendships amount to."
"O, Johnny!" replied Cassy, faintly; and then she walked on in silence, for Cassy Hallock was not a little girl who wore her heart on her sleeve; it was kept out of sight, and usually did its aching in secret.
The next day was Saturday; but Grace did not come to see Cassy, who was quite wretched, but too proud to let any one know it. At last, a happy thought struck her.
"Ma, mayn't I go round to see Gracie, and carry a bottle of your cream beer? I reckon she doesn't know I'm home again."
"Strange," thought Cassy, as she drew near her friend's house, and paused to rest. "Strange Johnny should say Grace has changed! Why, I've only been gone two months, and folks don't change in two months."
Yet she felt strangely agitated as she entered the yard. Gracie must know she was home again; she almost wished she had waited to see if she would call.
"I declare, if there isn't Cassy Hallock coming, bless her heart. O, dear me, no, the hypocrite!" said Grace, looking out of her chamber window. "I reckon she hasn't seen me; I'll run and hide. She needn't come here and pretend to be friends!"
Grace stole into the library, and locked the door.
"Miss Gracie," cried the sorrowful voice of black Phebe. No answer. At last, Phebe came to the library door and rattled it.
Grace whispered through the key-hole,—
"Ask the person into the parlor, Phebe, and say I'll be down very soon."
The person!
"O, won't I be dignified?" thought Miss Grace, walking the floor with a queen-like tread. But the affection of years was tugging at her heart-strings.
"I'll not cry." She flung off the bright drop which fell on her hand. "I'll not be caught crying, when anybody I've loved as I did that girl—"
Grace hastened down stairs, and "turned her tears to sparks of fire."
"How d'ye, Miss Cassy?"
Her old friend stood looking out of a window, her back towards the door. She felt the chill in Grace's voice, and was frozen stiff in a minute.
"How d'ye, Miss Grace?" without moving her head.
"Pleasant day. Please be seated, Miss Cassy."
"Thank you, Miss Grace; I must be going."
Cassy moved forward. The sun shone straight into her honest face. Grace saw its expression of astonishment, mingled with pride and grief.
"Cassy Hallock, don't go yet."
"Thank you, Grace Clifford; can't stop—only came to bring your ma some beer. In the music-room, on the piano."
"Cassy Hallock, what's the matter with you?"
"Gracie Clifford, what's the matter with YOU?"
"You've been talking about me, Cassy," Grace burst forth, impetuously. "You've slandered me worse than I can bear. You think I'm proud and forward. Your ma don't like us to be friends. You say my hair is fire-red. O, Cassy Hallock!"
Cassy's eyes expanded. "Who said that?"
"Isa Harrington."
"The biggest lie that ever was told!"
"O, Cassy Hallock: then'tisn'ttrue!"
"True, Gracie Clifford! and you my best friend!"
"Are you right sure you never said so, Cassy?"
"There, that's enough, Gracie Clifford. I'll not deny it again. If you believe Isa, and won't believe me, it's just as well. Good by." And Cassy moved to the door with "majestical high scorn."
"Cassy Hallock," cried Grace, throwing her arms about her friend's neck, "you're not going one step. I don't believe a word of that lie, and never did!"
Cassy allowed herself to be detained, but still held the door-knob in her hand.
"I'll tell you what it is, Gracie Clifford. I'll not say how much I think of you, because you know; but if you can't trust me, there's the end of it."
"O, I can trust you, I do trust you, Cassy. You're one of the salts of the earth—salt, I mean."
"A small pinch," suggested Cassy, almost smiling.
"O, Cassy, there's nobody in this world so splendid as you are!"
But Cassy's indignation was not quite appeased. "Where's your ring,Gracie?"
"Lost. O, you don't know how I feel about that. I'm afraid our Phebe stole it."
"Glad of it."
"Why, Cassy, you're crazy! That regard-ring, dear, that your ma gave you, and you gave me for my emerald, down by the acorn-tree! Why, Cassy!"
"I said I was glad," replied Cassy, in a softer tone. "I mean glad you didn't take off the ring and go hide it. I supposed you did, just to let me see you didn't care for me any more."
A complete revulsion of feeling had come over Grace: she laughed and cried in a breath.
"O, you old Cassy! to think I ever could—"
"There," said her friend, placidly, "let it all go."
"But I can't let it go; it's a downright wicked shame. Now, Cassy, I ask you if we ought to allow such a girl as Isa in our R. S. S.?"
"Not if I was queen, we wouldn't," was the decided answer.
Now that the reconciliation was complete, Cassy declared she had a world to say, and Grace replied that she had "a hemisphere to say, herself." Then she told the story of the gypsy, and made confession that her dismal fortune had kept her awake "night after night."
"Humph!" said Cassy; "nothing ever keepsmeawake! Thunder can't, nor cannons; and I'm sure that crazy old woman couldn't. What about the prize, Gracie?"
"O, I don't know, Cassy; I've taken Mahla into Square Root."
"Why, Gracie, what made you? You won't get that splendid present from your pa!"
"O, Cassy," sighed Grace, "I thought I'd be good, just once, and do as the Bible said, and see how it would seem."
"The Bible says so many things!" said Cassy, thoughtfully.
"Yes, Cassy; but I mean the Golden Rule. Why, I never mistrusted that rule was so beautiful. It just makes me love Mahla dearly."
Cassy's brown eyes kindled with sympathy; but she exclaimed, suddenly,—
"Come, let's go in the kitchen and talk German with Barby."
Horace set by the white table, sighing over his Geography.
Robert came in, looking mischievous. "What say to a story, girls?" said he, glancing at Grace. "I'll begin with a landscape, book-fashion:—
"Twas a lovely evening in May. The aged stars were twinkling as good as new; the moon was 'resting her chin' against a cloud: the serene heavens—"
"Stop," cried Horace; "that's not a landscape: it's a skyscape."
"What's that you say? You've interrupted me, and now I'll have to begin again:—
"The new moon was shaking down her silver hair most mournfully, or, in other words, she looked at a distance like a slice of green cheese. I had been giving a few elegant touches to the flower-beds, pulling out the weeds, pig and chick, you know, and—well, suffice it to say, I wended my way across a verdant lawn, not twenty miles from here. I went into a house. It was all papered and pictured. The master of the house offered me no seat, for he was not at home; but I helped myself to a sort of feather-bed chair near a window. I took my handkerchief out of my pocket in this way; a key came out with it, as you see now, and dropped into the chair. It slipped between the stuffed cushion and the back of the chair. I put in my thumb, and drew out—"
"A plum," suggested Horace.
"The key."
The children looked as if they had been trifled with.
"But the key was not all. To my surprise, I also drew out what you now see me holding up to view."
"My ring!" cried Grace, darting forward. "O, Robin, where did you find it?"
"Where I told you, in the Elizabeth chair in the parlor."
[Illustration: "My ring! cried Grace."]
Grace's first act was to clap her hands; her next, to rush out, calling for Phebe, who was in her own room, having a good cry. The child appeared at the head of the back stairs, and answered, in a subdued and husky voice, "What is't you want, Miss Gracie?"
"I wantyou, you poor little dear," cried Grace, flying up the stairs, and hugging the disconsolate Phebe, whose wits were scattered to the four winds with surprise. "I've found my ring—my regard-ring, you forlorn little thing. Robin picked it out of the Elizabeth chair; and if you don't forgive me, I'll bite my tongue right out."
"O, I've done forgive you, Miss Grace, if you'll forgive me too," sobbed poor Phebe, who had a confused idea that she must be somehow to blame for crying so hard. She had for two days been in the depths of despair; and now, this sudden turn of the wheel of fortune made her fairly dizzy with delight. Many were the choice tidbits which Phebe found beside her plate after this, and many were the snips of bright ribbon or calico which were given to her to put away among her treasures. If Grace had forgotten that "charity thinketh no evil," and had spoken rashly, she surely did all she could now to atone for her fault.
Isa Harrington's surprise was great when she saw all her artful plans overthrown, and Grace and Cassy the same "cup and saucer" as ever.
"O, Gracie," said she, "you don't love Isa any more, now Cassy has come home."
Grace drew coldly away. "You tried to turn me against my best friend,Isa."
"O, Gracie, I never! I only told what I heard, and Lucy Lane was the one that said it. You may ask her."
Lucy was as harmless a fly as ever got caught in a spider's web. Isa thought she could manage her finely. So the moment she had done talking with Grace, she made Lucy tease Miss Allen to let them both go into the recitation-room to study their lessons.
"We'll promise, solemnly, we won't say a word only grammar," said Isa, earnestly. "Can't you trust us?"
The teacher hesitated, looked at timid little Lucy, and said, "Yes. But if you break your word, girls, remember, 'tis the last time you'll ever go in there to study."
Isa had no intention of keeping her word. She wanted to have Lucy to herself for the purpose of "managing" her.
For a while the girls studied in silence, their heads close together, and covered by a shawl.
"O, Lucy," said Isa, suddenly, "I've a compliment for you."
Lucy put her finger on her lip.
"Dear me, Lucy, didn't I speak good grammar? That's all the promiseImade—that I wouldn't say anything butgrammar, and I won't, unless I make a mistake. A certain person said you had lovely hair. Got a compliment for me?"
"Why, yes," said Lucy, innocently; "I heard a lady say you might be a right good little girl perhaps, but you're rather homely."
Isa bit her lip.
"It was Cassy Hallock that told yours, Lucy. By the way, did you ever hear her say Gracie's hair is fire-red?"
"Why, Isa, no, indeed!"
"Didn't? Why, that's nothing to the way she's slandered her; and Grace her best friend, too."
Lucy was horrified.
"Do you remember when you, and I, and Cassy staid, ever so long ago, to scrub our desks? Well, don't you know how Cassy spoke of Mrs. Clifford's oyster party?"
"Yes, I do. She said Grace appeared like a lady."
"There, Lucy Lane, is that the way you hear? Didn't understand it, did you, any more than a baby? She was hinting that Grace talked like old folks—very pert and bold."
"O, was she?"
"Of course she was, Lucy. Can't you see through a mill-stone, child? I wouldn't want any one to hint about me the way Cassy does about Grace."
"Nor I wouldn't, either," echoed Lucy.
"Didn't you think, Lucy, by what Cassy said, that her ma wanted to break up the friendship? You told me at the time that you thought so, now certainly."
"O, what a story!" Lucy spoke very loud in her surprise.
"Very well," said Isa, adjusting the shawl, "you've forgotten, perhaps. Your memory is about as long as my little finger, Lucy. But no matter; I know what Cassy meant if you didn't. Reckon I've got eyes in my head."
"Well, I knew what she meant, too, I suppose, at the time of it," said soft-voiced Lucy, anxious to prove that she had eyes in her head, and could see through a mill-stone. Foolish fly! When a cunning spider said, "Will you walk into my parlor?" Lucy always walked right in.
"I hate Cassy Hallock," cried Isa, unconsciously raising her voice very high: "I just hate her. She's no business to make believe friends with Gracie. Let's you and I put a stop to it."
"Hush, Isa; don't speak so loud."
"I didn't mean to. Peek out, Lucy, and see if the door is shut."
Lucy pushed the shawl to one side and peeped out. Terror-stricken, she drew back again, glad to hide her head. The door was wide open, and the school so still you might have heard a pin drop! Not a word had been lost. There stood Miss Allen by the desk, her finger up to hush the faintest noise. Having opened the door and found the girls talking, she decided to let the whole school know it.
Isa was in an agony of unavailing remorse. Not only had she lost her teacher's respect, but she had forever ruined her cause with Grace. She longed for the earth to open and hide her shame; but as the earth refused to take her in, the best she could do was, to steal home, her proud head bent low and concealed under her sun-bonnet. It was a bitter punishment; but Miss Allen, who had long understood her crooked conduct, was sure she deserved it.
She was discharged from the R. S. S. Angry and mortified, and not knowing of any better way to annoy the girls, she told their secrets to the wide world. Grace had never dreamed of this.
"What are we to do with that little black cow?" said Robert to Grace. "She always wants to be somewhere else. She's a regular tornado at tearing down fences. What say to her joining a secret society?"
Grace was helping train a prairie-rose.
"Don't know what you mean, Robin."
"Just what I say. These strong-minded cows ought to form aMutual-Improvement, Cows' Rights Society. I've thought of a goodname," added Robert, with a twinkle in his eye: "Princesses of theCrooked Horn."
"Now, Robin, what do you mean? Tell, this minute," cried Grace, dropping her ball of twine, and blushing.
The boy whistled.
"Tell me, Robin, have you heard something?"
"I've heard something, yes."
"What have you heard?"
"Shan't tell. Reckonyou'veheard of the Ruby Seal!"
"That'll do, Robin," said Grace, suddenly looking down to watch an ant with threadlike limbs dragging off a cold shoulder of fly.
"See here, Gracie: what cute hands girls are to keep secrets!"
"Don't want to hear another word, Robin."
"Cassy," said Grace, a little later, "what'll we do about the R. S.S.? Isa's been and spread it all over town!"
"You don't believe it, do you? Why that makes me think what Johnny said to-day. He's sorry I'm such a broken-hearted old maid at this time of life. Now I know what he meant."
"But what'll we do about our R. S. S.? I'm so mortified!"
"Let it die: who cares?"
"O, Cassy, I care. Don't let's give up at trifles."
"Then turn it into a Soldiers' Aid." Grace clapped her hands and waltzed across the street.
"So we will, Cassy; so we truly will! That's so very respectable!"
"We'll marry, too, if they're going to make such a fuss," suggestedCassy.
"I won't—unless I please. I'll never be married to keep people from laughing, Cassy Hallock."
Here Grace set her little foot firmly upon a toad, which she mistook for solid ground.
"Cassy," continued she, after a little scream, "let's work for those darling old soldiers in the hospital. What have we been thinking about? Don't you let on! After a little, you know, when school stops, Cassy! O, can we wait that long?"
Meanwhile, we must attend to a new arrival. Uncle Edward Parlin dropped in suddenly, as good and smiling as ever, and with him little Prudy, blushing like a rose, but so dusty that she almost made you sneeze. But where was Susy? It seemed that Mrs. Parlin had not had time to prepare both the children for such a hasty journey.
Horace shouted like a young Indian. Grace clapped her hands, and laughed in every note of the scale up to the second octave and back again.
Prudy threw her arms about Mrs. Clifford's neck.
"O, aunt Ria," she whispered, "bimeby I shall cry."
"Aren't you well, darling?"
"Yes'm; but I feel as if I wasn'tgoingto feel well."
It had been a hard journey for the poor little thing. She was soon nicely bathed and put in a comfortable bed, where, for about at minute, she lay wondering at the mosquito-bar, and then forgot all her trials in sleep. Next morning, Horace asked what she had dreamed.
"O," said Prudy, much refreshed, "I slept so fast I never heard my dreams. There, aunt Ria, you know Mrs. Mason, that gave Susy the bird? She's dead: I thought you'd be glad to hear that!"
"I didn't know the lady," said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; "yet I am not glad she is dead."
Prudy was constantly espying wonders. Her fear of pigs was extreme, and the whole Ohio valley seemed to her one vast pig-pen without any fence. The creatures had such long noses, too! From a safe distance, Prudy liked to watch them cracking nuts. She thought they could not have picked out the meats better if they had been gifted with fingers.
She wandered with Grace and Cassy about the beautiful garden and green-house in a maze of delight. She might have been too happy if the mosquitos had not laid plans to devour her. Grace bathed the poor child in camphor. "It hurts," said Prudy, the quiet bears rolling down her cheeks; "but Gracie bathes me for my good, and I won't cry. O, aunt Ria, when I'm naughty, and you want to punish me, you can just put me to bed, and let the skeeters bite me."
Owing to the savage conduct of these bloodthirsty creatures, there was no trace left of Prudy's beauty, except what Horace called her "killing little curls." Grace was disappointed, for she had hoped to exhibit her charming cousin to great advantage.
However, the mosquito-hills disappeared from her face in time, and then Prudy was quite "a lioness," as Horace said. The princesses admitted her to their social meetings. All they did now was, to state that they had read the required amount of Scripture, had told no wrong stories, and used no language which they regarded as unladylike. For the present, they met and played games, intending during holidays to begin work for the soldiers in earnest.
When Prudy visited the school, she sat with every one of the Princesses in turn, and liked them all but the discarded member of the society, Isa Harrington.
In private, she told Grace that Isa looked "like the woman that killed the man," meaning Lady Macbeth, whose face she had often seen in a picture.
"Don't you like me, darling?" said Isa, offering her a handful of peppermints.
"O, yes, I like you," said the child, accepting the sugar-plums, "butI don't like thespiritof you."
"What does that mean, you funny thing?"
"I don't know, but that's the way they talk."
Prudy loved Mahla Linck at once. She said she had had just such a lameness her own self, and knew how it felt. "Ah, little dear," said Mahla, laying her wasted cheek close to Prudy's, "but you can walk now without a crutch, and I never can."
"O, Mahla, yes, you cannever; you can when you grow an angel."
The Princesses liked to escort Prudy through the streets, and hear her exclamations of surprise. She told them the "Yankees wouldn't 'buze their horses so;" for it seemed to her rather unkind to braid their tails like heads of hair, and tie them up in knots; though Grace assured her this was done to keep them from trailing in the dust. The mules were another curiosity. Prudy was also amazed at the "loads of oxen" driven by men who sat in the carts, and "drove 'em and whipped 'em same as if they was horses." "Yankees," she said, "walked with the oxen, and talked into their ears."
She informed the girls that the Hoosier sky was very odd-looking. "It's Quaker color," she said; "but the sky to Portland is as blue as a robin's egg, 'cept when it fogs."
She described feathery snow-storms, "frost-bitten" windows, and the nice fishing in "Quoddy Bay;" told her listeners that eastern people "shave" their grass in summer, and when it is dry it's good to jump on.
For the short time Prudy staid in Indiana her sunny face was a pleasure to everybody.
"Why, aunt Ria," said she, "do you think I'm good, though? Well, I'm ever'n ever so much better away from home."
BARBARA's WEDDING.
Barbara had now been at home for some time making preparations for her wedding, and had cordially invited all the children to see her married,—Grace, Cassy, Prudy and Horace; everybody but little "Ruffle-neck," as Horace sometimes called the baby.
They set out in the morning in high spirits, Grace and Cassy walking under one umbrella, Horace and Prudy under another. Prudy was bareheaded, and her "killing little curls" were blown into wild confusion by the breezes.
The June air was very sweet, for it was "snowing roses." Prudy asked Horace if he didn't think "the world smelt nice?" Horace put on a look of calm superiority, and replied that "the flowers were very much like essence bottles, to be sure, what we callodiferous, Prudy."
Some way behind the two children sailed the other umbrella, marked, in white paint, "Stolen from H. S. Clifford;" while under it Grace and Cassy talked confidentially.
Prudy had heard they were going to a place called the Bayou, and supposed it to be some sort of a house. But after a walk of two miles, they came to an immense field, where the corn shot up very tall and luxuriant.
"There's the bayou over yonder," laid Horace, with a sweep of his thumb.
"Where?" said Prudy, straining her eyes. "I don't see a single thing but sugar-canes."
"Corn, you mean! Well, it's a bayou, and the water runs up over it in the spring, and that makes bottom-land rich as mud."
Prudy stared at the cornfield, then at the river.
"You don't mean that that little thing went over it," said she, waving her hat towards the Ohio.
"Poh! you needn't think our river looks that way," dropping the umbrella over his shoulder. "Tell you what it is: that river rises out of bed every spring, but it's hung out to dry in the summer, Prudy."
The little girl stopped short and swung her hat off into space. Horace gallantly restored it.
"O, what is that big thing there? a whale, or an ice-bug?"
Horace laughed. "Whales in the river! Goodness sakes, that's a sand-bar, miss. A man waded across here the other day. Tell you what, if he could do it, I could—want to see me?"
Prudy was alarmed, agreeably to expectation.
"Well, now," said the boy, holding the umbrella upright once more, "here we are at the Kinckles'. Come ahead, girls."
Prudy looked, and saw nothing but a crooked fence. Horace waited till Grace and Cassy came up, then let down the bars. Prudy trembled, and caught fast hold of Horace, for Farmer Kinckle's calves were wandering about the field, eating grass, or playfully biting one another. Tall hickory, persimmon, peach, apple, and mulberry trees cast a deep shade. For some time nothing was to be seen of the house; but at last it appeared in view—dark, unpainted, with chimneys built outside.
A cooking-stove stood in the yard, its long, black funnel puffing out smoke; and, strange to tell, under the stove a nest of young ducklings enjoying the heat and the smell of the cooking.
"Understand it to me, please," said little Prudy. "Do the folks know their stove is out here?"
Barbara appeared at the door with peony-colored cheeks and pleasant smiles. She would hardly have consented to be married unless the "childers" might be there to see.
There was no entry, and the front door was at the side of the house just opposite the back door. A huge fireplace spread itself over a large part of the room; but it was never used except for smoking hams or mosquitos. It was the only fireplace in the house. On the high mantel stood a candlestick, a pipe, a beer bottle, a wooden clock, and a bowl of blackberries. On one side, exactly in the way, were two or three long drawers of black walnut, which ran nearly the length of the room, and on the top of the drawers were tubs, buckets, and clothes baskets.
The house was propped on four feet. Horace discovered, under the house, a cat and kittens, a brood of chickens, and a dog. He called Prudy to admire this domestic menagerie, then crept under the house, and, by accident, overturned the cat's saucer of milk; whereat Pussy looked up at him with a glance of mild reproach. He next thrust both hands into a pool of corn-meal dough, which was meant for the chickens.
"O, Horace," said Grace, shocked at the dismal plight of her brother's clothes, "I did think you'd try to keep clean for the wedding."
This was expecting too much. Grace felt that it was a trial to take Horace visiting. At the table he declined mutton gravy, saying he never ate "tallow," and remarked about the cheese, that it was "as mouldy as castile soap;" yet Horace could not see that this was rude.
Mrs. Kinckle wore a small black cap, which reminded Prudy of a wire cover which is used to keep off flies. Horace thought it looked about as big as a percussion cap. Prudy watched the good woman doing work just like anybody, though she was a German and a Jewess, and therefore could not have known the "truly name" of a single dish she touched.
There were a few articles to be ironed for the bride, and Prudy had a mind to try the Jewish flatirons; so, with Barbara's leave, she smoothed out some handkerchiefs on a [text missing from book]
But soon the rabbi, or Jewish priest, arrived, and it was time for the wedding. The company formed a circle, as if they were playing the "Needle's Eye," thought Prudy. In the middle of the ring stood Barbara and Solomon, the rabbi before them. The bride's dress was a straw-colored silk, which must have cost many months' wages; but it was quite hidden under a long white veil, which enveloped Barbara from head to foot. The honest young bridegroom wore a solemn countenance; but how the bride's face looked, no one could tell.
The rabbi began to chant something in Hebrew, probably the marriage service. After this, Grace supposed he would pray; but he did not.
Mrs. Kinckle now kissed the bride—not through the veil, however—and then all the rest kissed her, this being the only part of the ceremony which the children fairly understood. Prudy espied a small tear in Barbara's eye, and wished Solomon only knew it, in which case he would never carry Barbara off in the world.
After the bride had been duly embraced, cake was passed around, and a certain Jewish wine, very strong and fiery, which, of course, the children did not taste. A basket of cigars came next, and in a few moments the gentlemen of the party were puffing at them. Thus the affair, after all, ended in smoke; and before sunset the children were on their way home.
It seemed to Grace that the world had begun to fall in pieces. To think that Barby would never more be seen in Mrs. Clifford's kitchen, polishing and scrubbing! To think that just a few little Hebrew words had made such a dreadful change; spiriting away that splendid Barby forever. Cassy wondered how the Jews could endure their synagogues, and rabbis, and strong wines. Horace thought it a deal worse than keeping pigs. Grace would even sooner be married with candles and crucifixes, like a Roman Catholic. Cassy saidsheshould have fifteen bridesmaids, "like they had in Kentucky." Prudy gave it as her opinion that poor Barby was crying all the while the man "sing-songed." "She hates Solomon," added the child; "for I asked her if she didn't think so much whiskers was homely, and she said she did."
Before the children reached home the full moon was rising.
"I didn't use to know what the moon was," quoth Prudy. "I thought it was a chip."
"What put that in your head, dear?" said Grace.
"O, I threw it up, you know, when I wasn't three years old, there at grandma's. I threw it up in the air, and didn't see it go down; and then, when I looked up, there was the moon; and I said, 'O, grandma, see my chip!'"
"But you don't know what 'tis now any better than you did then, I'll warrant," said Horace, sitting down in the road to laugh.
"Don't know, Horace Clifford? I guess I do!"
"Well, tell then, can't you?"
"Silver, of course! Didn't you never know that before?"
"It's a big world, darling," said Grace, laughing.
"I know that, Gracie Clifford; did I say it wasn't? It's a silver ball as big as a house, and there's a man lives there, and I've seen him making up faces."
Everybody laughed, and Prudy tried to be angry; but her fiercest indignation frightened you about as much as a firefly trying to flash out a little chain-lightning.
Mr. Parlin was daily expected back from St. Louis, and Grace and Horace clung to their little cousin, dreading the thought of losing her.
"Aunt Ria," said Prudy, "don't you think 'twould be a good plan for you to get the baby's picture took, and send it to my mamma for a present?"
Mrs. Clifford said she would try; so, on Saturday afternoon, she went to Mr. Drake's photograph-rooms with the little girls, while Horace wheeled the baby in her small carriage.
It was of no use. There were sure to be a dozen noses in Katie's picture, or as many mouths. In vain Horace chirruped to her, calling her dove-names. "Still, now, Brownbrimmer! Ho, little Topknot!" The more he tried to hush her, the more eager she grew for a frolic.
"My fine little fellow," said the artist, "suppose you and the young misses go in the next room for a while?"
They all went. Prudy threw off her hat, and sat down to hold the white kitty which she had carried in her arms all the way.
"Sit still, little youngling," cried Horace; "I'lltakeyou!"
So the boy arranged an apparatus by turning down one chair, setting another across it, and throwing over both a table-cover for a screen. Prudy looked solemnly at her finger-nails.
"That's jolly, Miss Parlin. Just keep that little nose straight, so it won't be foreshortened or forelengthened. Now, young lady," continued the little artist, poking his roguish face between the bars of the chair, "afraid your dress won't take! too near—ahem—snuff color."
"Don't say snuff-color, Horace, or I'll sneeze, and that'll spoil my nose."
"O, what foolishness!" laughed Grace and Cassy.
"Hush! There, I've fixed the focus. Now, observe this fly on my jacket (coat, I mean), young lady, and don't you wink." Horace consulted a small bottle he held in his hand for a watch.
"These pictures were all failures," he said. "Some had 'no focus,' while others were 'all focus;' they 'flattered,' and were likewise too 'negative.'"
Meanwhile, the artist, Mr. Drake, much amused, brought in his photographic apparatus, and made a picture of the little group. This picture Mrs. Clifford purchased for Mrs. Parlin, instead of the many-nosed miniature of the baby.
The day before starting for the east, Prudy went with Mrs. Clifford, her cousins, and Cassy, to visit the hospital, which was filled with sick and wounded soldiers. They wanted to give something to every man they saw, and mourned when their "goody-basket" was emptied of its contents.
"O, ma," said Grace, with ready tears, "it just makes me feel like we must get up that fair, and raise money!"
"I only wishIcould be here to help," said little Prudy.
"Come here, my dear," said a pale gentleman who heard the child's voice. "I cannot see you, for I am blind. Will you tell me who you all are?"
"Yes, sir; this is me, that's got your hand. My name is Prudy Parlin, and that boy that isn't in this room is Horace."
"Horace! Whose son?"
"He's my uncle Henry Clifford's son; but uncle Henry isn'thisuncle: he's his father. Horace is his only son, and me, and Susy, and Dotty ismyfather's only daughters!"
"Possible! Now, my sweet little one, will you ask Horace to come here?"
It was Mr. Lazelle, with whom the Cliffords had travelled east the year before. They had a pleasant meeting. Horace had once been angry with this very gentleman for boxing his ears; but he forgot it all when he looked at the blind, helpless soldier, and wanted to open his savings' bank at once in his behalf.
Next day Prudy went home. Grace and all the Princesses wept bitterly at parting with the dear child; still, it was better for them that she should go away. She claimed too much of their attention at the very time when they should have thought only of study.
Mahla Linck seemed to grow paler and thinner. Her mother, when kindly advised to keep her at home, replied, "My Mahla loves her book; she must in the school go." The poor woman could not and would not see the danger. But though Mahla looked ill, she no longer seemed discouraged. Since Grace had undertaken to help her, she was gaining confidence.
"Mother, I feel just this way," Mahla would say sometimes: "if I can't get the prize, I hope Grace Clifford will, for she's the best girl in school."
Mrs. Linck was glad that Mahla felt so kindly towards her rival, but sighed as she looked at her daughter's pale face, and thought of the weary hours she had spent in study, while other girls were at play.
Examination-day came. It was sultry even for July. But the girls at the Grammar School, who had drooped like wilted flowers, now bloomed bright and fresh once more. Those who had new dresses wore them on this occasion, and all came to school with hair smoothly brushed the very last thing.
Ah, who does not know the flutter at the heart when the "three committee-men," or "trustees," knock; and are solemnly asked in and seated? Some of us have felt this flutter for the last time; but you children will understand just how the girls felt that day, with parents, older sisters, and neighbors to look on and criticise.
Tall Miss Allen looked serene, but there was a tremulous motion of her mouth and fingers. On her desk was a vase of beautiful flowers, which Grace had brought, carefully shielded under her sun-umbrella.
Mrs. Clifford and Mrs. Hallock, with a few other ladies, occupied the raised platform behind the desk. Mrs. Linck sat near the window, cooling her heated face by the use of a large feather fan.
Mahla was in her old seat; there was a beautiful pink color in her cheeks, which one could see was the flush of excitement, not the glow of health.
And over by the west window sat the bosom friends, Grace and Cassy, their tender friendship undisturbed by a single feeling of rivalry; for, owing to Cassy's long absence from school, she had not the faintest hope of the prize. Grace's sunny ringlets and sparkling eyes danced with eagerness. She looked as tidy as ever, in a thin blue dress, with rivulets of blue ribbon flowing down the skirt. Cassy's pensive face was lighted up with more than usual animation.
It was a pleasure to see these two young friends together. Mrs. Clifford looked at them with a smile which was half a tear, as she remembered just such a friendship in her own childhood. Many other ladies watched Grace and Cassy with interest, and were carried back to the "days that are no more"—days whose dewy freshness can no more he recalled than the sweet apple-blossoms which fell so softly into the grass last year.
But the question of the day was, "Who would get the prize?" Perhaps Captain Clifford, who sat with several other gentlemen near the door, felt more interest in the result than he confessed to himself. Horace stood near his father, as grave as a little judge. He ran over the whole school with his eye, and mentally decided that Grace was the prettiest girl in the room next to Cassy; for Cassy was his beau-ideal of beauty and goodness.
The reading was over, and the copy-books were offered for inspection. Then the trustees began to ask questions. Grace's face lighted up; the hectic in Mahla's cheeks burned brighter still. Mrs. Clifford was sorry to see this feverish eagerness. She had never liked prizes, and now approved of them less than ever. In geography, Isa Harrington held out bravely, but at last yielded to Grace and Mahla, who kept together, neither gaining upon the other.
The audience grew interested: the trustees looked at one another and smiled. Then came spelling. So many odd words were found—words which most of the girls had forgotten were in McGuffey's Spelling-Book.
But though the others hesitated, neither Grace nor Mahla were caught tripping. One by one, all dropped off from the ranks but these two, who resolutely held their ground, though hard words rattled about their ears like bullets. At last came the test-word—one of the easiest, too—"pillory." Grace spelled it with an "a" instead of an "o." She knew her mistake in a second, and Mr. Reynolds paused, hoping she would correct herself. But though others had done this repeatedly, Grace was at once too proud and too generous. The flash in Mahla's eyes, as she spelled the word after her, was not one of triumph. She was really sorry Grace had not done better for herself.
Next came arithmetic. This had always been Mahla's weak point, and Mr. Reynolds at first asked questions slowly, meaning to give her time to think. But it was soon evident that Mahla knew very well what she was doing, and could not be easily puzzled. True, Grace had gone over more ground; but this the trustees would not have known if Miss Allen had not informed them in an aside-whisper.
"Ah, yes, yes," nodded Mr. Reynolds, peeping over his spectacles atGrace, with a glance which meant, "Well done! well done!"
In grammar, again, Grace and Mahla were well matched. If there was any difference, Mahla excelled in giving rules, for her verbal memory was excellent.
The trustees were surprised to find the two rivals so well informed, while at the same time they were puzzled as to any preference. They whispered together. Mr. Reynolds rubbed his spectacles as if they would help him see his way clear; Dr. Snow scratched his learned head, and Mr. Newell leaned backward in his chair to meditate.
The audience felt somewhat as people feel in a court-room when the jury are out deciding an interesting case. From time to time Mrs. Linck looked anxiously at her daughter, as if she feared the excitement would be too much for her.
All the while the prize was lying on the desk, wrapped in brown paper. What it was no one knew; but the girls fancied it was "large enough to be almost anything."
They were growing uneasy, and the teacher herself tapped the floor gently with her foot, as if she thought it high time a decision was made.
At last, when Mr. Reynolds had finished polishing his spectacles, he took from the brown wrapper a beautiful rosewood writing-desk, and held it up to view, opening it to show the elegant workmanship.
"Young ladies, I would like your attention a few moments! Upon examination, we find two of you so nearly equal that it is no easy matter to decide which deserves the prize. Miss Grace Clifford does well—exceedingly well. Her reading we consider superior to Miss Mahla Linck's, and their copy-books are equally neat. The truth is, we wish we had two prizes to give, instead of one. But as that cannot be, we have at last concluded to award this writing-desk to—Miss Mahla. Now we wish you all distinctly to understand why we do this," continued he, placing the points of his forefingers together. "It is because we think the effort she has made in arithmetic this term deserves a reward. She has always been a good student, but within the past few weeks her progress in arithmetic has been remarkable!"