When Laura rashly undertook the rôle of stage manager, or to say more truly, when the position devolved upon her as a matter of course, because she was the president of the Happy-Go-Luckys, she accepted the honor and the duties in blithe confidence, never dreaming of difficulties.
For a time everything went smoothly, and that lively sympathy for others in like position which marked her after years would never, perhaps, have been called forth was it not for her discovery one day in the attic of an old reader which contained something she thought could be used as a dialogue in the coming exhibition.
It was a poem in which each of four children expresses a cherished ambition to the mother, who comments on the wish with approval or censure.
The piece required two boys, and Laura's brother Mat and his chum, Hugh Bonner, were called upon, and after some grumbling on their part and as much coaxing on the part of the girls they "came in to help the Happy-Go-Luckys out," as they expressed it.
They were assigned their characters; Laura took the rôle of mother, giving the girls' parts to Alene and Ivy.
"I ask for beauty, for an eyeBright as the stars in yonder sky;For tresses on the air to flingAnd put to shame the raven's wing;Cheeks where the lily and the roseAre blended in a sweet repose;For pearly teeth and coral lip,Tempting the honey bee to sip,And for a fairy foot as lightAs is a young gazelle's in flight,And then a small, white, tapering hand—I'd reign, a beauty, in the land!"
This was Alene's verse, but Ivy read it over and over instead of her own, and the oftener she read, the more discontented she grew.
"Why should Alene wish for 'a fairy foot, as light as is the young gazelle's in flight' when she has one already—two of 'em for that matter?" she thought. "The other wish is fine, I know—'a noble gift,' the mother says, but I don't care, I can't do justice to it as I could to the other! Of course, I don't care much for the 'eye, bright as the stars,' and all that rubbish, but I can imagine being light and gay and dancing!"
Although Ivy learned her part she went through it at rehearsal in such a spiritless way that Laura could not have failed to remark it if she were not occupied with so many other things.
When Alene's turn came and she stepped forward rather timidly to recite, Ivy listened eagerly to her rendition. It proved to be letter-perfect but expressionless. Ivy was justified in thinking that she herself could have done much better.
"She says it just in the way you might wish for a piece of plum cake or another gum-drop," she mused bitterly.
No one suspected her dissatisfaction except Hugh, who someway understood all the moods of the frail little sister whom he worshiped.
In her sick spells, dating from a fall five years before, no one could move her so tenderly, nor place her in so comfortable a position as this sturdy lad of fifteen.
He resented Ivy's affliction even more than she did herself.
"I don't see why it couldn't have been one of us big lubbers of boys instead of her," he grumbled to his mother. "She seems to be made to run and dance and play—almost to fly like a bird."
"It's the Lord's will," returned Mrs. Bonner with a sigh.
"Umph! I don't know! When doctors fail to cure a disease, it seems pesky mean to blame it on the Lord! If we were only rich enough, I bet we could find some clever doctor who could make her O.K.! Why couldn't it have been a rich girl instead of her?"
"Oh, Hugh! That is wrong! Why need it be any poor little creature?" said the mother, who thought to herself that in this case money would indeed be a desirable thing; she never envied the rich except when she thought of Ivy.
But the boy, with all youth's revolt, hated the seeming injustice and his resentment often extended to those whose wealth made the difference so marked.
When Ivy, trying to conceal her own disapproval, spoke of Alene's joining the Happy-Go-Luckys, Hugh was opposed to it.
"I know just how it will be, and you girls are makin' a big guess when you take her in," he had warned.
"But she seemed so lonely, and Laura wanted it so much—"
"So did that city chap who used to go with us boys. He looked all right, but my, nothin' suited him. He laughed at our dug-bait, and fishin' rods, and our old-fashioned skiff and things, and talked about his pa's yacht and motor-cars and his ma's diamonds, until we were sick of 'em all!"
"But Alene is different," replied Ivy, and her brother said no more but wore a look of "just wait and you'll find out that I told you so," that was exasperating.
As time passed and he heard nothing but praises of Alene, and saw for himself her unassuming manners and her evident good will, he was obliged to confess that she was a good little thing in spite of her citified dress and her haughty relations; but in this dialogue affair he thought it too bad that the fortunate little maid, who had everything else, should stand in Ivy's way.
"I'll give a hint to Laura," he suggested.
"Oh, no, no, Hugh! Don't say a word to anyone! Not for the world!"
"After all, your part is fine. The other is silly stuff—sounds like some empty-headed thing!"
"Oh, Hugh, it's beautiful! Anyway, I could just enter into part of it! I'm tired of being tied to crutches and people thinkin', because of them, one never even wants any foolishness and fun, like other girls!"
Hugh looked troubled.
"It's a wonder Laura didn't think you might—"
"Laura didn't think anything about it! She just saw it was about a poet, and so the very thing for me!"
"Maybe Alene would—"
"Yes, I know she'd give it up if she knew I wanted it! She's an unselfish little thing. She took it because it was all that was left when Laura disposed of the 'soulful poet' part," Ivy said. Then after a silence, "I wonder why bad health makes me cranky and selfish and envious, instead of patient and meek, like the little girls in story books!"
Hugh smiled. He couldn't imagine his sprightly sister in the story book rôle of uncomplaining heroine, and he wouldn't wish to have her so, not for the world. Ivy was Ivy with all her faults; he wouldn't wish to have her otherwise except a happier Ivy, with the blessing of health and strength, flitting gaily through life, having part in the work and the play of the world.
Ivy could not have complained of Alene's want of animation had she followed her home after rehearsal one afternoon a few days later.
She entered the library, threw her hat on a chair and herself upon a snug little sofa that stood invitingly in the embrasure of a window, which, by drawing the crimson curtains, could be shut off from the rest of the room, leaving a cosy den—her favorite place for dreaming and reading, where her eyes, straying from her book, rested on an ever-varying picture of sky and river, which the window framed.
To-day, not waiting to shut herself away, and paying no attention to the smiling landscape, she opened a sheet of foolscap paper that she had held clasped tightly in her hand, and gravely perused the lines of Ivy's angular writing which covered it. A similar sheet had been given to the other actors in the dialogue so that each might learn his part at leisure.
"'I ask for beauty—' yes, you little numskull, ask for it,—that's all people think you're good for! Laura, of course, never thought of it that way but others will! And I don't wish for it, I'd rather be a poet any day!
'I ask the poet's gift, the lyre,With skillful hand to sweep each wire,I'd pour my burning thoughts in song,In lays deep, passionate and strong,Till heart should thrill at every wordAs mind is thrilled at song of bird!Oh, I would die and leave some traceThat earth had been my dwelling place,Would live in hearts forevermoreWhen this frail, fitful life is o'er!Oh, for the gifted poet's power—This is my wish, be this my dower!"
Alene jumped to her feet, and standing in the window facing the room, recited the words with a dash and a fire that brought forth a "Bravo!" from Uncle Fred, who on his way through the hall had heard her voice and, stopping softly at the door, witnessed her performance.
It formed a pretty picture, the little tragedienne, standing where the crimson draperies made an effective background for her slender, white-robed figure, with the long strands of rumpled brown hair straying over her shoulder, and her earnest, gray eyes deepening to black or sparkling into blue, her whole face lit with passion.
"You do your part well, Peggy," said the young man.
Alene's blushes of pleasure faded suddenly.
"But it's not my part, it's Ivy's! Why does everyone think when you're rich that's all you are good for or can wish for! This is my part," and she pointed tragically at the detested verse.
"Ah, I see," said Uncle Fred, glancing at the lines. "It's a pretty thing. 'Tis a pity to have it spoiled, as I fear it will be, since you dislike it. "Why not suggest a change?"
"I'm afraid Laura would feel hurt; besides it is more suitable to Ivy as she is a poet!"
"The very reason she may wish for something else!"
"Anyway, she said the verse in a sing-song style that just spoiled it!" declared Alene.
"Poor stage manager! It's almost as bad as being the leader of a choir! Pity Laura's not a mind reader! But why not be perfectly honest with her, and tell her how you feel about it; perhaps Ivy has no preference in the matter."
Alene thought that was out of the question; besides it would be selfish to want Ivy's part, just because she herself preferred it; poor Ivy, who, though so clever, was never quite happy.
"Then act on the Golden Rule; but don't spoil it by murdering the dialogue in revenge," said Uncle Fred. To which Alene assented, though she declared it was very hard.
"Since Laura's stars refuse to shine, why doesn't she call on me? Now, I rather fancy the part," said the young man; and taking the paper with an air of solemnity that the twinkling of his eyes belied, he proceeded to read the verse with an exaggerated air, emphasizing the wrong words and using gestures which seemed so funny to Alene that she threw herself on the rug and screamed with laughter. The noise attracted Mrs. Major and Kizzie, who reached the door in time to witness the bewildering wind-up, as the actor, dwelling softly on the words,
"And for a fairy foot as lightAs is the young gazelle's in flight."
gave his right foot an upward movement bringing his toe in contact with the chandelier, and then executed a backward kicking act I am sure no gazelle, old or young, would wish to emulate.
The rehearsals went on. Alene and Ivy recited their parts in the dialogue in the same listless way, secretly criticising each other's rendition, but Laura, busy in directing and arranging so many things, failed to notice the discontent of those two important members of the Company.
It was only their love of the manager that kept them silent, and even then it was a hard task, considering Alene's ingenuousness and Ivy's impulsiveness, both traits alike foes to concealment.
At the last meeting before the great event, everything seemed to go wrong; the little ones forgot their lines or refused to obey the stage manager, declaring she was cranky, and threatening to throw up their parts and go out on the hillside to play; the boys were in a mischievous mood and teased their sisters unmercifully; Laura was on the point of tears, which fact Alene discovered by her unusual rigidity of countenance.
Laura crying would be something terrible! Alene had seen the others whimper and complain. She had been present when Ivy, in her sudden fierce passions of anger, would attack the little ones viciously with her crutches, unless they had previously stolen them away; in which event she would gnash her teeth, and stamp her feet, in powerless rage, and only Laura could bring peace by banishing her tormentors. But no matter what happened, Laura seemed a rock upon which to lean, and if, in adjusting a grievance, she sometimes failed to use tact, and the remedy proved worse than the disease, they knew in their hearts she was acting in good faith, trying to do what was right.
Therefore it behooved Alene upon this occasion to redouble her efforts to be helpful and cheering.
She won over the babies by promising them each a beautiful doll out of the trunkful she had at home; whereupon the big boys promised to be good if she would give them one also, but Alene took their chaffing good-naturedly and things began to proceed more smoothly.
The last thing on the program, "The Wishes," was called.
Laura, strange to say, for the first time found fault.
"Oh, Ivy,doput a little animation into it! One would think you were delivering a funeral oration," she cried testily.
Ivy's nerves, overwrought by the preceding irritations, gave way:
"Well, no wonder, for I hate it!"
"Hate that? Why, it's the finest thing in the whole piece; even the mother says 'a noble gift,' while she chides Alene for wanting mere beauty!"
Ivy's thin cheeks were like crimson roses. "I'd rather be a dancing beauty than a broken-winged robin!" she declared defiantly.
"And I'd rather be a poet than go mincing through the world with just a pretty face!" exclaimed Alene.
"Oh, Alene, would you really like my part?" cried the astonished Ivy. "Why didn't you say so?"
"Why, because I thought anyone would prefer it to that detestable beauty part! Why didn't you speak out?"
Now it would have taken quite a long explanation, each having, as we know, several reasons for not having spoken, so they only looked at each other and laughed.
Laura glanced from one speaker to the other, her look of surprise changing to compunction.
"Oh, girls, why didn't I ask you which verse you preferred instead of portioning it off as I thought you would like?" she queried ruefully. While they sought to reassure her, Mrs. Lee entered the room, and learning the cause of the excitement, said:
"That's just like Laura! The other morning I heard a great uproar. In I came to find Laura helping to dress Lois, insisting upon putting a certain shoe on her foot, while she cried against it. I investigated and found—"
"That I was bent on cramming her fat little footsie into a shoe two sizes too small for her—I had picked up Elmer's shoe in mistake!"
Although Ivy and Alene were somewhat embarrassed when they rehearsed the dialogue after exchanging rôles and did not render the new parts with the power of which they were capable, the improvement was marked and brought forth much applause, which however was not to be compared with the hand clappings received the night of the performance—but that is another story.
Mrs. Bonner's double parlors were used, the front for the audience, which filled the room. All of the boarders attended, and the neighbors came, bringing their own chairs. The back parlor, ordinarily used as a dining-room, was the stage, the sliding doors making a good substitute for a curtain.
Mat had a funny speech by way of introduction; then Lois was called for a song about lovers meeting at the garden gate, which in her baby English she rendered, "Meet me at the Garbage Gate." An original poem by Laura was unexpectedly brought to light by a mischievous friend, and read in a sing-song style by Lafe Bonner:
"That poor old slateI always did hate,But I had to use itAt any rate.One day by accident (?)It fell on the floor,It broke to pieces,And I saw it no more."
Fortunately the author's blushes were hidden along with herself back in a corner of the stage. "It's the only 'pome' I ever executed and I felt like executing Lafe when I heard him reciting it," she explained later.
Nettie, looking more than ever like a great waxen doll in her pink gingham and golden curls, brought down the house by her recitation:
"Little Bobby, come to daddy!Holdy up his tiny paddy,Did he hurt his blessed heady?Darling, come and get some bready,Don'ty cry, poor little laddie,Come and kiss his precious daddy."
Baby Elmer represented Bobby, and the little maid went through the piece with appropriate gestures, unconscious of her audience and not forgetting a word,—to the joy of her instructor, Laura, whose heart beat nervously while she watched the performance.
Mr. Frederick Dawson and a few of his companions had come in rather late and seats were found for them in the rear, as they refused to allow any at the front to be vacated for them. It was just before the doors opened on the great dialogue where Laura was the mother, in a neat wrapper and gray wig and spectacles, standing in the midst of an interesting family. The back of an easy chair served to support Ivy, who was dressed in white, with red sash and hair ribbons.
What spirit she put in her lines, all leading up to, and centering in, the wish for the young gazelle's light footfall, the rest being only a prelude to that!
Then the other little white-robed girl from her seat in the big chair rose to declare her wish. A color that was not all excitement glowed in her cheeks, thrilling Uncle Fred with the conviction that the Happy-Go-Luckys by banishing loneliness had brought the blessing of health to Alene.
It was her first appearance before the public, and the thought of it had brought her much nervous apprehension that she might forget her lines, falter, or even run away at the last moment. To perform even before the other boys and girls at rehearsal had always brought a preliminary nerve tension which she had tried to conceal. This, however, was nothing compared with her dread of the great night when she thought of facing a whole roomful of people; but now, strange to say, all her tremors died away. She found it less difficult to recite before the crowd than at rehearsal; she forgot herself in the joy of her lines. That she recited even better, if anything, than when her Uncle had overheard her in the library is all that need be said.
When the ensuing applause died away and the doors refused to open again, Uncle Fred noticed the lips of a small boy seated near him puffed out in disdain. Stooping with a show of solicitude to learn the cause, he heard him say to a companion:
"'A lip to tempt the honey-bee to sip'—I bet she never felt a stinger or she wouldn't wish for such a silly thing!"
"I don't see why that Dawson girl wants the poet's gift, 'the liar!' Do all poets tell whoppers, I wonder?" said the other boy, looking up into Uncle Fred's face with wide, wondering eyes.
Such a merry crowd of Happy-Go-Luckys they were as they came marching along the country road that summer day, wearing gay caps of tissue-paper with floating streamers, while their brothers' hats were decorated with rosettes of the same material.
The day was a perfect one for their picnic; sudden, saucy breezes tempered the warm atmosphere, making the paper ribbons dance merrily around the heads of the girls.
As they came along with dancing steps and smiling faces, and lips of laughter and song, the sight of them was enough to lighten the heart of an onlooker and bring to his mind the shepherds and shepherdesses of old, who surely could not have been merrier nor a whit more picturesque.
But suddenly the gay voices fell to murmurs. A whispered command was borne along the line even to the last straggler. Laura's voice, low but impressive, said, "Hats off!" and off came those gay bonnets and the rosette-trimmed hats, and along the road the children went in solemn silence, with stately step; for over the hill alongside the road they saw a neat little house whose upper windows overlooked the road, all the blinds upstairs and down were closed, and on the door swung long bands of black crêpe.
It was this sad emblem which had curbed so suddenly the mirth of the Happy-Go-Luckys, and made them pay respect in their own childish but expressive way to the grief of the mourners; and it was not until the little house had been left far behind that the awe was lifted from their spirits, and the joy of childhood reasserted itself.
They had reached a road bordered with trees that almost met above them, forming a long green arbor into which the sunlight stole through every little chink, and Ivy was moving along almost forgetful of her crutches, her eyes intent on the green loveliness of the place and the pretty pink parasol with white lace trimmings which Alene carried, when suddenly the latter gave a shrill scream and threw the parasol away from her as far as she could.
Immediately the others gathered around, while she stood grimacing, saying nothing but "Ugh! Ugh!" to all their questions. They were greatly puzzled, until someone picked up the pink parasol at which its owner pointed so tragically, to find that all the fuss was caused by two caterpillars which had fallen from the trees.
"'Fraid cat!" said Hugh, contemptuously; "I've seen little tads of four and five let 'em crawl up their bare arms!"
"I'm not a 'fraid cat! But those ugly, crawly things make me feel creepy!" Alene returned with crimsoning cheeks.
"Those ugly things, as you call them, turn into beautiful butterflies!" returned Hugh, in a tone that to Alene sounded offensively preacher-like.
"Well, let them wait until they are butterflies before perching on my parasol," she retorted.
"It's just one's nerves! Theyareugly things, and Alene's not used to seeing them," said Laura.
"And they say the great Napoleon couldn't bear to touch velvet, and he was no coward!" cried Ivy, who felt that her brother was often unjust to Alene.
In spite of their protests, Hugh had his own opinion in the matter. There are some boys to whom Alene's timidity would have appealed, but he was not one of that kind. He was the most outspoken and the least gentle of all the boys with whom the Happy-Go-Luckys associated. But his downright honesty and fearlessness, his renown among the boys as an athlete, and especially his devotion to his little sister which Laura dilated upon, and of which new proofs were daily shown, had awakened Alene's admiration, and made her the more resent his calling her a coward.
"I've stumbled over my toe!" wailed little Lois, carrying the stubbed toe and tearstained face to Laura for repairs.
Mat ran to stroke the offending stone with an exaggerated air of sympathy.
"Naughty girl! The poor stone was standing in the road, never moving until you came along and gave it a kick," he said reproachfully, at which they all laughed, and the caterpillar affair was forgotten for the time by all except Alene, who had picked up her parasol and walked along with an air of unconcern that gave her friends no hint of the tears so bravely forced back.
"'Fraid cat!" her thoughts ran; "why couldn't Hugh have been polite enough to keep from that slighting remark or at least laugh good-naturedly with the rest, and paid no more attention to it, instead of making so much of such a trivial affair!"
She felt at first that the day was spoiled so far as she was concerned; but the gay chatter of the others, the new experience of tramping the country paths, climbing fences and crossing runs, discovering new beauties at every step, made her presently forget her chagrin.
As the day wore on, the smaller children cast wistful glances toward the baskets, and even went so far as to peek through any little opening to make sure that certain favorite morsels, which they had seen put in, had not mysteriously disappeared.
"Laura, you and mother must have loaded this basket with cobblestones," cried Mat with a groan, leaning sideways almost to the ground.
"Cobblestones! You take very good care not to call them that when you're begging mother to cut her fresh pies! I'll tell her what you call 'em in company!"
"Well, it's funny how heavy this basket's grown in the last half hour!"
"I've noticed they always do grow heavier toward noon," commented Hugh. "Can't we lighten 'em some way?"
"Can't we? Just let me try! Keep off, Nettie, or I'll eat you up—I'm as hungry as Red Riding-hood's famous—or infamous—bear!"
"It was a wolf!" declared Nettie, in the tone of one who knew.
"So much the better to eat you up, my honey!" Mat smacked his lips voraciously, displaying two rows of firm white teeth, and made a dart at the little girl. She ran screaming to Laura, who, Ivy often declared, was the children's real and truly Noah's ark of refuge.
Everybody was hungry and they only waited to reach a suitable place for lunch.
"I know the very spot," said Hugh, leading the way.
"Behold a Moses to lead us out of the wilderness!" cried Mat.
"And behold the Promised Land!" Ivy screamed in delight, as her brother set his basket among the great knotted roots of a tree that helped to shade a stretch of green-sward which extended gradually to the river.
"This Moses remains to dine," said Hugh.
The girls spread a white cloth on the ground and proceeded to unpack the baskets.
Although they had made frequent stops on the road, Laura feared the walk had over-taxed Ivy's strength, and wished her to rest; but she refused to be left out of any activity. She it was who sat, a spirit of prodigality, in the midst of the baskets, dealing out the good things one by one, while Alene and Laura arranged them artistically, piling in the center a pyramid of fruit, and placing the cakes and pies and pickles in the most tempting proximity, not forgetting sandwiches, and plain bread and butter. Indeed, as Mat remarked when he came up from the spring with a pail of cold water, "The very look of it was enough to give an imaginative person the nightmare."
"Then don't eat any of it, Mr. Matthew," cried Ivy.
"Thank heaven, I'm not imaginative! I think I'll try a snack of that jelly-roll," he returned, reaching for the cake in Ivy's hand.
"I think you won't! Why, even those greedy children haven't been allowed a taste of anything, though it's a wonder their eyes have left a morsel! What are you laughing at?" she inquired, as Mat's glance strayed beyond her.
Net waiting for an answer she turned her head to find her little brother Claude standing at her shoulder, balancing in his out-stretched palm a slice of brown bread from which he had just taken a huge bite, whose buttered and jellied traces were seen on his plumped-out cheeks. Not far away was Lois with a monster pickle. At a distance, with backs discreetly turned, were two other small sinners whom Ivy eyed suspiciously, and she turned at last with a hopeless shake of her head to Laura, whom she suspected was to be blamed. But she was mistaken in her surmise for Alene was the real offender. Not being used to the always hungry state of a half dozen small brothers and sisters, she could not withstand the children's pathetic glances.
"You don't suppose it will spoil their appetite for dinner?" she inquired anxiously, when the truth was disclosed.
"I haven't the faintest fear that it will," returned Ivy, in a dry tone.
"The wisdom of the innocents! Wish I had tackled Alene instead of you," deplored Mat.
At that moment he was hailed by Hugh:
"Come along, Mat! We boys are going to pick some wild strawberries for dessert. I noticed some vines up there over the hill as we came along."
"That will be lovely; run along, little boy," said Ivy, and Mat, with a last despairing glance at the feast, was gone, leaving her free to resume her task.
Although there was quite a crowd, almost a dozen young people to feed, the baskets seemed to disgorge enough for twenty. But then they were Happy-Go-Lucky baskets!
"Leagues and Clubs someway have a selfish sound—as though everyone outside didn't count for anything," Ivy said one day. "We mustn't let ourselves get narrow that way," and they did not, for as Laura remarked later, "When it came to picnics and good times generally, the Happy-Go-Luckys was very 'stretchible'—it took in all the kids!"
While the girls proceeded blithely to get lunch, helped or hindered by the younger children, loud voices were heard and presently a crowd of ragged boys appeared on the upper road.
The girls, expecting them to go on their way, paid no attention to them, but the lads attracted by the bounteous display of dainties, at once gave notice of the find, and with whoops of delight came running down the hillside and attacked the spread.
The girls were alarmed but stood their ground nobly.
"You had better go! Hugh Bonner and the other boys will soon be here!" said Laura warningly.
"I've heard of the redoubtable Hughie—we ain't goin' to force our company, we just want them cakes an' things! Come on, boys! Hurry!"
Laura stood guard over the table and Ivy raised a crutch to strike the foremost but both girls were swept aside.
Some of the little ones turned to Laura for protection, while the others ran screaming in the direction of the berry-patch, and a moment later the berry-pickers were seen on the side of the hill.
Hugh, being somewhat in advance, saw the whole engagement.
When Laura and Ivy were routed, he noticed Alene turning as if for flight. However, instead of running away as he had expected, she stooped, picked up the pail of water left by Mat, and, turning back with a sudden movement, dashed the fluid into the boys' faces.
Choked and blinded by the unexpected assault, they fell back.
The smallest boy, who had been in the rear, was the first to recover from the sudden bath. With uplifted hand he made an angry dash at Alene.
"Don't you dare to strike that girl!" cried a boy who came running down from the road. He evidently belonged to the gang but had only appeared on the scene in time to witness their rout. He was a well-built lad of fifteen, with a bearing that showed him to be above his associates, of whom he proclaimed himself the leader by collaring the angry boy who had made the attack on Alene. Then the berry-pickers came hurrying along with cries of, "A rescue, a rescue!" and the strange boys fled, leaving the girls mistresses of the field.
Alene was surprised to find herself a heroine. The girls declared the day lost but for her, and the boys, who had all witnessed the last of the engagement, were loud in her praises.
"I heard that big boy say you were a brave little thing and I agree with him," declared Hugh, who had experienced a sudden compunction for his hasty judgment in the caterpillar affair.
Whereupon the last vestige of Alene's resentment vanished.
"I think I'm entitled to some of the glory," remarked Mat modestly, joining the group around the re-arranged feast. "Didn't I, with remarkable foresight, provide the pail of water for Alene to drown the enemy in?"
Blame it all on those tissue-paper hats; the surprise and horror of good Mrs. Ramsey when she beheld Alene Dawson among that madcap crowd, skipping along gaily intent on her play, unobserving the pained expression of the portly lady who was coming up the other side of the street. Mrs. Ramsey had stopped suddenly, "so flustrated by the sight," as she said later, that she had not the strength to hail Alene and when her breath came it was too late, the happy crowd had passed from sight around the corner leading to the fields, and her feeble, "Why, Alene Dawson, I'll tell your Uncle about this!" sounded no farther than her own ears.
Panting with indignation and the heat of the day, she resumed her way up the steep street and in due time reached her home, a showy, buff brick house with fancy turrets and pointed roofs and tiny windows with wooden ornamentations, that gave warning of the interior, where none of the rooms was of good size or well proportioned. Most of the space on the first floor was taken by the reception hall which was not often used and the whole gave the impression of being built to show off the hall, of which its owner was very proud.
She was also very proud of her two daughters, Hermione and Vera, whom she found on this occasion sitting in the study, a tiny alcove on the second story, which overlooked the garden. They were apparently deep in the mysteries of a French grammar which Vera had seized on hearing the click of the gate announcing Mrs. Ramsey's return, while Hermione busied herself in hiding under the cushion of her chair two borrowed books of fairy tales which their mother had denounced and forbidden and banned and would have burned with a zeal like to that which animated the burners of the witches.
"When I was your age I never cared for reading. I knew most books were lies from beginning to end. You couldn't hire me to read about goblins and witches," she often declared.
"What a dull, tiresome girl mamma must have been," said Vera in a low aside.
"But she didn't have to play exercises on the piano!" returned Hermione.
"No, nor try toparlez vouswith a gibbering foreigner."
"I don't see any use for foreign babbling. As the nurse in the French tale says to the little girl who is studying English, 'Since thebon dieuwrote the Bible in French, it shows that he thought it good enough for anybody,'" said Hermione, laughing, and Vera continued,
"Grandpa was too poor to pay for extras, I guess."
"I almost wish we could say the same of Pa Ramsey, only I'd hate to be poor—I don't see how poor people can stand it!"
"Oh, they are used to it. They don't mind it," returned Vera with a yawn.
"Tissue-paper hats!" they cried when their fond parent, sinking on a lounge, had recovered sufficient breath to relate her adventure; "Tissue-paper hats!"
Hermione's thoughts flew to her own room where, reposing in a box, was her best hat, a huge affair of fine white straw, with ribbons and flowers galore, whose glories made Alene's headgear appear the more offensive. She was wishing she had been along with Alene, wearing her own hat, of course, until her mother went on to say:
"That wasn't the worst of it! What can Frederick Dawson mean to allow Alene to associate with the town children!"
"Town children, mamma! Do you mean from the poorhouse?"
"No, Miss Density, mamma means that Lee girl and Ivy Bonner and—"
"Oh, them! They go to our room! That Bonner girl is awfully bright but so sarcastic, and Laura Lee is all right!"
Mrs. Ramsey shook her head.
"This comes of the public schools, where the president's child is made to rub shoulders with the miner's!"
"And the miner's child often beats him in his lessons and the rest of the scholars are apt to remark and remember it," said Hermione. "Only for that, the rich boys could pose as being extra smart!"
"I should have got you girls a governess only papa said he couldn't possibly afford it, as times are dull; when the children are grown it's embarrassing to know how to meet their former schoolmates!"
"Nothing easier! Just turn your shoulder or look straight ahead!" Vera stood up, and, using a chair to represent the offending party, illustrated her remarks with appropriate gestures.
"Yes, but the girls aren't like that chair. They wouldn't be sat upon so easily!" exclaimed Hermione.
"They would understand the next time unless they were unusually dense," retorted Vera.
Hermione laughed.
"I can imagine I see you trying to cut Ivy Bonner that way! She would toss up her head and give you the 'icy stare'. As for Laura, she wouldn't understand; she'd only think it a pity you were so near-sighted!"
"Well, girls, don't get to quarreling," interrupted their mother. "I'll make it a point to warn Alene's uncle. I'm sure her mother would have collapsed had she been in my place to-day! I'm afraid the Dawsons will be vexed because I've not had her over here to get better acquainted with you girls!"
"You have asked her often enough, dear knows, and she never came, yet she seems very intimate with those other girls!" commented Hermione.
"I admire her taste," said Vera. "It's all because her mother's not here to look after her. Some men are queer. Very likely her uncle never sees the difference between those town girls and others!"
"Well, what difference is there, except that Ivy and Laura are more clever than the average?"
"Hermione, you talk like a—a socialist! The barriers between the classes must be preserved, especially in these times when education is trying to sweep them away! Else where would we land?"
"We, the royal family," muttered Hermione in an aside to Vera. "Don't you remember Grandpa Green's prize pigs?"
Vera pretended not to hear, and their mother, taking breath, continued, "There's no use talking, girls, those children are not in the Dawson set! The idea of wearing tissue-paper hats on the street in broad daylight!" So saying, she sailed from the room and the hidden books were promptly brought forth and the interrupted reading resumed.
"Alene, Mrs. Ramsey stopped in the office yesterday to lecture me on the criminality of tissue-paper hats," said Uncle Fred at supper the next evening. Although his voice was solemn, the twinkle in his eyes told much to the observant Alene.
"Tissue-paper hats! Why, Uncle!"
"She was surprised, or I should say scandalized, when I remarked that I had superintended the putting on of yours, and that I was sorry I was too young, or not old enough, to go along with you."
"Oh, Uncle Fred, you are just the right age for—anything; but we couldn't coax you to go that day!" Alene protested.
"And then I told her of my surprise when I reached the office that morning to find my hat adorned with a red-white-and-blue rosette, which horrified her so much that I was glad—I mean sorry, that she hadn't met me wearing it."
"I wish she had, meddling thing!"
"She thinks I'm very lax in my duty to allow you on the street without achaperone. Alene, I'm a failure as a stern old guardian! I think, to put myself right with the townspeople, I'll have to get arrested for beating my incorrigible niece!"
"If they find fault with you, just send them to me and I'll—I'll settle them," cried Alene, with angry vehemence, holding her fork in such a threatening position that Kizzie, coming in with the tray, half paused.
"Don't be alarmed, Kizzie. She's not going to attack you or me; she's only indignant because everyone doesn't agree with her in holding me up as a model guardian!"
"Oh, Mr. Fred, how you do go on!" returned Kizzie with a laugh and a blush, giving Alene a glance that showed upon whose side she stood.
"But I haven't come to the end of my tale. It seems that Mrs. Ramsey's real object in paying me a visit was not to lecture me, as I supposed, but to say that her two daughters are coming to visit you to-morrow afternoon."
"Oh, bother! Laura and Ivy promised to come and stay for tea!" grumbled Alene.
"Well, the more the merrier. The Ramsey girls seem to be amiable enough," returned Mr. Dawson who failed to see any reason for the little girl's vexation. Indeed, Alene herself could not define what was, in reality, the dismay any hostess might feel if called upon to entertain a group of people which she knows to be utterly uncongenial.
"Don't worry, child! Just do the best you can," was the advice of the housekeeper, when Alene, kneeling on a chair at the window next morning, viewed the forbidding, rain-soaked grounds.
"But I depended on the garden to help me out," said she, giving a reproachful glance at the soggy grass and dripping trees. "The girls could swing and run about in the grass, and now we'll all have to stay cooped together in the house! I wouldn't mind it a bit with Laura and Ivy. We could do lots of things inside—but the Ramsey girls!"
"There's the tower room and the wide halls. Surely you can play some games there! It does seem unfortunate how things turn out sometimes, but we must just bear it!" said Mrs. Major.
"That's what makes it so much harder, wemustbear it! Ivy says if we could take our burdens just because we wanted to for a noble cause, like some of the martyrs did, it wouldn't be half so hard as when they are put on one!" grumbled Alene. "But there, I'm not going to cry about it!"
"I wouldn't, either," cried Kizzie, broom in hand, her face glowing from an attack on the upstairs carpets. "It would only make things damper!"
The smiling visage of the plump little maid seemed to have captured some of the sunshine hidden away by the clouds; it radiated from her blue eyes, her yellow hair, her round rosy cheeks; Alene, turning from the depressing outside where the rain was steadily falling, felt an answering glow when she met that sunny gaze, and retorted gaily:
"Does she mean to be profane or funny, or only puny!"
"I mean to tell you what I was thinkin' about! Wouldn't it be fun for you and the girls to make taffy this afternoon?"
Alene clapped her hands.
"Oh, Kizzie, the very thing! And please,pleaselet me be chief cook—I think it would be lovely to potter round the pans and things!"
"I could come in and show you how, only Mrs. Major let me off this afternoon and my sister's expecting me—but I might send her word," said Kizzie.
"No, you mustn't do that. Just tell me how much to use and where to find the stuff—but I don't want anyone to help me!"
So Alene listened solemnly, with a delightful sense of responsibility, to the directions given by Kizzie and the housekeeper. It seemed so easy, just so many cups of sugar, so much vinegar and water, a lump of butter not too large and enough vanilla to make it taste; then the greased pans and the flour to use in pulling it.
"Oh, I know it by heart! Don't say another word till I bring you some upstairs to the sewing-room this afternoon! And I'll save some for Kizzie when she comes."
As the girls intended coming at one o'clock to stay not later than five, Alene felt secure in having provided something that would pass the greater part of the time, so she paid no more attention to the weather. It could not interfere with the taffy pulling.
She flew happily round making her preparations and it did not seem any time until Prince gave a joyous bark to notify her of the near approach of friends.
She ran to the door. Sure enough, it was Laura and Ivy making their way through the rain; they were coming around the curve of the walk which led from the front gate.
"And Laura's holding the umbrella over Ivy so that she herself gets nothing but the drippings," Alene observed. She seized an umbrella from the rack and hastened to meet them, while Prince ran on ahead to assure them of a welcome.
The barking of the dog and the chatter of the girls made such a din that it reached Mrs. Major, who came and stood in the hall, enjoying the excitement.
After greeting the visitors she went upstairs, feeling a pleasant glow in the consciousness that the little girl, whose loneliness had been a source of anxiety to the older inmates of the house, was now light-hearted and happy with companions of her own age.
"Girls, girls, I'm so glad you've come in spite of the rain!" cried the beaming Alene, dancing round, more of a hindrance than an aid in her endeavors to help them off with their things.
"Mother was against my going out in the rain, but Hugh knew how much I wanted to come, and just as he was coaxing her, Laura came in, and they hustled me off!"
"It's well I did, or the Bonners would have had a weeping Ivy on their hands, and dear knows it's moist enough without that, so I carried her away just for pity!" explained Laura, who stood before the rack mirror surveying a few locks of straight hair which stuck to her forehead. "I was just telling Ivy it's good there's no lightning; but the rain does take the starch out of things. Just look at my poor hair, while Ivy's curls are kinkier than ever!"
"Poor Lol, I'd gladly turn some of the kinks over to you if I could," cried Ivy with a laugh, as she gave her mop of curls a vigorous smoothing, trying in vain to make them lie closer to her head. "But talking of lightning, when I was quite small I remember one day in school it stormed hard. The thunder rolled and the lightning flashed and one of the girls got frightened and began to cry, which surprised me very much; not because she cried, but because she was a doctor's daughter—I don't know why I thought a doctor's daughter should be braver than anyone else's child!"
"It's funny the thoughts we have and the queer things we believe when we're small," returned Alene. "A girl told me one day if you put beads in the oven more beads would grow. So I put in my string of pink coral but it only got hot and didn't grow a bit bigger! I never believed in that girl again!"
"I never told you of the spring that Ivy and I made when we were little. We thought it would be so nice to have cold water handy, so we dug a hole in the cellar, big enough to put a good-sized tin pan in, and filled the pan with water. We put pebbles in the bottom and moss around the rim and thought we had a perpetual well; but when we came back to it the old pan was dry. The water had leaked through the holes! We were awfully disappointed that no other water had run in!"
As Laura completed her contribution to ancient history, divested of their rain-coats, hats and rubbers, they were ready to follow Alene into the library.
"Ivy's brought a book along, 'Tales of the Angels.' Let's read turn about," proposed Laura.
Sitting close together, Ivy half reclining among the cushions of the little sofa and Alene upon a leather arm chair with Laura between them on a hassock, all shut in by the crimson curtains of the cosy corner, where the rain beat against the window panes and the vines stirred in the wind emphasizing the comfort of their snug retreat, they spent a happy time reading and talking over the beautiful little stories until Prince's renewed barking attracted their attention.
"Somebody's coming," announced Ivy, peering through the blurred window pane.
"I guess it's the Ramseys," said Alene, going out to meet them.
"I hoped the rain would keep them away," murmured Ivy with a grimace.
"So did I," answered Laura. "I felt like turning back when Alene said they were coming, but I hated to hurt her feelings!"
They heard Alene greeting the new-comers, then footsteps and voices in the hall, and presently the three girls came in together.
The sisters were in the midst of an argument. Vera had found a small rent in her silk umbrella for which she declared Hermione's umbrella responsible.
"But I was walking ahead of you all the way, not near enough for the rib to touch your umbrella! It must have been done when you crowded up against the fence to let Mrs. Park and her baby carriage go past."
"Well, I couldn't go in the muddy street, could I? I don't see why they bring babies out on such a day as this, brushing others up against damp walls! But it's just a little cut such as only an umbrella point could give. It never touched the fence!" Vera's grumbling came to a sudden pause—"Oh say, Alene, I didn't know you had company!"
"I had no chance to tell you on the way in."
"No, Vera gives no one a chance when she has a grievance to air!" said Hermione. "Howdy'do, girls!"
She crossed the room and sat beside Ivy and Laura. Vera took an easy chair near the table, somewhat apart from the group, and gave all her attention to the careful removing of her kid gloves. The conversation with her mother as to the manner in which to meet her poorer schoolmates in society was fresh in her mind. Now was the opportunity to act upon her convictions. She resolved to be very cool in her treatment of Laura and Ivy.
The other girls chattered away, apparently unmindful of her abstraction. Alene was showing them some sheet music which had come in the mail a few days before.
"Here's the new Raindrop two-step. How appropriate for to-day," cried Hermione. "Have you tried it yet?"
"Yes, it's real sweet! Would you like to come into the music room and hear it?"
They all assented, and presently from the little room opening off the library came the notes of a piano.
"I'd like to try the step," said Hermione, "if only there was someone to dance with!"
"Where's Vera?"
"Sulking in the library, I guess. Come, Laura, won't you?"
Laura hesitated until Ivy joined in, "Do, Lol! She dances beautifully, Hermione, only she—she won't sometimes," and as the two girls paired off, "When I'm along she seems to think I'll mind it more because—"
"Yes, I know," returned Alene, slipping her hand from the keyboard to give Ivy's brown fingers a sympathetic squeeze.
"But I won't let her; I don't want to be abete noireto my friends!" said Ivy, leaning her head against the piano and letting her eyes stray from Alene's nimble fingering to the graceful swaying of the girls in the dance. Around the room they circled, out along the hall, and presently back again through the library.