Some bears have got two legs,And some have got more;Be lessons right severe,If they've two legs or four!
Some bears have got two legs,And some have got more;Be lessons right severe,If they've two legs or four!
Some bears have got two legs,And some have got more;Be lessons right severe,If they've two legs or four!
“Though losses, and crosses,Be lessons right severe—,There’s wit there, ye’ll get there,Ye’ll find nae other where.”
“Though losses, and crosses,Be lessons right severe—,There’s wit there, ye’ll get there,Ye’ll find nae other where.”
“Though losses, and crosses,Be lessons right severe—,There’s wit there, ye’ll get there,Ye’ll find nae other where.”
B
BROWN'S sodas are the best in town, if they do come high,—and the girls know it," Miss Billy had jeered a few weeks before. Theodore repeated the words now with a wholly sober grimace, as he scrambled into his clothes at half past six of an early July morning. Vacation had brought him a permanent position in the drug store, at four dollars a week, but the skeleton still walked. It was not a very hideous skeleton, to be sure,—just a half dozen or so of remarkably round and robustyoung misses,—but it had a prodigious appetite for the confection known as ice-cream soda, and it never happened to have any money of its own.
Theodore, red in the face from the growing heat and his hurried exertions, frowningly continued his unpleasant reflections.
"There are two or three of those girls that have treated me contemptibly of late,—probably because I no longer live in a fourteen-room house. That Myrtle Blanchard is a notable example. She scarcely takes the trouble to see me on the street, but she manages to get around to the soda fountain every day, either alone, or with the crowd of girls."
He was lacing his shoes now, and another side of the subject presented itself.
"These are the shoes I vowed to buy with my own earnings, or go without. Father bought them. I've learned to crow before my tail feathers have grown enough to tell whether I'm going to be a Brahma rooster or a Bantam hen. Well, I'm through cacklingnow: anyway, till I get rid of those girls, and save some money. Then I'll have something to cackle over."
He swung down to breakfast, taking time to eat only his "bale of hay"—the shredded wheat biscuit the faithful Maggie put before him,—and hurried off to work. At the gate he encountered John Thomas Hennesy, going his way, with a broken bridle in his hand.
"Mornin'," said John Thomas cheerfully.
"Good-morning," returned Theodore. "Going my way? Then you'll have to keep up with my stride. I'm late this morning."
"Workin' at Brown's steady now, ain't yer?" inquired John Thomas, with friendly curiosity. "Much in it?"
"Four dollars a week as a starter," said Theodore, firmly pressing the skeleton back into its closet. "It's easy work, and they are beginning to give me a little collecting and bookkeeping of late."
John Thomas gave his companion a covert stare that took in the neat blue serge suit andimmaculate tie, the jaunty straw hat and well-polished shoes. He noted that Theodore's eyes were grey like Miss Billy's, and his teeth were white. Then he shoved his own stubby hands into his pockets, and lapsed into silence. Grudgingly to himself he admitted that Theodore was a "swell." He had soft hands, and clean finger nails, and white teeth. He polished his shoes every day, wore stand-up collars through the hot weather, and liked easy jobs.
John Thomas's chin squared itself into the bulldog pattern of his father's, and his hands shut tight in his pockets.
There was Miss Billy now. She and Theodore were as alike in looks as two peas. But Miss Billy was no swell. Her teeth and nails were awful clean, too,—but then, she was a girl,—andsheliked work. She'd do anything,—even if she had clean hands, and finger nails, and——
John Thomas was measuring the length of his stubby legs with Theodore's long swingingstride. "Driving team for your father, this vacation, aren't you?" inquired Theodore, in turn. "Pretty hot in the sun, isn't it?"
"It's hot,—yes," admitted John Thomas, the bulldog chin slowly melting under the friendly glance of the grey eyes,—"but its good pay,—a dollar a day, and the day's work over at six o'clock."
Theodore repressed a whistle. "Why, you'll save money, John Thomas, if the job lasts all summer."
"It'll last all summer, all right, and longer too. Father's got more work than he can attend to. He's bought another team and he's going to hire another man to drive it. I worked for father all last summer, and I've got sixty dollars saved in the bank now. I'll make it a hundred before school commences in September."
It was Theodore, now, whose critical glance took in John Thomas,—a sturdy square-set figure, with baggy trousers and rusty shoes, the true Hennesy freckles and turned-up nose,—offset by keen blue eyes and the resolute chin. "He's a man!" thought Theodore. "He's neither afraid or ashamed of honest work,—and he saves his money, too. I wonder what he'd do in my place now, if he had a crowd of girls to treat every day with his hard earnings?"
But it was difficult to imagine the figure at his side presiding at a soda fountain, and handing out refreshment to a bevy of young beauties, so Theodore gave it up with a sigh. John Thomas, unpleasantly aware of the scrutiny, bore it unflinchingly, but his chin squared itself again, and he thought, "He's a tenderfoot, that's what he is. He never had dirty hands in his life. I guess he's wonderin' who my tailor is."
When Theodore reached the store he changed his coat for a linen one, dusted the counters, lifted the ice into the soda fountain, and gave all the glasses and spoons an extra polish. The recollection of John Thomas lingered with him, together with the sixty dollars in the bank which would be one hundred by September. "I'm in a false position," he thought angrily. "I'm making those girls believe I have all the money I want, and other people believe I'm an industrious and deserving young man. I'd change jobs with John Thomas Hennesy in a hurry if I could."
The day was very warm, and by nine o'clock the soda water trade was brisk. Myrtle Blanchard was one of the early callers. She was a miss of fashion, like her older sisters, and aptly imitated their mincing ways.
"Oh, isn't it just too dreadfully warm?" she gasped, fanning herself with her lace handkerchief and sinking onto one of the stools. "I really couldn't have gone another step without resting, if I had been paid for it."
"It's hot," acquiesced Theodore, preparing a glass of orange phosphate for another customer. "Mr. Brown," he called over to the proprietor, who was sitting at the desk, "do you want me to collect that bill I was told to call for this morning?"
"Yes," answered Mr. Brown, "you'd better go right away. We've had to wait long enough for that money. Frank, you take Theodore's place at the fountain."
Miss Myrtle's face assumed a look of hauteur. She was not accustomed to being pushed aside, even for business. But she hastened to say, "Oh, I am so warm! I believe I'll have a cherry phosphate. I came away without my purse this morning, but please don't charge such a small amount to papa."
Theodore prepared the phosphate and placed it before her. His eyes took on the steady, level expression that Miss Billy's habitually wore, but his voice was cool and bland as he said aloud, "Frank, please make a charge against Miss Myrtle Blanchard,—one phosphate, ten cents."
The other customers gazed in astonishment at this unheard of publicity in entering a charge. Miss Myrtle turned from pink to crimson, and slowly back to pink,—but she philosophically concluded to drink her phosphate and think the matter out afterward. Theodore, meantime, had taken his hat, and getting the bill and some change from Mr. Brown, left the store.
"The mean thing!" inwardly raged Miss Myrtle. "He meant that for a snub,—I know he did. And he never so much as glanced at me as he went out. Just wait! I'll get even with him."
Out in the hot sunshine Theodore's other conscience was accusing him. "It's a mean thing to use a girl that way! But if it has to be done, I'm glad Myrtle Blanchard got it first. Yet it's all my own fault! If I hadn't treated them at the first, they wouldn't have come to expect it. But I feel as mean as a cur that's stolen another cur's bone."
A walk of half a mile brought Theodore to a handsome house in a fashionable street. He ascended the steps, touched the bell, and heard a voice on the inside distinctly say, "If that's that boy from Brown's, Nora, tell him I'm not at home."
The door opened and a maid in a white cap glibly repeated the message: "Mrs. Thorpe isn't at home this morning. Won't you call again?"
"She expects me this morning," said Theodore, firmly,—"so with your permission, I'll wait." As he spoke, he entered and seated himself in the reception hall.
"She may not be home to luncheon," faltered the maid. "If you could——"
"My time is my own," interrupted Theodore. "Mrs. Thorpe expected me, so I'll wait."
There was a rustle of skirts above, and a whispered consultation. In fifteen minutes' time Mrs. Thorpe descended the stairs, looking cool and beautiful in a pale blue silken wrapper.
"The maid was quite mistaken," she asserted sweetly. "I was taking a little rest, and she thought I had gone out. Oh, yes,—you have that bill. How troublesome for you to have had the long walk for so small anamount! Fifteen dollars, is it? Please receipt the bill. And you have change there! May I trouble you to change this five-dollar bill for me, as well?"
Theodore tucked the fifteen dollars, three crisp notes, into his pocket, with satisfaction, and receipted the bill for the silken lady. Then he counted out to her five dollars in change, and taking his hat, bowed himself out. He was flushed with pride at having outwitted the notorious Mrs. Thorpe. The other clerks at the store had tried innumerable times to collect this bill. He hurried over the hot pavements toward the store, the success of this undertaking driving Myrtle Blanchard and the other girls, for the time, from his mind.
Mr. Brown was still at the desk when he reached the store. He handed in the three bills with conscious triumph. "And the five dollars in change, I gave you?" suggested Mr. Brown pleasantly.
"Oh, I exchanged that for——" he stopped suddenly, with a startled air. He had givenMrs. Thorpe the five dollars in silver, but she had given him no bill in return. He remembered now, distinctly. He was perfectly sure.
"You may have lost it," corrected Mr. Brown gravely. "You must be careful not to attribute its loss to Mrs. Thorpe. She is one of our wealthiest customers. However, you may go back and inquire."
Mrs. Thorpe rustled down at Theodore's second summons. Certainly, she had given him the bill! He had probably lost it on the street. Then she rustled upstairs again, and Nora, the maid, showed him out.
The brick buildings that radiated the heat, and the dusty streets with their clanging cars, swam before his tired and angry eyes. "A woman that would lie, might steal," he reflected fiercely. "Mrs. Thorpe has that five-dollar bill, together with the change I gave her, in her purse!"
He took his way back, in helpless anger and misery, to the store, and reported once more at the desk.
"No," said Mr. Brown. "I didn't think Mrs. Thorpe had it. You must be extremely careful what you say. You have either carelessly lost it, or——"
"Or what?" demanded Theodore angrily.
Mr. Brown flushed in return. "I have noticed since you have been in my employ," he said coldly, "that you have extravagant habits, as well as extravagant friends. It is the shortest road to dishonesty, although I make no accusations. Of course you will make this loss good. Is there any money coming to you?"
"Very little. What was coming to me I drew Saturday night," said Theodore, the colour all gone from his face. "Mr. Brown, you are doing me an injustice. Iwasextremely careless. It is right that I should return the money because of that carelessness. But I am honest, and I have been taught to be truthful. I beg you to believe me when I say that the money is, knowingly or unknowingly,with Mrs. Thorpe. I distinctly remember that she did not give me the bill."
Mr. Brown's voice was like ice: "I do not wish to have any more discussion of the matter. The money will be charged to your father until you repay its loss. You may go to dinner."
Mr. Hennesy and John Thomas, seated on a little hillock of dirt, were eating their dinner from a bountifully filled dinner pail, when a noontide visitor strode in upon them. The horses looked mildly up from their improvised feed boxes upon Theodore, who, reckless of the polished shoes and blue serge suit, seated himself upon another hillock in their midst.
"Mr. Hennesy," he said, coming straight to the point, "have you hired a man yet, to drive that new team you've bought?"
"Well," said Mr. Hennesy warily, and confining his gaze to a generous crescent his teeth had described in a quarter of an apple pie, "there's a red-headed man that's been afther the job, an' there's another that's as bald as an acorn——"
"If you'll give it to me," broke in Theodore, "I'll do my best to please you, and I'll work cheaper than a man. I have handled horses before. Try me for a week, Mr. Hennesy, and if I don't give satisfaction you needn't pay me a cent, and there will be no hard feeling."
Mr. Hennesy's first shock of surprise expanded slowly into a grin. John Thomas's eyes were like saucers.
"Why-ee—" gurgled Mr. Hennesy, "ye'd burn the shkin all off av yer nose, an' tan yer neck, an' blishter yer han's so yer own mother wouldn't be afther knowin' ye. Ye couldn't niver——"
"Come now, Mr. Hennesy," said Theodore, rising abruptly, "if I look like a fool, I assure you I'm not one. Will you give me the chance?"
Mr. Hennesy's grin vanished, and his chin squared.
"Thot I will!" he said, extending his hand cordially. "Ye can go to work in the mornin'. But moind me,—ye'll do yer full dhuty, or ye'll git fired!"
Theodore was gone, as suddenly as he had come, and John Thomas still sat, the picture of helpless surprise.
"Well—I'll—be blowed!" he ejaculated, at last. "I wouldn't have thought it of him. He looked too good to spoil his hands. Somethin' must have gone wrong at the drug store."
"Which same ye'll not be mintionin' to him, John Thomas," said Mr. Hennesy, with the true instincts of a gentleman.
"As if I would!" returned John Thomas scornfully.
Dinner was over, and Miss Billy was out weeding the pansy bed when her brother reached home. The long walk from the outskirts of the town where Mr. Hennesy was working, and the noontide heat of the day, had failed to bring the colour back to his pale face. He seemed to have grown taller, and older, in a single morning. Miss Billy, looking up from her flowers, instantly read the trouble in his face, and sprang to her feet.
"Wilhelmina," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder and looking down into her face (it was the first time in his life he had called her that), "I've got to borrow your Christmas gold piece. I never thought I'd come down so low, but,—well, I have! I'm in trouble, and I've got to have it to square myself."
"Is that all?" cried Miss Billy, brightening. "It can't be a very great trouble that that paltry gold piece can drive away. And I'm so glad to let you have it, Ted."
"No,—that's not all," went on Theodore, in a hard voice. "Mr. Brown thinks I'm a sneak, if not a thief!—and I've quit my job. Don't tell father and mother,—not yet, I mean."
"Theodore!" There was anguish in Miss Billy's tones that brought the tears for the first time to Theodore's eyes.
"But I've hired out to Mr. Hennesy to drive a team, and start to work in the morning."
"Brother, youcan'tdo that!" Miss Billy, in spite of herself, was crying now.
"Do you remember," said Theodore, "we were reading the other day that a man is as great—not as his father's money, or his grandfather's name, but as the force within himself? Miss Billy, I have force enough to drive Mr. Hennesy's team, and stick to it! Inasmuch as that, I am a man."
Miss Billy looked up, overawed. Laziness, heedlessness, vanity, had dropped away as a mantle, and from the steady grey eyes looked the serious spirit of a man.
Like a rainbow of promise, Miss Billy smiled through her tears. "Theodore Lee," she said, wiping the last drop off her nose, "Theodore Lee, I'm proud of you!"
“Princess, to you the western breezeBears many a ship and heavy laden;What is the best we send in these?A free and frank young Yankee maiden.”
“Princess, to you the western breezeBears many a ship and heavy laden;What is the best we send in these?A free and frank young Yankee maiden.”
“Princess, to you the western breezeBears many a ship and heavy laden;What is the best we send in these?A free and frank young Yankee maiden.”
"Cologne, Germany."Dear Miss Billikins:"Prepare to clap your hands and chortle with joy! In six weeks and two days more I shall be at home with you! Perhaps I am a trifle conceited to think that you will be as delighted over the prospect as I am."Even my grief at leaving my beloved Germany is drowned in joy at the thought of being home again; and when I see papa and mamma's dear faces I shall be the happiest girl this side of the Atlantic. After all, there is no place like America, and no people like the Americans."In proof of which, I can a tale unfold—a tale, Miss Billy, which will make your bloodstand on end and your hair run cold in your veins. I have had an adventure that brought the tears of shame and contrition to my eyes, and which will bring the tears of sympathy to yours. Get out your largest and most absorbent handkerchief and prepare to listen."It rained yesterday,—not one of the mild English drizzles, but a regular American downpour that lasted all day. About four o'clock I put my music aside and went downstairs, with the intention of taking a stroll, or more literally, a swim. Frau Henich held up her hands in holy horror at the sight of my costume, which was a combination of bathing suit and bicycle skirt."Will the bold Fräulein venture out in such wetness?"The bold Fräulein would."Did she not fear the dampness?"The Fräulein adored dampness."Was there no message that could be sent?"The Fräulein had no message. She was going out for her pleasure."Frau Henich looked at me in pity and amazement. Generally she considers me erratic, but on occasions of this sort she knows I am unbalanced. As I closed the door I could feel that she was still wondering in whichbranch of my family insanity was rampant. Now there is a certain tiny store in Cologne which I intend to buy out some day. It is a most fascinating place, with the windows full of gay knit garters, and hideous pictures of the saints, and dried herrings, and with funny little reward-of-merit-cards and work-boxes tucked away in dark corners."Of course none of these things are exactly in my line, but the mistress of the house sells a delicious little German cake that is my especial delight. Whenever my music lessons go badly or I fail to get a letter from home, I comfort myself with a bag of these little 'pfeffernes.'"On this rainy day the shop was even more inviting than usual. It was brightly lighted with three candles, a big pussy cat was purring on the mat, and there was an odour of hot gingerbread in the air. My long walk had made me hungry, and I recklessly ordered two dozen cakes, a square of the frosted gingerbread, and a little pail of sauerkraut which tasted and smelled very German indeed. It was dark outside, so I didn't stay to practise my German on the rosy-faced woman behind the counter, but took my bundles hurriedly. I paddled out, leaving a long stream of green water in my wake—(the colour in my greenumbrella has 'run' as you predicted)—and faced the storm."The long narrow street was deserted, and I sprinted along making good time, though my feet were soaking wet and I could feel the water gurgle in my shoes at every step. As I started across a muddy street within two blocks of Frau Henich's, a sudden gust of wind blew my umbrella inside out. I righted it by facing about and holding it against the wind. Then clutching my bundles a little tighter, and still treading determinedly backwards, I bumped forcibly into a man who was coming towards me. The result was what might have been expected. We sat down in the street. The gingerbread went into his lap, the cakes fell about me like stars from a rocket, and from what I could see in the dusk the kraut seemed to be equally divided between us. We both sat perfectly still for a moment. Then six feet of masculinity arose from the mud, with the sound of a suction pump, and approached me, with the air of a count. 'Are you hurt, Fräulein?' he inquired, in irreproachable German that made me green with envy. I felt of myself in the cleanest places and decided that I was not. He helped me up with difficulty, for the mud had a strong attraction for me, too, and I feebly began tocollect my thoughts, and my cakes, and to look about for my umbrella."By this time my companion in misery had a beautiful un-German-like apology ready for me, and proposed that we move on, and repair damages by the street lamp. I replied, in very bad German, that my boarding-place was just around the corner, and that I would prefer to remove the signs of our collision at home. He graciously acceded to my humble request, and crossed the street with me, holding the remains of my umbrella over my head. When we reached the lamp I could fully appreciate the humour of the situation. The aristocratic chest of the Count was plastered with white frosting, his hat was caved in, and his noble face was covered with spatters of mud. My skirt dripped mud and water at each step, my hands were gloved with honest German soil, and my hair fell over my face in degraded little stringlets. We both fairly reeked with kraut. But the Count, courteously oblivious to our picturesque and barbaric appearance, walked by my side, with that skeleton of an umbrella gallantly protecting the remains of my Knox hat, and discoursing cheerfully upon the vagaries of the German climate. Naturally my answers were not so teeming with wisdom as usual, for I was fairly overcome withsuppressed emotion and mud. Beside, I am awfully stupid about languages, and all the German I have learned since I have been here would rattle if it were shaken about in a peanut shell. If he had asked me about the lamb of the daughter of the gardener, or the pink frock of my sister's child, I could have conversed fluently; but as it was I maintained a dignified silence and let him think that I was a modest little GermanMädchen."His good manners lasted the whole two blocks, and he handed me in at Frau Henich's door with the air of King Cophetua, though I did think I caught a twinkle of fun in his eyes as he said 'Gute Nacht, Fräulein. Es ist immer der Amerikaner der die deutschen Länder bekommt.'"Fräulein Henich has much to say of the gracious Herr, who came to my rescue so nobly. It seems after all that he is no count, just an American student, as she expresses it touring Germany,—'but so amiable in manner, so hard in the working, and so good to the children.' He boards across the street with her good friend Frau Heller, and I have often seen a young man, answering to his description, frolicking with the six flaxen-headed Heller cherubs. But, to me he will always be known as the Count. My introduction to himis also my farewell, for he leaves to-morrow—whither I know not—and alas, I shall see him no more! Still, he has served his purpose in furnishing me with many a recent chuckle, and material for what otherwise would have been a most stupid letter to you. Musical students never have any brains left for letters, and nothing to write about. Maybe I won't have enough things totellyou about, my dear, in six weeks and two days more!"Lots of love from"Peggy."
"Cologne, Germany.
"Dear Miss Billikins:
"Prepare to clap your hands and chortle with joy! In six weeks and two days more I shall be at home with you! Perhaps I am a trifle conceited to think that you will be as delighted over the prospect as I am.
"Even my grief at leaving my beloved Germany is drowned in joy at the thought of being home again; and when I see papa and mamma's dear faces I shall be the happiest girl this side of the Atlantic. After all, there is no place like America, and no people like the Americans.
"In proof of which, I can a tale unfold—a tale, Miss Billy, which will make your bloodstand on end and your hair run cold in your veins. I have had an adventure that brought the tears of shame and contrition to my eyes, and which will bring the tears of sympathy to yours. Get out your largest and most absorbent handkerchief and prepare to listen.
"It rained yesterday,—not one of the mild English drizzles, but a regular American downpour that lasted all day. About four o'clock I put my music aside and went downstairs, with the intention of taking a stroll, or more literally, a swim. Frau Henich held up her hands in holy horror at the sight of my costume, which was a combination of bathing suit and bicycle skirt.
"Will the bold Fräulein venture out in such wetness?
"The bold Fräulein would.
"Did she not fear the dampness?
"The Fräulein adored dampness.
"Was there no message that could be sent?
"The Fräulein had no message. She was going out for her pleasure.
"Frau Henich looked at me in pity and amazement. Generally she considers me erratic, but on occasions of this sort she knows I am unbalanced. As I closed the door I could feel that she was still wondering in whichbranch of my family insanity was rampant. Now there is a certain tiny store in Cologne which I intend to buy out some day. It is a most fascinating place, with the windows full of gay knit garters, and hideous pictures of the saints, and dried herrings, and with funny little reward-of-merit-cards and work-boxes tucked away in dark corners.
"Of course none of these things are exactly in my line, but the mistress of the house sells a delicious little German cake that is my especial delight. Whenever my music lessons go badly or I fail to get a letter from home, I comfort myself with a bag of these little 'pfeffernes.'
"On this rainy day the shop was even more inviting than usual. It was brightly lighted with three candles, a big pussy cat was purring on the mat, and there was an odour of hot gingerbread in the air. My long walk had made me hungry, and I recklessly ordered two dozen cakes, a square of the frosted gingerbread, and a little pail of sauerkraut which tasted and smelled very German indeed. It was dark outside, so I didn't stay to practise my German on the rosy-faced woman behind the counter, but took my bundles hurriedly. I paddled out, leaving a long stream of green water in my wake—(the colour in my greenumbrella has 'run' as you predicted)—and faced the storm.
"The long narrow street was deserted, and I sprinted along making good time, though my feet were soaking wet and I could feel the water gurgle in my shoes at every step. As I started across a muddy street within two blocks of Frau Henich's, a sudden gust of wind blew my umbrella inside out. I righted it by facing about and holding it against the wind. Then clutching my bundles a little tighter, and still treading determinedly backwards, I bumped forcibly into a man who was coming towards me. The result was what might have been expected. We sat down in the street. The gingerbread went into his lap, the cakes fell about me like stars from a rocket, and from what I could see in the dusk the kraut seemed to be equally divided between us. We both sat perfectly still for a moment. Then six feet of masculinity arose from the mud, with the sound of a suction pump, and approached me, with the air of a count. 'Are you hurt, Fräulein?' he inquired, in irreproachable German that made me green with envy. I felt of myself in the cleanest places and decided that I was not. He helped me up with difficulty, for the mud had a strong attraction for me, too, and I feebly began tocollect my thoughts, and my cakes, and to look about for my umbrella.
"By this time my companion in misery had a beautiful un-German-like apology ready for me, and proposed that we move on, and repair damages by the street lamp. I replied, in very bad German, that my boarding-place was just around the corner, and that I would prefer to remove the signs of our collision at home. He graciously acceded to my humble request, and crossed the street with me, holding the remains of my umbrella over my head. When we reached the lamp I could fully appreciate the humour of the situation. The aristocratic chest of the Count was plastered with white frosting, his hat was caved in, and his noble face was covered with spatters of mud. My skirt dripped mud and water at each step, my hands were gloved with honest German soil, and my hair fell over my face in degraded little stringlets. We both fairly reeked with kraut. But the Count, courteously oblivious to our picturesque and barbaric appearance, walked by my side, with that skeleton of an umbrella gallantly protecting the remains of my Knox hat, and discoursing cheerfully upon the vagaries of the German climate. Naturally my answers were not so teeming with wisdom as usual, for I was fairly overcome withsuppressed emotion and mud. Beside, I am awfully stupid about languages, and all the German I have learned since I have been here would rattle if it were shaken about in a peanut shell. If he had asked me about the lamb of the daughter of the gardener, or the pink frock of my sister's child, I could have conversed fluently; but as it was I maintained a dignified silence and let him think that I was a modest little GermanMädchen.
"His good manners lasted the whole two blocks, and he handed me in at Frau Henich's door with the air of King Cophetua, though I did think I caught a twinkle of fun in his eyes as he said 'Gute Nacht, Fräulein. Es ist immer der Amerikaner der die deutschen Länder bekommt.'
"Fräulein Henich has much to say of the gracious Herr, who came to my rescue so nobly. It seems after all that he is no count, just an American student, as she expresses it touring Germany,—'but so amiable in manner, so hard in the working, and so good to the children.' He boards across the street with her good friend Frau Heller, and I have often seen a young man, answering to his description, frolicking with the six flaxen-headed Heller cherubs. But, to me he will always be known as the Count. My introduction to himis also my farewell, for he leaves to-morrow—whither I know not—and alas, I shall see him no more! Still, he has served his purpose in furnishing me with many a recent chuckle, and material for what otherwise would have been a most stupid letter to you. Musical students never have any brains left for letters, and nothing to write about. Maybe I won't have enough things totellyou about, my dear, in six weeks and two days more!
"Lots of love from
"Peggy."
Miss Billy laid down the closely written sheets of foreign paper, and drew a long sigh of pleasure. Six weeks more!
Perhaps no one knew just what the end of the six weeks meant to Miss Billy. Even the cheeriest and happiest of us all have our dark days, and the fact that our friends do not suspect them, makes the days none the less hard to bear. Miss Billy's interest in her new surroundings, and her bravery in her changed circumstances had not prevented many a heart-ache and longing for the old life. Girls are merciless aristocrats, andmany of Miss Billy's old friends had wounded her with careless speeches, or rude actions, since the old life had ended. The covert sneers, the uplifted eyebrows, the small snubs that so often crushed Beatrice in these days of stern economy, had touched Miss Billy's sensitive soul; and though she was brave enough to rise above them, they were not easy to bear.
But after Margaret came,—dear loyal Peggy, so leal and true—whom changed circumstances only made nearer and dearer,—Miss Billy felt that she could face the world and "the girls" with courage, as well as independence, and she yearned for her friend with all the strength of her young soul.
And on the heels of this joyful letter came another delightful surprise. It was an overture of peace, and the carrier dove was Aaron Levi. The olive branch he bore was a message to the effect that "ol' man Schultzsky" wanted to see Miss Billy "to wunst." "What can he want of me?" thought the girl, hurrying out of the door in a state of high excitement. "It must be that he wants something done; if that's the case, perhaps he's not so awfully mad at me, after all."
She crossed the street, and went quickly up to Mr. Schultzsky's door. The little Bohemian maid, who was rocking on the front porch, rose up uncertainly and fled around the house at her approach. Miss Billy entered without the ceremony of rapping, and made her way to the room in which she had found Mr. Schultzsky before.
In appearance it was the same dark mildewed room of two weeks before, with the harness on the wall, and the picture of the beautiful woman hanging crookedly near the ceiling. In the half gloom she saw the old man still stretched on the hard bed with the weight of flatirons attached to his foot. His face in its gauntness and pallor showed the suffering he had endured; but the sunken eyes were bright, and he displayed his eagerness in the gesture with which he motioned her to the chair by his side.
"I vant you to write a letter," he began in a weak voice. "It comes to me in the night if I haf no one to do for me I vill not soon get vell. Johanna is a child. She can speak not the English; she can order not the food. She can do nothing but rock herself in the chair and cry. Open the drawer in the table, and take the paper and ink. It is to my niece's oldest child—the letter."
Not without trembling, because of her proximity to the strange old man, Miss Billy obeyed.
"I am ready, Mr. Schultzsky," she announced.
The old man fell to pondering.
"To Frances Lindsay, my niece's child," he began at last. "I am in much trouble that my leg is broke and I cannot mofe. It is such warm weather, and such pain, I cannot get well unless you come by me."I will pay it when you come, which you should do right away."Your affectionate uncle,"Abraham Schultzsky."
"To Frances Lindsay, my niece's child," he began at last. "I am in much trouble that my leg is broke and I cannot mofe. It is such warm weather, and such pain, I cannot get well unless you come by me.
"I will pay it when you come, which you should do right away.
"Your affectionate uncle,
"Abraham Schultzsky."
"Is that all?" asked Miss Billy, as the dictation ceased.
"Yes," said the old man wearily. "The street number is on a piece of paper in the drawer. That's right." He closed his eyes, but turned slightly as Miss Billy rose to go, and held out his hand. "You are a smart girl," he said. "I thank you for what you haf done for me."
Miss Billy gave his hand a little squeeze in her excitement. "I've been so sorry, Mr. Schultzsky," she said softly. "Can you ever, ever forgive me?"
"It is nodding," responded Mr. Schultzsky shortly. "Goot-day."
Miss Billy, thus dismissed, sped home as one whose feet were shod with wings.
"All is forgiven,Blest be my soul,"
"All is forgiven,Blest be my soul,"
"All is forgiven,Blest be my soul,"
she hummed to herself as she made her way to the mail box. "I'm as happy as a lark. Margaret's coming home, and Mr. Schultzsky hasforgiven me. It's too much good luck for one day." She smiled happily as she dropped into the box the letter addressed to
"Miss Frances Lindsay,"886 East Forty-fifth Street,"New York."
"Miss Frances Lindsay,"886 East Forty-fifth Street,"New York."
"Miss Frances Lindsay,"886 East Forty-fifth Street,"New York."
“There were three ladies in a hall,—With a heigh-ho and a lily gay:There came a lord among them all,—As the primrose spreads so sweetly.”
“There were three ladies in a hall,—With a heigh-ho and a lily gay:There came a lord among them all,—As the primrose spreads so sweetly.”
“There were three ladies in a hall,—With a heigh-ho and a lily gay:There came a lord among them all,—As the primrose spreads so sweetly.”
I
IT was hot, very hot, in Cherry Street. Miss Billy's garden bloomed as Paradise, but up and down the alley household garbage bubbled and boiled in the sun. The sweet peas on the fence were a marvellous cloud of pink, violet, crimson, purple and white. They rioted over the Hennesy pickets, and spread their fairy wings as if to descend on the other side;—but across the street Mr. Schultzsky's weeds flaunted in all the rank arrogance of a second crop.
Miss Billy was disheartened, but not defeated. "Of course I can't accomplish it all by myself," she thought, "and John Thomas is too tired at night to help and Theodore is working, too. But every child in the street that can handle a hoe shall be enlisted in the cause if I can accomplish it."
She went over to Mrs. Canary's to talk the matter over, and found Holly Belle in a kitchen that easily registered 110 degrees. Mrs. Canary was in bed with one of her "attacks," the twins, unwashed and sticky, were playing with a basket of potatoes on the floor: Ginevra, the little sister, was grumblingly washing the breakfast dishes, while Holly Belle, with signs of recent tears around her eyelashes, was binding up a badly burned arm.
"You see, there's bread-baking to-day," she said, as Miss Billy's deft fingers bound up the burn, "and maw's sick, and paw goes onto his beat at noon, and must have his dinner, and the twins are restless with the heat, and won't stay satisfied five minutes at a time with anything.The boys are off somewhere, and no good to anybody, and my own head aches so I can't hardly see. It aches all the time, now, anyway."
"I should think it would," said Miss Billy sympathetically. "Can't you let that fire go out? It's simply unbearable in here."
"No," said Holly Belle, "the bread's in the oven, an' there's pork an' cabbage cooking. I've got to get the potatoes peeled right away, or dinner'll be late."
Miss Billy reached for a kitchen apron that hung on a nail. "Well, I'll bathe the babies," she said: "I think that will make them feel better. Then I'll sweep up for you, and help with the dinner."
"You're awful good," said Holly Belle simply. Her eyes looked heavy, and her shoulders had a pathetic droop. "Jinny, if yer through with the dishpan, give it to Miss Billy to wash the twins in, and then go down to the store and fetch a pound of butter."
Miss Billy bathed the babies in a tiny pantry,away from the scorching blast of the cook stove, and clad them in clean, dark calico slips. Ginevra came with the butter, and was despatched with the twins in their carriage to the shady north side of the Lee house. Order slowly evolved from chaos. The kitchen was swept, the pantry put to rights, and Miss Billy, crimson in the face, and with her collar quite wilted, was preparing to set the table.
"Don't you think—Holly Belle," she suggested, "that it might be better to move the table into the other room? It's much cooler in there."
"We never have," answered Holly Belle dubiously. "We've always eat in the kitchen."
"Well, we'll try it this time, anyway,—and if your mother objects we'll not do it again. It's so hot in here, Holly Belle, it's positively dangerous! And as you can't take the stove out, it seems as though you would have to take yourselves out, that's all."
"I've been thinking," she went on, as she went back and forth from the table to the pantry, "that instead of having the children in the neighbourhood spend every Saturday morning with me, as they have been doing, I shall have them come every morning for two hours. That would help you, wouldn't it, Holly Belle? And I can just as well do it through the vacation. You could send the babies before nine, and I'd bathe them and be ready for the rest at nine o'clock.
"This child-garden, Holly Belle, is going to resolve itself into an Improvement Club. Every member who is old enough must pledge himself to one half-hour's service a day in keeping clean his own yard and alley, and the street in front of his house. The weeds must be kept down, the cesspools disinfected, and the garbage disposed of. Then another half hour might be pledged to household duties,—such as washing and wiping dishes, bringing in wood, carrying water, and making beds. They'll all subscribe to the conditions, I know, for the sake of sharing in the pleasures of the child-garden."
"Launkelot and Fridoline couldn't never wash and wipe dishes," said Holly Belle hopelessly. "They'd break them all up."
"Indeed they can, if they try," returned Miss Billy stoutly. "My brother Theodore can wash and wipe dishes as deftly as a girl,—and he could do it at their age, too."
"'Twould be an awful help," mused Holly Belle, "and our yard an' alley is a sight to behold, but I ain't got no time to clean it."
"Of course you haven't. But you are doing noble work in this kitchen every day,—and taking care of those babies beside. It's noble work, Holly Belle."
Holly Belle's lips quivered, and her tears fell. "I ain't like other girls," she sobbed. "I used to go to bed of nights an' dream I had a piano an' could play on it. An' when I'd wake up I'd be so disappointed it seemed to me I couldn't stand it. An' I used to go on hopin' and hopin' that I'd get one, an' learn, but I know it's too late now. I'm growin' on fourteen, already."
Miss Billy, taking in all the pathos of the starved little life, found no words to reply. "But the thing that hurts worst," went on Holly Belle, wiping her tears on her apron, "is that I can't go to school. I had to stop when Mikey was a baby, and then just as I got started again the twins came, and I guess I'll never go back. The teacher came to see maw, an' told her how quick I learned,—but it didn't do no good, an' I'll have to stay right here in this kitchen all the rest of my life."
Miss Billy crossed over to the drooping little figure, and put her arm about her. "Keep hoping, Holly Belle," she counselled: "Keep hoping, and keep on trying. I'm sure it will all come out right. I have a solemn conviction that when one wishes hard enough for a thing, it comes to pass. And so I am sure the school days will come again, and the piano and the lessons, too."
Holly Belle dried her tears. "You've made me feel almost sure of it, too," she said, with a smile. "I'm thankful for the help you'vebeen to me with the work, Miss Billy,—and I'll send the children over in the morning."
It was that evening that Theodore, freshly arrayed in the glory of blue serge and starched linen, drew Miss Billy into a secluded corner. His neck, even as Mr. Hennesy had predicted, was burned to a deep red, and the blisters on his hands were hardening into calloused spots,—but there was no self pity in his manner as he handed his sister a five dollar gold piece.
"My first week's pay," he announced, proudly: "and thank you very much for the accommodation."
"Oh, I'd rather not take it now, Ted," demurred Miss Billy. "Wait until you've earned more."
"No indeed," said Theodore proudly. "Next week I shall pay father for my shoes, and after that, every cent of my money goes into the bank. Take it now, or never, Miss Billy."
"Well, I'll take it if I must, but I don't wantto," grumbled his sister. "Say Ted, Beatrice and I are going over to call on Mr. Schultzsky's niece, Frances Lindsay, this evening. Mother saw her trunk arrive to-day, and thought we ought to. Won't you go with us?"
"No, I thank you," said Theodore. "To tell the truth, I've soured on the society of ladies. But if she's handsome, and wealthy, and under thirty, I may relent and call upon her some other evening."
"For my part, I think the idea of our going over there is ridiculous," scolded Beatrice. "I wouldn't, if mother didn't insist upon it. It's more than likely she can speak only Bohemian, as that other little niece does, and will run and hide upon our arrival."
"Well, we'll go, anyway," said Miss Billy. "Mother is right. The girl will feel very strange and lonely in that old house, and if she can't speak English we can at least shake hands and then sit and smile at her."
They took their way across the street, Beatrice very dainty in her white dress with a roselow in her hair,—Miss Billy in a black dress skirt and white shirt-waist, with a severely masculine collar and tie. The front door stood ajar, and after tapping several times Miss Billy ushered herself in. "It's the only way," she declared, in reply to Beatrice's horrified exclamation. "Mr. Schultzskycan'tlet us in, that little Bohemian girlwon'tlet us in, and under the circumstances, I suppose the new niece can't make up her mind what to do."
There was the sound of a well-modulated masculine voice reading in Mr. Schultzsky's room. Miss Billy tapped gently, and the door was opened by a young man. In one swift glance she knew he was tall, with dark eyes and a ruddy skin, and wore glasses.
"I beg your pardon," she faltered. "We have called to inquire for Mr. Schultzsky, and to call upon his niece, Miss Frances Lindsay."
In the next instant, too, she was sure the young man was well bred. He gave Beatrice a chair, and turned on the student lamp withoutmanifesting any embarrassment, while Miss Billy crossed to the old man's bedside, and extended her hand.
"I hope you are better, Mr. Schultzsky," she said. "Sister Beatrice and I have come to call upon——" For some undefined reason the words died away, and she stood with glowing cheeks and paralysed tongue.
"Sit down," said Mr. Schultzsky, pointing to a chair at the bedside. The young man was regarding Miss Billy with open humour shining in his dark eyes.
"I feel already acquainted with you, Miss Lee," he said, "as a good friend of my uncle's, and as a young lady who insists upon spelling my name 'ces.'Iam Francis Lindsay!"
He was looking at Beatrice now, whose face was the picture of shocked propriety and haughtiness. Miss Billy's wits returned.
"It would be very funny," she thought, "if Bea didn't take it so tragically. But he is not at all to blame. He has tact, and is kind.Iam the stupid one." Then she introducedBeatrice with a mischievous ring in her voice. "My sister Beatrice,—Mr.Francis Lindsay."
Mr. Schultzsky was feebly wagging his head and chuckling. "She iss a smart girl," he said,—"but she wass fooled dot time."
With a person less polished, the situation might have been deeply embarrassing,—but Mr. Schultzsky's great-nephew conversed entertainingly, with his arm resting easily on the table. He spoke of his native city of New York, of existing social relations, of his uncle's illness. He addressed his remarks to Miss Billy, but he glanced often at Beatrice, who sat cold and silent across the room.
"I trust you will give me permission to return the call," he said pleasantly, as at the end of ten minutes they rose to go. "I assure you I know what it is to be lonely, though I am not a girl."
"Do come," said Miss Billy cordially,—but Beatrice remained silent.
"Now with your usual propensity for doing stupid things, you have drawn us into a fineentanglement," scolded Beatrice, as they reached the sidewalk. "I never heard of anything so arrogant in my life as his asking if he might return the call. And it was not your place to give him permission, either. You quite forget you are my younger sister."
"I think him extremely courteous and high-bred," returned Miss Billy with spirit, "and his asking to call upon us was a delicate and kind thing to do, under the circumstances. But don't let us quarrel about him, Bea. How old do you suppose he is? I think he can't be over twenty-one,—but his grave manners make him appear older."
"I have no suppositions whatever upon such a subject," said Beatrice loftily.
"But at least, you cannot deny he is a gentleman?"
Beatrice raised her pretty eyebrows. "Into that I shall not inquire. It is enough for me that he is a relative of Mr. Schultzsky's."