Seven o'clock came all too soon for Marjorie and Lily, as they opened their eyes at the sound of the rising bell.
"Don't you wish we could stay in bed?" yawned Marjorie, glancing at the clock.
"We can to-morrow; mama will let us have breakfast in bed every single morning, if we like."
"Oh, Lil, that sounds too good to be true! I know we'll have a wonderful time."
There were only three hours of classes; after an early luncheon, school was dismissed. Everybody took the one-o'clock train for home.
"Frieda saved me the trouble of expressing my canoe home," remarked Marjorie, when the girls were comfortably seated together in the train. "But how I wish I'd find it—and her, too!"
"Maybe we shall," said Lily. "Don't forget the fortune teller!"
"But New York's pretty big, isn't it?" Havinglived all of her life in a small town, Marjorie had only a vague idea of the size of the great city.
Lily laughed good-naturedly. "Wait till you see it," she said. "It's simply tremendous—and so crowded and confusing."
"Poor Frieda!" sighed Marjorie.
Mrs. Andrews's chauffeur met the train, bringing the former's regrets at not being present in person.
"Mama's out so much," explained Lily. "Teas and charity work, you know."
As Marjorie entered the big limousine, she realized that she had never ridden in so luxurious a car before. She glanced at the soft upholstery, the bouquet of real flowers, and felt the warmth of the artificial heat. Lily's parents were obviously rich, although the girl evidently gave it little thought now. But Marjorie remembered how impressed her room-mate had been with the fact when she entered Miss Allen's, and suddenly she decided that, had she known all this, she would not have blamed her so severely.
Then the streets claimed her attention. They were filled with traffic of all kinds, which she watched silently. Her thoughts flew to Frieda Hammer; she wondered what were her impressions as she entered this great, noisy confusion, that is called New York. How would she feel herself, if she had come all alone—with no Lily to direct her, no car to meet her, no friends to entertain her? Alone, withlittle or no money in her purse, and no qualifications to fit her for work! She shuddered at the very idea; a sort of despair seized her, so that for the instant she suffered vicariously as acutely as if she were the other girl in the situation.
But Lily's voice brought her back to reality.
"That was the Grand Central Station, where we came in," explained the New York girl. "And this is Sixth Avenue."
"And you live in an apartment, too, don't you, Lil?" asked Marjorie, her gaze resting upon her companion. "Do you know, I've never been in an apartment!"
"It's an apartment-hotel," corrected Lily. "We don't even get our own meals!"
Half an hour later, the girls were sitting in Lily's dainty boudoir, sipping chocolate and enjoying a glorious hour of pure idleness.
"Are we doing anything to-night, Lil?" asked Marjorie, leaning back contentedly against the cushions on the window seat. "Not that I think we need to——" she hastened to add, lest her hostess might attribute her remark to impoliteness.
"Yes, we're going to the theater," replied Lily, laughingly. "It's a musical comedy. I hope you will like it."
"I'm sure I will. Do you know, Lil, I've never been in a real theater in my life!" She paused a moment, and then blurted out, unexpectedly, "SupposeFrieda should be a chorus girl! Do you think we'd recognize her, with all her paint and powder, if she were?"
Lily smiled at the other's simplicity. Evidently Marjorie had no conception of the great number of theaters in New York, or of the difficulty, for a novice, in obtaining a part in a show. And the idea of Frieda Hammer—rude, awkward, and uncouth—on the stage, was absolutely grotesque.
"I hardly think she'd be able to get the job, Marj," she replied, succeeding in hiding her amusement. But in order to forestall any more such remarks, she decided to change the subject.
"We're going to the game to-morrow," she announced, "with papa and mama, and——"
But Marjorie was only politely enthusiastic.
"We surely won't see Frieda there," she remarked. "Isn't it dreadfully expensive?"
"Not only that, but she wouldn't be interested. Of course, Frieda Hammer wouldn't understand football! But I'll tell you who will be there!"
"Who?"
"Guess!"
"The boys?"
"Yes; John Hadley and Dick Roberts!"
"Oh, I'm awfully glad!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I haven't seen John for ages."
And in the conversation that followed, the Girl Scouts' runaway ward was forgotten.
Thanksgiving day was bright and clear, and just cold enough to give a bracing tingle to the air. The boys arrived only a few minutes before the time to start for the game, and among so many people, Marjorie and John exchanged only the most formal greetings.
During the automobile ride, and later at the game, it seemed to Marjorie that John was unusually quiet. Perhaps, she decided, it was because he was with strangers,—or perhaps it was because he had changed. She knew that he was working his way through college, and she wondered whether the responsibility was weighing him down. Or perhaps, she thought, he was no longer interested in so youthful a person as herself.
But to John Hadley, Marjorie Wilkinson was the same merry, charming girl who continued to hold first place in his affections.
Mrs. Andrews invited the boys to dinner after the game, and they accepted gladly. It was not until after the meal was over, and Marjorie and John were dancing in the hotel ball-room that the girl lost her shyness and felt herself back again on the old familiar ground with him.
"May I come to see you at Christmas time?" he whispered, as they glided across the floor.
"But I'm not sure that I'll be home," replied Marjorie, thinking of Frieda Hammer, and wonderingwhether she might not try to trace her again at that time, if she failed now.
"Are you going far away?" he pursued, in a woeful tone.
"I don't know. But you can write!"
The young people danced until the first intermission, when Mrs. Andrews rose to go, and the girls, after saying good-bye to the boys, accompanied her to the apartment.
"I looked at every waitress in the dining-room," said Marjorie, when she and Lily were alone in their room, "and I tried to see all the people I could on the streets to-day, but none of them looked like Frieda!"
"Oh, Marj! You're hopeless!" replied Lily, in exasperation. "Here I expected you to rave about John Hadley, or at least the football game, and the very minute he's gone, you begin on that girl again!"
"Do I bore you, Lil? Or do I seem unappreciative?" asked Marjorie, penitently.
"No, you old dear!" laughed Lily, relenting. "By the way, what is it you want to do to-morrow?"
"Go shopping!" replied Marjorie happily, for the idea of the novel experience was pleasing to her.
Mrs. Wilkinson had given her daughter some money with which to go shopping, and the girls planned their trip for Friday. Mrs. Andrews decided to send the chauffeur with them, allowing them to go otherwise unaccompanied, for she knew howmuch pleasure it would afford them to go alone.
Early after lunch the following day, the girls started on their expedition. After they left the car and entered the shops, Marjorie wanted to proceed slowly, stopping everywhere to look at displays and to examine the beautiful things spread alluringly before their eyes. She really bought little; the experience was so new to her that she could scarcely make up her mind what to choose.
At quarter after four Lily looked at her watch.
"I'm dead, Marj!" she announced. "Let's go and get some hot chocolate, and then go home."
"All right," agreed Marjorie reluctantly. "But I sort of hate to leave. By the way, Lil, have you been noticing the salesgirls?"
"Not 'specially. Why?"
"I thought one of them might be Frieda."
"If you mention Frieda Hammer again," threatened Lily, "when I get back to school, I'll go poison that fortune teller for getting you so worked up."
"Oh, please don't, Lil!" begged Marjorie, good-naturedly.
She followed her hostess out of the brilliantly lighted department store, across the street, and into a cozy, softly lighted tea-room. The contrast between the glaring, noisy shops and this quiet, restful retreat worked wonders with the tired girls. They seemed almost immediately to imbibe the peaceful atmosphere, and to become refreshed.
"It's lovely!" exclaimed Marjorie, refusing even to look at the menu. "Anything you order will suit me."
Although Marjorie had decided not to plague Lily again with the mention of Frieda, she had by no means forgotten her. Accordingly, she followed the proceeding she had adopted upon every occasion since she had entered New York; she looked carefully at every young girl she saw, hoping that it might prove to be Frieda.
As soon as her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she peered eagerly,—almost rudely, she was afraid—into the faces of the waitresses. Suddenly, her heart stood still; at the far corner, near the swinging door leading to the kitchen, stood a girl bearing a striking resemblance to Frieda! Could Marjorie be dreaming—or was it possible that the runaway had a double? She dared not trust her own eyes.
"Look, Lil!" she whispered. "Could that be Frieda, there?"
Lily followed the direction indicated by Marjorie, and saw a slim girl in black, wearing a waitress's cap and apron. The girl was neat, and her hair was tidy; indeed, one would have to stretch the imagination to picture her as the one of the troop's adoption. And yet her features—and something about her bearing were decidedly like Frieda.
"Oh, Frieda Hammer would never get a job in aplace like this," remarked Lily, discouragingly. "They only employ refined girls here!"
Still not daunted, however, Marjorie half rose from her seat, but just at that moment the waitress in question disappeared with a tray of dishes.
Lily gave her order for hot chocolate with whipped cream, and fancy cakes, to the waitress who stood at their table. "Does that suit you, Marj?" she inquired.
"Yes, thanks!" replied Marjorie; but at that moment she would have agreed to corned-beef and cabbage. She watched eagerly for the girl to reappear; finally she was rewarded by seeing the two waitresses enter together.
As her own girl came towards them, she leaned over and asked earnestly,
"Can you tell me the name of the waitress—over there?"
"Jennie Perkins," replied the girl, quietly.
Marjorie's face fell; she must be mistaken. Then an idea came to her; perhaps it was Frieda, under an assumed name!
"Has she worked here long?" pursued Marjorie.
"I think so—but I've only been here a week myself, and she was here when I came!"
The girl had disappeared again, and Marjorie turned reluctantly to her refreshment. She kept watching the swinging door, hoping that the girl would reappear and give her an opportunity to questionher. But she did not return before Marjorie and Lily had finished their chocolate, so they were obliged to leave the shop, as much in the dark as ever.
The remaining two days passed without further adventure, and on Sunday evening they were back again at Miss Allen's.
"I wonder whether the fortune teller was mistaken, after all?" thought Marjorie.
Two weeks had passed by, and the swimming team had been chosen during that time. Four more girls, in addition to Alice Endicott, who was now a Scout, were eligible for Pansy troop and were to be admitted that evening. Three of them were freshmen: Dorothy Whitcomb, Gladys Staley, and Mildred Cavin. And the fourth girl was Evelyn Hopkins.
Miss Phillips called the meeting to order, and then hastened through the opening ceremony and necessary routine.
"There is much to do and to talk about," she said, after the preliminary matters had been settled, "that I feel as if I can't talk fast enough. But I think we shall consider the regular Scout business first.
"First of all, I wish to welcome the new girls with the sincere hope that they will soon pass their Tenderfoot test and be registered as regular members of Pansy Troop. If they all do, we shall then have twenty-four girls, or three patrols.
"Accordingly, after the first of the year we shall re-divide into three patrols, and the three Scouts with the highest standing—counting the number of merit-badges, etc.—will be the three patrol leaders, and may choose, in turn, the members of their respective patrols.
"Next, after the New Year, the second-class girls will study for their first-class test; for during spring vacation I am going to take the first eight girls who pass this test successfully, to Washington. The expenses are to be provided by a wealthy friend of the troop!"
"Who?" they all shouted, curious. "Oh, it is too wonderful!"
But Miss Phillips refused to reveal the name of their unknown benefactor.
"Now, about our Good Turn. Of course, to-morrow is the day of the bazaar, about which we shall go into detail later; but now I want to discuss what we shall do with the money. I have a report from Miss Smith, the private detective."
At these words, Marjorie leaped to her feet. Forgetful of the formality of the occasion, she asked, excitedly,
"Did she find Frieda?"
"Yes; but she lost her again. A girl answering to her description was working, under an assumed name, as a waitress in a Fifth Avenue tea-room in New York. But as soon as Miss Smith had collectedher facts, and was reasonably certain that the girl was Frieda Hammer, she disappeared."
"Oh, Lil!" gasped Marjorie, sinking into her seat. She could not even explain what she meant to the others; only her room-mate realized her tremendous disappointment.
"Now I have not paid my friend anything so far," continued Miss Phillips; "but I do not feel like allowing her to go on using so much time without remuneration, for she has to work to earn her own living. So I want to know what you wish to do—drop the case?"
Marjorie was on her feet again, instantly.
"No, no, Captain! Please, not that! Can't we use the rest of the fête money—and add some from the bazaar?"
But Ruth, as usual, opposed the idea.
"I move that we pay Miss Smith for her services, and then dismiss the matter for once and all. If Frieda Hammer can get work, she certainly isn't suffering, and there are a good many more worthy channels to which we can apply our money. In my opinion, she never was any good!"
"Is there a second to Ruth's motion?" asked Captain Phillips.
"I second it!" said Barbara Hill.
"Any discussion?"
Then Lily, aroused to the support of Marjorie rather than of Frieda, made an appealing speech,telling of the vastness of New York City, and its great temptations. She mentioned the troop's responsibility toward Frieda, at least until they could get her back home. She spoke earnestly, and the girls were greatly impressed. Marjorie cast a grateful look in her direction as Lily sat down.
The votes were taken, and the "nos" carried the day, probably rather because Marjorie and Lily were more popular than Ruth and Barbara, than because of any particular love on the part of the troop for Frieda. Indeed, most of the girls disliked her heartily, and were angry at her for stealing Marjorie's canoe; but that was Marjorie's affair, and if she wanted to search for Frieda, they intended to stand back of her.
The rest of the evening was spent in discussing the Bazaar, and all the while the girls worked busily with their needles, finishing odds and ends that had been left till the last minute.
Miss Phillips had begun with the senior Scouts and had given first them, and then the juniors, charge of the booths. The sophomores, with the single exception of Marjorie Wilkinson and Lily Andrews, and all of the freshmen, were to act merely as aids. The former two girls had been assigned the "Baby Table" for the simple reason that there were not enough upperclassmen to take charge, and they, of all the younger girls, appeared most interested.
So anxious were they to have their booth lookattractive, Marjorie and Lily arose at six o'clock the morning of the bazaar, in order to decorate it before breakfast. They secured white tissue paper, and with this completely covered up all the dark boards. Here and there articles were suspended by narrow pink and blue baby ribbon; and a great bowl of pink roses stood on one side of the counter, while on the other side was displayed a life-size doll, dressed in the most exquisite hand-made layette. The effect as a whole was dainty and charming.
Soon after breakfast the other booths—for candy, sandwiches and ice-cream, household goods, embroidery, basketry, toys, and what not,—were all arranged, and Miss Phillips threw open the doors. Dressed in their neat khaki uniforms, with spotless white aprons over their skirts, the Girl Scouts presented an attractive appearance; and Captain Phillips, gazing about her critically, felt that she had reason to be proud of her girls and their accomplishments.
The morning was not a particularly busy one; only twenty or thirty people from the village, besides a few of the pupils and teachers, dropped in. Miss Phillips' expression began to grow more anxious as the noon hour approached, and all the Scouts felt a trifle worried.
When the clock struck twelve, Marjorie picked up her almost empty candy box for the tenth time to count the few coins that jingled forlornly when sheshook it. She knew what the result would be—she had sold only two articles-but she repeated the process hopefully, as if by some magic, the total might have increased. There were exactly two dollars.
"Do you suppose it is because our things aren't pretty?" she asked Lily, although she really could not conceive of anything more exquisite than the diminutive garments on the table.
But Lily reassured her. "You just wait!" she answered; "the big crowd'll come this afternoon! Don't forget those wonderful posters Frances and Edith made—they ought to bring the buyers!"
"I hope they do!" said Marjorie, somewhat cheered by the other girl's words. "Especially after all the trouble we had putting them up!"
Both girls laughed at the recollection of climbing posts, entering stores, and respectfully requesting shop-keepers to display their home-made posters. A slight snowfall had added spice to the adventure, and helped to make the experience one to be remembered.
During the lull that followed, the Scouts seized the opportunity to leave their posts and rush over to the sandwich booth to purchase a hasty luncheon. Through their patronage, the number of sales there was increased, and the cash box returned an agreeably "full" sound when shaken. Ruth Henry, whowas serving as an aide at this table, looked well satisfied.
Business at all the other booths, however, continued to be dull until shortly after two o'clock, when the gymnasium door burst open, and what appeared to be an endless succession of noisy, laughing girls crowded in. It proved to be Miss Martin's entire seminary, turned out in a body to support their sister school in its good work.
"Hurrah for the Girl Scouts!" they shouted, and proceeded to spend a great deal of money in the purchase of both refreshments and Christmas presents.
Unfortunately for Marjorie and Lily, however, very few of the girls were interested in their booth, and therefore did not come over to buy. Three or four girls, who boasted of baby-brothers or sisters, purchased caps and fancy rattles; but the total value of their sales had hardly reached ten dollars, when the visitors left the bazaar. Both Marjorie and Lily were glad to see the other Scouts more successful than they had been during the morning, but they despaired of making their own booth worth while.
Toward half-past three, Ruth, who had been busy steadily until that time at the sandwich table, sauntered over to visit the girls at the baby booth.
"We're almost sold out," she remarked, carelessly. "How are you getting along, Marj?"
"Not so good!" sighed Marjorie. "But I surely congratulate you!"
"We have over twenty-five dollars," continued the other. "But you ought to have more because we have to sell sandwiches so cheap."
"I have only ten," admitted Marjorie, sadly.
"Only ten!" repeated Ruth. "Well, if that's all you're going to make, I don't see why you should have so much say about what we do with the money!" This last remark was added spitefully, it seemed to Marjorie.
The latter made no reply, however, and Ruth turned away.
"She certainly can be nasty, when she wants to be!" remarked Lily. "But don't you care, Marj! Anybody could sell sandwiches—especially when our own girls buy them!"
Marjorie shrugged her shoulders, and began to hum, in the attempt to regain her cheerful spirits. But no one came near her table for almost half an hour; then, about four o'clock, a dozen or more young married women hurried over in her direction.
"Baby things!" exclaimed one. "You never can get them at Jones'!"
"I wonder why they don't keep them," remarked another. "Well, here's our chance!"
The women, who were evidently coming from a tea or some such social function, simply surrounded Marjorie's table and purchased lavishly. They exclaimed admiringly over everything, and bought sofast that the girls had to summon extra aides to help them. Finally, when they had gone, Marjorie had a minute to count the contents of her cash box. She had fifty-six dollars and twenty-five cents!
But her triumph was not yet over, for scarcely had she put the money away when a slender little woman, who had all the while been watching proceedings, approached, and called her to the side.
"I buy for Jones' store, in the village," she said quietly, "and I should like to offer you fifty dollars for the remainder of your stock."
Marjorie listened incredulously, making no attempt to hide her joy at the idea of the transaction. Glancing hastily at the clock, she saw that it was half-past four, within half an hour of closing. She accepted the woman's offer immediately.
"Thank you so much," she said. "You know it's for a good cause!"
"They are lovely things," remarked the buyer, sincerely. "Really, they are just what I have been looking for."
With trembling fingers, Marjorie and Lily folded the snowy articles gently and tied them into a bundle. It was simply wonderful to have nothing left over.
"Half an hour, and nothing to do!" said Marjorie, squeezing Lily around the waist. "Wasn't it the best luck, though!"
"Sh! Don't say anything! Let's pretend to be busy, and surprise Miss Phillips when she calls for a report!"
"And Ruth Henry, too!" added Marjorie, wickedly.
At quarter past five the last purchaser left the gymnasium, and Miss Phillips ordered the door to be closed.
"We'll leave things as they are," she said, "and come over to clear up to-night. In the meantime, you are to go back to the dormitory and prepare for supper. But there is one thing I want to know before you all leave," she concluded; "and that is—how much cash you each have. Did anyone, by any chance, sell out?"
"Yes, we did!" announced Ruth Henry, although the sandwich table had really been in charge of Elsie Lorimer.
"Fine! How much?"
"Thirty-two dollars—and some change!" Ruth glanced triumphantly at Marjorie.
"Anyone else?" inquired Miss Phillips.
"Yes," replied Marjorie. "Lily and I did. We have one hundred and six dollars, and twenty-five cents."
But amidst all the congratulations that followed, Marjorie thought only of one thing: that she had been able to answer Ruth's challenge! She hadmade the most of any booth—and she felt privileged to have a say in the direction to which the money should be applied! She would not be afraid to urge again the cause of Frieda Hammer, and the Scouts' Good Turn!
It was not until the following Friday evening, when each girl in charge of a table had made her report, that Miss Phillips was able to add up the total receipts from the sales at the bazaar. At last she looked up with a happy smile.
"Four hundred and twenty-two dollars!" she announced; and the girls broke into uproarious applause.
"Since this is our last meeting in the old year," she went on, "I especially want the new girls to take their Tenderfoot tests. But before that, and before we talk over the Christmas plans that Ruth Henry suggested several weeks ago, I desire to read you some letters.
"I went to the office of our little local newspaper,The Star, and asked whether any poor children had written to Santa Claus through them.
"The woman in charge was awfully nice; she smiled sort of tenderly, as if all the children belonged to her.
"'Indeed we have,' she replied, opening a drawer. 'Look at this bunch.'
"And she handed me these"—Miss Phillips held up a handful of torn, dirty pieces of all kinds of paper, except writing paper—"and I discovered there were thirty-two of them, all so quaint and funny. So I said I would put the matter up to you Scouts to-night, and report to her to-morrow."
"Oh, let's give them a party, and a tree, and the presents they want," cried Marjorie, anxious for everyone to know that she did not want to monopolize all of the money for Frieda.
"Read them, please, Captain!" begged Frances.
Miss Phillips opened two or three, selected one, and read slowly, apparently encountering difficulty in the spelling:
"Dear Santa Klaus:"Pleas send me a dol that opens hur ise with love Mary Connelly."
"Dear Santa Klaus:
"Pleas send me a dol that opens hur ise with love Mary Connelly."
After that she read half a dozen or so, each one as laboriously composed as the first, asking St. Nicholas to bring them the things nearest their hearts.
"But when could we have the party?" asked the Captain. "It's too soon to have it this Saturday afternoon, and next week the older children will have school."
"Couldn't we have it at four o'clock?" suggested Ethel; "I should think we could keep them out until half-past five, and then we could take them home ourselves, because, of course, it would be too dark by then for them to go alone."
They decided upon Thursday afternoon, for the girls were to leave Miss Allen's at noon on Friday; and a hundred dollars was appropriated for the party and the presents.
The time seemed all too short for the committee in charge; indeed, every member of the troop served in some way. Miss Phillips took Frances and Ethel to the city with her to select the presents and the tree ornaments; four of the girls wrote the invitations, and half a dozen were to attend to the refreshments and decorations. Lily Andrews, because she was stout and jolly, was awarded the supreme honor of being Santa Claus; and she spent much time preparing her costume.
At last everything was in readiness, and the Scouts gathered in the gymnasium. A big tree stood in the center, glistening with tinsel and shining with brightly colored balls. Underneath, attractively wrapped in Christmas paper and ribbon, the presents were invitingly piled. Santa Claus, with several of the girls who were to assist "him," was hidden in Miss Phillips's office.
The guests—everyone of the thirty-two ragged little children, and several additional younger brothersand sisters besides—arrived, dressed in what was probably their best clothes—just as the little Ruggles came to Carol's famous party in "The Birds' Christmas Carol." Edith and Frances received them at the door and helped them remove their coats and hats.
With exclamations of "Oh!" and "Ah!" they stood perfectly still, lost in admiration of the Christmas tree. They had never seen such a lovely one before.
"Will everyone please sit down upon the pillows?" asked Miss Phillips, indicating a row of sofa cushions arranged around the tree.
Doris Sands and Emily Rankin gave out the popcorn and candy toys. The children were too much awe-struck to think of talking. They just sat still and gazed, all the while sucking their candy, and looking expectantly at the alluring parcels under the tree.
In a short time, from the direction of the office, a great chorus of song came:
"Silent night, holy night,All is calm, all is bright——"
"Silent night, holy night,All is calm, all is bright——"
the famous old Christmas carol that children and grown people everywhere love.
When the last notes of the song had died away, Edith Evans, the story-teller of the group, related the pretty little legend of "Why the Chimes Rang"—tellinghow a small boy, who had only ten cents to give at Christmas time, gave it with his whole heart, and the magical chimes, which sounded only for great gifts, and which had been silent now for many years, rang out through the clear stillness of that Christmas night.
There is perhaps no other Christmas story which contains the real Christmas spirit so much as this one, with its simple message of whole-hearted giving; and it did not fail to produce the desired effect. The children were just in the mood of what followed: the appearance of Santa Claus!
With a jolly "Ha! Ha!" and the ringing of sleigh bells, he came in through the open door carrying a huge pack on his back, and was greeted with tremendous applause.
Reaching into his pocket, he took out the notes and held them up to examine.
"I got every one of your letters," he said, "and I hope you will all be satisfied with your presents. I have tried to do the best I could. Ha! Ha! Ha! Christmas is a jolly time!"
Santa's laughter was so real and his enjoyment so genuine that the children beamed with happiness. It seemed as if their dreams had really come true.
"Here's a package for Mary Connelly," he said, taking off his pack; "and here's one for Peter Myers."
The children hesitated a moment, and then wentforward to receive their gifts. Edith and Frances brought the others out from beneath the tree, and there were half a dozen left over, even after the unexpected guests had been provided for.
"And a box of candy for everybody," concluded Santa Claus, reaching for the pile of boxes, each wrapped in white paper, and handing them to his helpers.
"And now I must be gone!" he said. "I've many places to visit before Christmas day. A merry Christmas to all!" he cried, and as they answered, "The same to you!" he vanished through the doorway. The tingling of sleighbells announced the fact that he had gone.
The short winter day was drawing to a close, and the children suddenly realized, as they were looking at their presents, that it was getting quite dark. But in an instant, as if by magic, the tree was alight with many gaily-colored electric bulbs, which gleamed and sparkled so gloriously that they all gasped and gazed in wonder.
While the refreshments were being prepared, Ethel and Doris started a game, to the winner of which a prize "stocking" was given. Just as this was concluded, Miss Phillips called that they were ready.
Behind the tree there had been a row of screens to hide the preparations. Now these were removed, and the most beautiful sight that the children hadever seen appeared before their eyes. A table piled with goodies of every kind decorated with holly and mistletoe and Christmas candles and candies. Three large bowls in the center of the table contained red strings which extended to every child's place.
The little guests sat down and pulled their red ribbons—and to their great delight, each received another present. Then they began to eat. There were chicken sandwiches, and cocoa with whipped cream, and ice-cream, cake, candy, fruit, and nuts. The Scouts simply loaded their plates, telling them that they might carry home what they could not eat.
They were having such a delightful party that they were all surprised when six o'clock came, and Miss Phillips gave the signal for departure. The Scouts put on their hats and coats, and, with their arms laden with goodies, and gifts, and holly, the children returned to the village.
Lily reappeared, dressed in her Scout uniform, to accompany them. One of the children, who had been looking at her closely for several minutes, exclaimed abruptly,
"Santa Claus is a Girl Scout!"
The Scouts burst out laughing.
"He was this time," explained Edith, kindly; "for the real Santa had too much to do, so he asked us to help him."
"You areallSanta Clauses!" corrected the child."I think Girl Scouts are the most nicest people in the whole world!"
And Pansy troop, to the last girl, was satisfied with the work it had accomplished and the real Christmas cheer it had brought to these children's hearts.
The Christmas holidays had always meant a great deal to Marjorie. There was not only the joy of the holiday season, and of giving and receiving presents, but the pleasure of seeing the family and her old friends again, of going to parties, and of entertaining. The preceeding year she had given a house-party to the freshmen and sophomore members of the sorority to which she belonged at that time, and they had all had a lovely time. Ruth, who had never been a member of the secret society, had been left out—a proceeding which so angered her as to cause her to seek in some way to get even with Marjorie. And this had been the beginning of all the trouble! Now as she looked back upon it, the whole affair seemed childish; she realized that whatever parties she gave in the future would include Ruth.
Marjorie's mother had told her that she might invite Lily, or any other friend, to spend part or all of the holidays with her; and she had received a lovelyinvitation from Doris's mother to go to their home for Christmas week. But she had resolutely refused all these suggestions; she had other plans—not of a social nature.
It was with this purpose in mind that she visited Miss Phillips the night of the children's party.
"Could you possibly spare me a day during your holiday, Miss Phillips?" she asked. "I want to go and see Frieda's mother."
"Why, what an idea!" exclaimed the teacher in surprise. "But do you think she knows where her daughter is?"
"I think she must know something. And maybe she could tell us why Frieda ran away. And——" Marjorie paused, shyly,—"and I want to get word to her if I can that I don't mind her taking my canoe!"
"Marjorie, you're a strange girl!" remarked Miss Phillips, looking at her quizzically. Then, "But have you asked your parents' consent?"
"Yes; papa said he would drive us over. But he also said that he wouldn't let me go without you. And he was afraid it would be asking too much of you!"
"Not at all. I could easily arrange to meet you. What day do you want to go?"
"Whatever day suits you best."
Miss Phillips went to her desk and consulted an engagement pad.
"How about Friday—a week from to-morrow?" she suggested. "Then, if it should rain, we could go Saturday."
"Fine!" concluded Marjorie, rising to go. But Miss Phillips detained her for a moment.
"Marjorie, I want to thank you for your lovely gift. It was sweet of you to do all that work for me."
The girl smiled, delighted that her favorite teacher was pleased. In fact, Miss Phillips was not only her favorite teacher, but the only one in whom she took any interest.
"I'm glad you liked it, Miss Phillips," she said, as she turned to leave the office.
Marjorie and Ruth rode home in the train together. As soon as the girls were away from Miss Allen's, and there was no longer any rivalry raging between them, Ruth became her old self again, and expected to have Marjorie once more as her best friend. But Marjorie was not to be so easily won.
"Mother writes that there's a new family moved in next door to us," remarked Ruth, "and she says that the son—a boy a little older than we are, seems very nice. I thought maybe I'd ask him over some night during Christmas week, if you and Jack can come, too. We could play bridge, and dance a little."
"That would be lovely," murmured Marjorie, in a preoccupied manner, for her thoughts had flown ina different direction—to her ownoneimportant plan for the coming week.
"How would next Friday suit?" suggested Ruth.
Marjorie shook her head decidedly. "Sorry, but I can't possibly!"
Ruth regarded her curiously. What plans could Marjorie have—so early? No doubt it had something to do with John Hadley.
"If it's John, why, bring him along, and I'll try to get another girl," she ventured.
"No; it has nothing to do with John. I expect to be out of town."
"At Lily's?"
"No; I won't be visiting anybody."
"Oh, well," said Ruth, sulkily, "if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to. I don't care."
"I can't very well tell you, Ruth," replied Marjorie; "and besides, you wouldn't be interested."
"Then when can you come?"
"Tuesday or Wednesday, whichever you like."
The girls finally agreed upon Wednesday, and separated with the promise to visit each other before then. But Ruth resented Marjorie's secrecy and tried to imagine what her important engagement could possibly be.
Christmas, and the next four days passed happily and quickly, and almost before she realized it, Friday had come, bringing to Marjorie her chance for adventure.
Wrapped snugly in her mother's fur coat, and with the big robe tucked in around her, she sat on the front seat of the machine that cold, clear morning of the end of December. She was very happy; she felt, indeed, that she was doing something worth while, and the prospect of a nice long ride with Miss Phillips added not a little to her pleasure.
After they had driven about fifteen miles they met the Scout Captain, and then continued on their way. Ten miles before they reached their destination they stopped at a hotel for dinner.
"Suppose they don't live there any longer," remarked Marjorie. "All our trip for nothing!"
"No, for we could probably get some information from Mrs. Brubaker," replied Miss Phillips. "But I don't think they'd move."
"It isn't likely," assented Marjorie.
It was two o'clock when they arrived at the Brubaker farm. The front door opened, and Mrs. Brubaker appeared.
"Well, of all things!" she exclaimed, recognizing Miss Phillips and Marjorie in the car. "This surely is a surprise!"
When they were all comfortably seated before the open fire, Mr. Wilkinson explained their mission, and the good woman seemed amazed at their news.
"We had no idea Frieda wasn't still at school. Her mother never said a word. Oh, I'm so sorry!"
They talked a little while, and then leaving herfather with Mr. Brubaker, Marjorie and her Captain proceeded toward the tenant house where the Hammers lived.
Mrs. Hammer did not recognize them at first. Then Miss Phillips explained.
"We want to know if you have any news of Frieda, Mrs. Hammer," she said, very politely.
"Come in," invited the older woman, holding open the door a little wider.
"We haven't heard a word since she ran away," continued Miss Phillips, as soon as they were inside, "except that a friend of mine saw a girl answering her description in New York."
"That's where she is, I reckon," assented Mrs. Hammer, "but that's all I know. From her onct in a while I get a letter, and can write to her care of—what d'ye call it?—general delivery. But I can't write very good."
"Oh, may we see the letters?" asked Marjorie, eagerly.
"Yes—I don't mind. You people sure treated her white. I don't know what's got into her."
The woman crossed the room, which was untidy and dirty, and pulled out a drawer in the table. There, among heterogeneous trash, Marjorie noticed several letters. Mrs. Hammer tossed them into Miss Phillips's lap.
"You can read them all," she said, "while I go look to the baby."
Miss Phillips noticed Marjorie's excitement, and politely handed her the letters—there were three of them,—which the girl opened with trembling fingers. Apparently, all of them were short.
"This must be the first," she said, and read aloud,