XVAN OPEN DOOR FOR ELIZABETH
Sadie Page burst tumultuously into Olga’s room one afternoon and hardly waited to get inside the door before she cried out, “I’ve thought of something Elizabeth can do—something splendid.”
“Well,” said Olga drily, “if it is something splendid for Elizabeth, I’ll excuse you for coming in without knocking.”
“All right, please excuse me, I forgot,” Sadie responded with unusual good nature, “I was in such a hurry to tell you. It’s a way Elizabeth can earn money at home——Now, Olga Priest, I think you’re real mean to look so!” she ended with a scowl.
“Look how?” Olga laughed.
“You know. As if—as if I was just thinking of keeping Elizabeth at home.”
“But weren’t you?”
“No, Iwasn’t!” Sadie retorted. “At any rate—I was thinking of Elizabeth too. I was, honest, Olga.”
“Well, tell me,” said Olga.
“Why, you know those Christmas cakes she made?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she can make them and other kinds to sell in one of the big groceries. I saw some homemadecakes in Council’s to-day that didn’t look half as nice as Elizabeth’s and they charged a lot for them.”
Olga nodded thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t wonder if you’d hit upon a good plan, Sadie. But if she does that, you’ll have to help her with the work at home, for she has all she can do now.”
Sadie scowled. She hated housework. “Guess I have plenty to do myself,” she grumbled, “with school and my silver work and all.”
“But your silver work is just for yourself,” Olga reminded her, “and Elizabeth has no time to do anything for herself.”
“Well, anyhow, if she makes lots of cakes she’ll have money for herself.”
“And she’s got to have money for herself,” Olga said decidedly. “I’ve been thinking about that.” Sadie wriggled uneasily. She had been thinking about it too, and that Elizabeth would be eighteen soon, and free to go out and earn her own living, if she chose.
“Well, I must go and tell her,” she said and left abruptly.
Elizabeth listened in silence to Sadie’s eager plans, but the colour came and went in her face and her blue eyes were full of longing.
“O, if I could only do it—if I onlycould!” she breathed. “But I—I couldn’t go around to the stores and ask them to sell for me. I never could do that!”
“Well, you don’t have to. I’d do that for you. I wouldn’t mind it,” Sadie declared. “You just make up some of those spicy Christmas cakes and some others, a few, you know, just for samples, and I’ll take ’em out for you. I know they’ll sell.”
“I—I’m not so sure,” Elizabeth faltered.
Sadie’s brows met in a black frown. “You’re a regular ’fraid-cat, ’Lizabeth Page!” she exclaimed, stamping her foot. “How do you ever expect to doanything if you’re scared to try! To-morrow’s Sat’-day. Can’t you get up early an’ make some?”
It was settled that she should. There was little sleep for Elizabeth that night, so eager and excited was she, and very early in the morning she crept down to the kitchen and set to work. Before her usual rising time, Sadie ran downstairs, buttoning her dress as she went.
“Have you made ’em?” she demanded, her black eyes snapping.
“Yes,” Elizabeth glanced at the clock, “I’m just going to take them out.” She opened the oven door, then she gasped and her face whitened as she drew out the pans.
“Mygoodness!” cried Sadie. “Elizabeth Page—what ails ’em?”
“O—O!” wailed Elizabeth, “I must have left out the baking powder—and I never did before in all my life!”
“Well!” Sadie exploded. “If this is the way you’re going to——” Then the misery in Elizabeth’s face was too much for her. She stopped short, biting her tongue to keep back the bitter words.
Elizabeth crouched beside the oven, her tears dropping on the cakes.
“O, come now—no need to cry all over ’em—they’re flat enough without any extra wetting,” Sadie exclaimed after a moment’s silence. “You just fling them out an’ make some more after breakfast. I bet you’ll never leave out the baking powder again.”
“I never, nevercouldagain,” sobbed Elizabeth.
“O, forget it, an’ come on in to breakfast,” Sadie said with more sympathy in her heart than in her words.
“I don’t want any—I couldn’t eat a mouthful. You take in the coffee, Sadie—everything else is on the table.”
“Well, you just make more cakes then. They’ll be all right—the next ones—I know they will,” and coffee-pot in hand, Sadie whisked into the dining-room.
And the next cakes were all right. Sadie gloated over them as Elizabeth spread the icing, and added the fancy touches with pink sugar and citron.
When she had gone away with the cakes Elizabeth cooked and cleaned, washed dishes, and swept, but all the time her thoughts followed Sadie. She dared not let herself hope, and yet the time seemed endless. But at last the front door slammed, there were flying feet in the hall, and Sadie burst into the kitchen, flushed and triumphant.
“O—O Sadie—did you—will they——?” Elizabeth stumbled over the words, her breath catching in her throat.
Sadie tossed her basket on the table and bounced into the nearest chair. “Did I, and will they?” she taunted gaily. “Well, I guess Ididand theywill, Elizabeth Page!”
“O, do tell me, Sadie—quick!” Elizabeth begged, and she listened with absorbed attention to the story of Sadie’s experiences, and could hardly believe that Mr. Burchell had really agreed to sell for her.
“I bet Miss Laura had been talking to him,” Sadieended, “for he asked me if I knew her and then said right away he’d take your cakes every Wednesday and Saturday.Nowwhat you got to say?”
“N-n-nothing,” cried Elizabeth, “only—if I can really,reallysell them, I’ll be most too happy to live!”
All that day Elizabeth went around with a song in her heart. The first consignment of cakes sold promptly, and then orders began to come in. It meant extra work for her, but if only she could keep on selling she would not mind that. And as the weeks slipped away, every Saturday she added to the little store of bills in her bureau drawer. Even when she had paid for her materials and Mr. Burchell’s commission, and for a girl who helped her with the Saturday work, there was so much left that she counted it and recounted it with almost incredulous joy. All this her very own—she who never before had had even one dollar of her own! O, it was a lovely world after all, Elizabeth told herself joyfully.
But after a while she noticed a change in Sadie. She was still interested in the cake-making, but now it seemed a cold critical interest, lacking the warm sympathy and delight in it which she had shown at first. Elizabeth longed to ask what was wrong but she had not the courage, so she only questioned with her eyes. Maybe by-and-by Sadie would tell her. If not—with a long sigh Elizabeth would leave it there, wistfully hoping. So April came and Elizabeth was eighteen years old, though still she looked two years younger. She did not suppose that any one but herself would remember her birthday—no one ever had through all the years. Sadie’s glance seemed sharper and colder than usual that morning, and Elizabethsorrowfully wondered why. The postman came just as Sadie was starting for school. He handed her an envelope addressed to Elizabeth, and she carried it to the kitchen.
“Forme?” Elizabeth cried, hastily taking her hands from the dish-water. She drew from the envelope a birthday card in water-colour with Laura’s initials in one corner.
“O, isn’t it lovely!” she cried. “I never had a birthday—anything—before. Isn’t it beautiful, Sadie?”
“Uh-huh,” was all Sadie’s response, but her lack of enthusiasm could not spoil Elizabeth’s pleasure in the gift. Somebody remembered—Miss Laura remembered and made that just for her, and joy sang in her heart all day. And in the evening Olga came bringing a little silver pin. Elizabeth looked at it with incredulous delight.
“Forme!” she said again. “O Olga, did you really make this for me?”
Olga laughed. “Why not?”
“I—I can’t find anything to say—I want to say so much,” Elizabeth cried, her lips quivering.
Olga leaned over and kissed her. “I just enjoyed making it—for you,” she said.
She was almost startled at the radiance in Elizabeth’s eyes then. “It has been the loveliest day of all my life!” she whispered. “I——”
They were in Elizabeth’s little room, and now hurried footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Sadie pushed open the door.
“That yours?” she demanded, her sharp eyes on the pin.
Elizabeth held it towards her with a happy smile. “Olga made it for me. Isn’t it lovely?”
Sadie did not answer, but plumped herself down on the narrow cot. When Olga had gone, Sadie still sat there, her black eyes cold and unfriendly. “Don’t see why you lugged Olga up here,” she began.
“She asked me to.”
“Humph!” Sadie grunted.
“Sadie,” Elizabeth said, gently, “what is the matter? Have I done anything you don’t like?”
“I didn’t say so.”
“No, but you’ve been different to me lately, and I don’t know why. You were so nice a few weeks ago—you don’t know how glad it made me. I hoped we were going to be real sisters, but now,” she drew a long sorrowful breath, “it is as it used to be.”
Sadie, swinging one foot, gnawed at a fingernail. Finally, “I helped you start the cake-making,” she reminded.
“I know—I never forget it,” Elizabeth said warmly.
“You’ve made a lot of money——”
“It seems a lot to me—forty-seven dollars—just think of it! I haven’t spent any except for materials.”
“And you’ll make more.”
“Yes, but Mr. Burchell says cakes don’t sell after it gets hot. He won’t want any after May.”
“That’s four or five weeks longer. You’ll have enough to get you heaps of fine clothes,” Sadie flung out enviously, with one of her needle-sharp glances.
“O—clothes!” returned Elizabeth slightingly. “I suppose I must have a few—shoes, and a plain hat and a blue serge skirt, and some blouses—they won’t cost much.”
“Then whatareyou going to do with all that money?” Sadie blurted out the question impatiently.
Elizabeth smiled into the frowning face—a beautiful happy smile—as she answered gently, “I’ll tell you, Sadie. I’ve been longing to tell you only—only you’ve held me off so lately. I’m going to send two girls to Camp Nepahwin for three weeks in August. I’m one of the girls and—you are the other.”
For once in her life Sadie Page was genuinely astonished and genuinely ashamed. For a long moment she sat quite still, the colour slowly mounting in her face until it flamed. Then, all the sharpness gone from her voice, she stammered, “I—I—Elizabeth, I neverthoughtof such a thing as you paying for me. I—think you’re real good!” and she was gone.
Elizabeth looked after her with a smile, all the shadows gone from her blue eyes.
One hot evening a week later, Elizabeth and Sadie met Lizette at Olga’s door. She silently led the way to her own room.
“Olga’s sick,” she said, dropping wearily down on the bed.
“What’s the matter?” Sadie demanded before Elizabeth could speak.
“It’s a fever. The doctor can’t tell yet whether it’s typhoid or malarial, but she’s very sick. The doctor has sent a nurse to take care of her.”
“I wish I could help take care of her,” Elizabeth said earnestly.
“Well, you can’t!” Sadie snapped out. “And, anyhow, she doesn’t need you if she has a nurse.”
“But the nurse must sleep sometimes—I could helpthen. O Lizette, ask Olga to let me,” Elizabeth pleaded.
“She won’t.” Lizette shook her head. “Much as ever she’ll let me do anything. I get the meals for the nurse—Olga takes only milk. The nurse says she can do with only four hours’ sleep, and I can see to Olga that little time.”
“No,” Elizabeth said decidedly, “no, Lizette, you have your work at the shop and the cooking. You mustn’t do more than that. I can come after supper—at eight o’clock—and stay till twelve——”
“You couldn’t go home all alone at midnight—you know you couldn’t,” Sadie interrupted.
“I needn’t to. I could sleep in a chair till morning.”
“As to that, you could sleep on the nurse’s cot, I guess,” Lizette admitted. “Well, if Olga will let you—I’ll ask her.”
But as she started up Elizabeth gently pushed her back. “No, don’t ask her. I’ll just come to-morrow night, anyway.”
“Let it go so, then,” Lizette answered. “Maybe it will be best, for I’m pretty well tired out myself with the heat, and worrying over Olga, and all. I knew she was overworking but I couldn’t help it.”
On the way home Elizabeth was silent until Sadie broke out gloomily, “I s’pose if she don’t get better you won’t go to the camp, ’Lizabeth.”
“O,no, I couldn’t go away and leave her sick—of course, I couldn’t.”
“Huh!” growled Sadie. “You don’t think aboutme, only just about Olga, and she isn’t your sister.”
At another time Elizabeth would have smiled at this belated claim of relationship, but now she said only,“Olga has been so good to me, Sadie—I never can forget it—and now when I have a chance to do a little for her, I’m sogladto do it! I couldn’t enjoy the camp if I left her here sick, but it won’t make any difference to you. You can go just the same.”
Sadie’s face cleared at that. “We-ell,” she agreed, “I might just as well go. I couldn’t do anything much for Olga if I stayed; and maybe, anyhow, she’ll get well before the tenth. I’m most sure she will.”
“O, I hope so,” Elizabeth sighed, but she was not thinking of the camp.
Anxious weeks followed, for Olga was very sick. Day after day the fever held her in restless misery, and when at last it yielded to the treatment, it left her weak and worn—the shadow of her former self.
Then one morning Miss Laura came, and carried her and the nurse off to the yacht, and there followed quiet, restful, beautiful days for Olga—such days as she had never dreamed of. Judge Haven and Jim, and Jo Barton were on the yacht, but she saw little of any one except Miss Laura and the nurse, and day by day strength came back to her body as the joy of life flooded her soul.
One night sitting on deck in the moonlight, she said suddenly, “Miss Laura, I’m glad of this sickness.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve learned a big lesson. I’ve learned why Camp Fire Girls must ‘Hold on to health.’ I didn’t know before, else I would not have been so careless—so wicked. I see now that it was all my own fault. I should not have been sick if I had taken care of myself—if I had held on to my health as you tried so hard to make me do.”
“Yes, dear, you had to have a hard lesson because you had always had such splendid health that you didn’t know what it would mean to lose it.”
“Yes,” Olga agreed, “I didn’t believe that I could get sick—I was so strong. And down in my heart I really half believed that people need not be sick—that it was mostly imagination. I shall not be so uncharitable after this.”
“Girls need not be sick many times when they are,” Laura said, “if they would be more careful and reasonable.”
“I know. I won’t go with wet feet any more,” Olga promised, “and I won’t work fourteen hours a day and go without eating, as I’ve been doing this summer. You see, Miss Laura, when I got the order for all that silver work, I knew that if I could fill it satisfactorily, it would mean many other orders. And I did—I finished the last piece the day I was taken sick. But now the money I got for it will go to the doctor and the nurse, and I’ve lost all this time and other work. And that isn’t all. My sickness made it harder for Lizette and Elizabeth. I can’t forgive myself for that. They were so good to me, and so were all the Camp Fire Girls! Every single one of them came to see me, some of them many times, and they brought so many things, and all wanted to stay and help—O, they are the dearest girls!”
Laura’s eyes searched the eyes of the other in the moonlight.
“Olga, are you happy?” she asked softly.
Olga caught her breath and for a moment was silent. When she spoke there was wonder and a great joy in her voice. “O, I am—I am!” she said. “And—and Ibelieve I have been for a long time, but I never realised it till this minute. I didn’twantto be happy—I didn’t mean to be—after mother died. I shut my heart tight and wouldn’t see anything pleasant or happy in all my world. It was so when I went to the camp last year. I went just to please Miss Grandis because she had gotten me into the Arts and Crafts work, and though I wanted to refuse, I couldn’t, when she asked me to go. But I’m so glad now that I went—soglad! Just think if I had not gone, and had never known you and Elizabeth, and Lizette, and the others! Miss Laura, I can’t ever be half glad enough for all that the Camp Fire has done for me.”
“You will pay it all back—to others, Olga,” Laura said gently, her eyes shining. “When I made you my Torch Bearer, you did not realise the importance of holding on to health, nor the duty as well as privilege of being happy. Now you do.”
“O, I do—Ido!” the girl cried earnestly.
“So now my Torch Bearer is ready to lead others.”
“I’ll be glad to do it now. I want to ‘pass on’ all that you and the girls have done for me. It will take a lifetime to do it, though. And—I’m not half good enough for a Torch Bearer, Miss Laura.”
“If you thought you were good enough I shouldn’t want you to be one,” Laura answered.
XVICAMP FIRE GIRLS AND THE FLAG
Miss Laura’s girls had been at the camp a few days when Sadie Page one morning raced breathlessly up to a group of them, crying out, “There’s a big white yacht coming—I saw it from the Lookout. Do you s’pose it’s Judge Haven’s?”
“Won’t it be splendid if it is—if it’s bringing Miss Laura and Olga!” Frances Chapin cried. “Could you see the name, Sadie?”
“No, it was too far off.”
“Let’s borrow Miss Anne’s glass,” cried two or three voices, and Frances ran off in search of Anne Wentworth. When she returned with the glass, they all rushed over to the Lookout. The yacht was just dropping anchor as they turned the glass upon it and Frances cried out,
“O, it is—it is! I can read the name easily. Here, look!” she surrendered the glass to Elsie.
“Itisthe Sea Gull,” Elsie confirmed her, “and they are lowering a boat already.”
“O, tell us if Miss Laura gets into it, and Olga,” cried Lizette.
“Two men—sailors, I suppose, two girls, and two boys,” Elsie announced.
“Then it’s Miss Laura and Olga and Jim and Jo Barton,” Frances cried joyfully.
A favorite rendezvous at the campA favorite rendezvous at the camp
“Let’s hurry down to the landing to meet them,” Mary Hastings proposed, and instantly the whole group turned and raced back to camp to leave the glass, with the joyous announcement, “Miss Laura’s coming, and Olga. We’re going to the landing to meet them.” And waiting for no response they sped through the pines to the landing-steps, Elsie snatching up a flag as she passed her own tent.
“Let’s all go,” one of the other girls cried, but Miss Anne said,
“No, let Miss Laura’s girls have the first greeting—they all love her so! But we might go to the Lookout and wave her a welcome from there.”
“What shall we wave?” some one asked, and another cried, “O, towels, handkerchiefs—anything. Buthurry!” and they did, reaching the Lookout breathless and laughing, to see the yacht resting like a great bird on the blue water, and the small boat already nearing the point.
“Get your breath, girls, then—the wohelo cheer,” said Miss Anne.
Two score young voices followed her lead, and as they chanted, the white banners fluttered in the breeze. Instantly there came a response from the boat in fluttering handkerchiefs and waving caps, while the girls below on the landing echoed back the wohelo greeting.
But when the boat rounded the point the voices of those on the landing wavered into silence. They were too glad to sing as they saw Laura and Olga coming back to them—they could only wait in silence. Lizette’s lips were quivering nervously and Elizabeth’s blue eyes were full of happy tears. Even Sadie for once was silent, but she waved her handkerchieffrantically to the two boys who were gaily swinging their caps. When the boat reached the landing, however, and the girls crowded about Laura and Olga, tongues were loosened, and everybody talked.
“How well Olga looks!” Mary cried.
“Doesn’t she? I’m so proud of her for gaining so fast!” Laura laughed.
“I couldn’t help gaining with all she has done for me,” Olga said with a grateful glance.
“And you’ve come to stay? Do say you have, Miss Laura,” the girls begged.
“Of course, we’re going to stay—we’ve been homesick for the camp,” Laura answered.
“That’s splendid. We’ve missed you so!” they cried.
“The camp’s fine. I’m having the time of my life!” Sadie declared, and added, “Elizabeth, you haven’t said one word.”
“She doesn’t need to,” Olga put in quickly, her hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder.
They were climbing the steps now, and at the camp they were greeted with another song of welcome from the Guardians and the rest of the girls, and then Laura put Olga into the most comfortable hammock to rest and, leaving Elizabeth beside her, carried the others off for a talk.
That night the supper was a festival. The girls had gathered masses of purple asters with which they had filled every available dish to decorate the tables, the mantelpiece, and even the tents where the newcomers were to sleep. Miss Anne had brought to camp a big box of tiny tapers, and these stuck in yellow apples made a glow of light along the tables.
Nobody appreciated all this more than Jim. With his hands in his pockets he stood looking about admiringly, and finally expressed his opinion thus: “Gee, but it’s pretty! Camp Fire Girls beat the Scouts some ways, if they ain’t so patriotic.”
Instantly there was an outburst of reproach and denial from Miss Laura’s girls.
“O, come, Jim, that’s not fair!”
“We’rejustas patriotic as the Scouts!”
“Boy Scouts can’t hold a candle to Camp Fire Girlsanyway!”
“We’ll put you out if you go back on Camp Fire Girls, Jim.”
Jim, flushed and a little bewildered at the storm he had raised, instinctively sidled towards Laura, while Jo, close behind him, chuckled, “Started a hornets’ nest that time, ol’ feller.”
Laura, her arm about the boy’s shoulders, quickly interposed. “We’ll let Jim explain another time. I know he thinks Camp Fire Girls are the nicest girls there are, don’t you, Jim?”
“Sure!” Jim assented hastily, and peace was restored—for the time.
But the girls did not forget nor allow Jim to. The next night after supper they swooped down on him.
“Now tell us, Jim,” Lena Barton began, “why you think Boy Scoots are more patriotic than we are.”
“’Tisn’t BoyScoots—you know it isn’t,” Jim countered, flushing.
“O, excuse me.” Lena bowed politely. “I only had one letter wrong, and, anyhow, they do scoot, don’t they? Well, Boy Scouts then, if you like that better.”
“They love the flag better’n you do—lotsbetter!” Jim declared with conviction.
“Prove it! Prove it!” cried half a dozen voices.
“Er—er——” Jim choked and stammered, searching desperately for words. “You’ve got an awful nice Camp Fire room at Miss Laura’s, but you haven’t even a little teeny flag in it, and Scoutsalwayshave a flag in their rooms—don’t they, Jo?” he ended in triumph.
“You bet they do!” Jo stoutly supported his friend.
“Ho! That doesn’t prove anything. Besides, we’llhavea flag when we go back,” Lena asserted promptly.
“Well, anyhow, girls an’ women can’t fight for the flag, so of course, theycan’tbe so patriotic,” Jim declared.
“Can’t, eh? How about the women that go to nurse the wounded men?” said Mary.
“And the women that send their husbands and sons to fight?” added Elsie.
“And how about——” began another girl, but Laura’s hand falling lightly on her lips, cut short the question, and then Laura dropped down on the grass pulling Jim down beside her. Holding his hand in both hers, and softly patting it, she said, “Sit down, girls, and we’ll talk this matter over. Jim’s hardly big enough or old enough to face you all at once. But, honestly, don’t you think there is some truth in what he says? As Camp Fire Girls, do we think as much about patriotism as the Scouts do? Elsie, you have a Scout brother, what do you think about it?”
Elsie laughed but flushed a little too as she answered, “I hate to admit it, but I don’t think we do.”
“Time we did then. We can’t have any Boy Scouts getting ahead of us,” Lena declared emphatically.
Jim, gathering courage from Miss Laura’s championship, looked up with a mischievous smile. “Bet you can’t tell about the stars and stripes in the flag,” he said.
“Can you? How many can?” Miss Laura looked about the group. “Elsie, Frances—and Mary—I see you can, and nobody else is sure. How does it happen?” There was a twinkle now in her eyes. “Is there any special reason for you three being better posted than the others?”
The three girls exchanged smiling glances, and Elsie admitted reluctantly, “I think there is—a Boy Scout reason—isn’t there, Mary?” and as Mary Hastings nodded, Elsie went on, “You know my brother Jack is the most loyal of Scouts, and before he was old enough to be one, he had learned all the things that a boy has to know to join—and to describe the flag is one of those things. He discovered one day that I didn’t know how many stars there are on it and how they are arranged, and he was so dreadfully distressed and mortified at my ignorance that I had to take a flag lesson from him on the spot—and it was a thorough one.”
“Uh huh!” Jim triumphed under his breath, but the girls heard and there was a shout of laughter. Over the boy’s head Laura’s laughing eyes swept the group.
“Jim,” she said, “will you ask Miss Anne to lend us her flag for a few minutes?”
“Won’t ours do? Jo’n’ I’ve got one,” Jim cried instantly, and as Miss Laura nodded, he scampered off.
“I think Jim has won, girls,” she said, and then the laughter dying out of her eyes, added gravely, “Really I quite agree with him. I think we—I mean our own Camp Fire—have not given as much thought to patriotism as we ought. There have been so many things for us to talk about and work for! But we’ll learn the flag to-day, and when we go home, it may be well for us to arrange a sort of ‘course’ in patriotism for the coming year. Of all girls in America, those who live in Washington ought to be the most interested in their own country. We will all be more patriotic—better Americans—a year from now.”
Jim came running back with a small silk flag. He held it up proudly for the inspection of the girls, and it was safe to say that they would all remember that brief object lesson. It was Lena whose eyes lingered longest on the boy’s eager face as he looked at the flag.
“He does—he reallylovesit,” she said wonderingly to Elsie standing beside her. “He’s right. We girls don’t care for it that way—honest we don’t.”
“Maybe not just for the flag,” Elsie admitted, “but we care just as much as boys do for our country. Don’t you think we do, Miss Laura?”
“I’m not sure, Elsie. You see many boys look forward to a soldier’s life, and most of them feel that they may some time have to fight for their flag—their country—and so perhaps they think more about it than girls do. And patriotism is made prominent among the Scouts.”
“They always salute the flag wherever they see it,” Mary said.
“Must keep ’em busy in Washington,” Lena observed.
“It does. Jim is forever saluting it when he is out with me,” Laura replied, “but he never seems to tire of it, and I like to see him do it.”
“The girls salute it in the schools—you know we have Flag Day every year,” Frances added.
“Yes, and it is a good thing. There is no danger of any of us caring too much for our country or the flag that represents it. When I catch sight of our flag in a foreign land I always want to kiss it.”
“Can’t we have one in our Camp Fire room when we go back?” Lena asked.
“We surely will. I’m really quite ashamed of myself for not having one long ago. We owe something—do we not?—to a going-to-be Boy Scout for reminding us?” Laura said.
They admitted that they did. “But, anyhow,” Frances Chapin added, “even if they do think more about theflag, I won’t admit that Scouts love their country any more than we Camp Fire Girls do. We arequiteas patriotic as any Boy Scouts.”
“And that’s right!” Lena flung out as the group separated.
XVIISONIA
“O dear, I did hope it wouldn’t be awfully hot when we got back, but it is,” Lizette Stone sighed on the day they returned from camp. “Just think of the breeze on the Lookout this very minute!”
Olga glanced over her shoulder with a smile as she threw open her door. “Let’s pretend it’s cool here too,” she said. “I’m so thankful to be well and strong again that I’m determined to be satisfied with things as they are. The camp was lovely and Miss Laura and the girls were dear, but this is home, and my work is waiting for me, and I’mable to do it. And you have your lovely work too, Lizette, and your home corner across the hall.”
Lizette looked at her half wondering, half envious, as she slowly pulled out her hatpins. “I never knew a fever to change a girl as that one changed you, Olga Priest,” she said.
“Is the change for the better?”
“Yes, it is, but——”
“But what?” Olga questioned, half laughing, yet a little curious too.
“Just think of the Lookout this very minute!”“Just think of the Lookout this very minute!”
“Well—all is, I can’t keep up with you,” Lizette dropped unconsciously into one of her country phrasings. “I can’t help getting into the doleful dumps sometimes, and I can’t—I justcan’tbe happy and contented with the mercury at ninety-three. I guess it’s easier for some folks to stand the heat than it is for others.”
“I think it is,” Olga admitted. “Give me your hat. Now take that fan and sit there by the window till I come back. I’m not so tired as you are, and I must get something for our supper.”
While she was gone Lizette sat thinking of the Camp with its shady woods and blue water and wishing herself back there. She had had three weeks there, but a hateful little imp was whispering in her ear that some of the girls were staying four or five weeks, and it wasn’t fair—it wasn’tfair! Of course it was better to earn her living doing embroidery than in Goldstein’s store, but still, some girls didn’t have to earn their living at all, and——
The door opened and Olga came breezily in, her hands full of bundles. “I really ought to have taken a basket,” she said. “There’s the nicest little home bakery opened just around the corner—I got bread there.”
“I’m not a bit hungry,” Lizette said listlessly, then started up, crying out, “Well, I am ashamed of myself! I meant to have the table set when you came back, and I forgot all about it.”
“Never mind—I’ll have it ready in a minute. Sit still, Lizette.”
But Lizette insisted upon helping, and her face brightened as Olga set forth fresh bread, nut cakes, ice cold milk, and a dish of sliced peaches.
“Weren’t you mistaken?” Olga asked with a laugh. “Aren’t you a little bit hungry?”
“Yes, I am. How good that bread looks—and the peaches.”
“After all it is rather nice to be back here at our own little table, isn’t it?” Olga asked as they lingered over the meal.
Lizette looked at her curiously. “Olga Priest, what makes you so happy to-night?” she demanded. “I never saw you so before.”
“Maybe not quite so happy, but wasn’t I happy all the time at camp? Wasn’t I, Lizette?”
“Yes—yes, you were, only I didn’t notice it so much there with all the girls, and something always going on. You never were so here before. Sometimes you wouldn’t smile for days at a time.”
“I know. I hadn’t realised then that I could be happy if I’d let myself be—and that I had no right not to.”
“Norightnot to,” Lizette echoed with a puzzled frown. “I don’t seethat. I should think anybody might have the privilege of being blue if she likes.”
“No.” Olga shook her head with decision. “No, not when she has health, and work that she likes, and friends. A girl has no right to be unhappy under those conditions—and I’ve found it out at last. I’m going to keep my Camp Fire promises now as I never have done.”
After a little silence she went on, “I’ve such beautiful plans for our Camp Fire this year! One of them is to learn all we can about our country. We can’t have Jim,” laughter flashed into her eyes as she thought of him, “thinking us less patriotic than his beloved Scouts. And we can see and learn so much right here in Washington! I’m ashamed to think how little Iknow about this beautiful city where I’ve lived all my life. I mean to ‘know my Washington’ thoroughly before I’m a year older.”
Lizette did not seem much interested in patriotism, but she laughed over the remembrance of the indignation of the girls at Jim’s remark about their lack of it. “He did look so plucky, facing us all that day, didn’t he!” she said. “And he was scared too at the rumpus he had raised; but all the same he didn’t back down.”
“No, Jim wouldn’t back down if he thought he was right no matter how scared he might be inside.”
“Well,” Lizette yawned, “I’m so sleepy I can hardly hold my eyes open. Let’s wash the dishes and then I’m going straight to bed.”
She came in to breakfast the next morning in a different mood.
“Didn’t we have a glorious rain in the night!” she cried gaily. “And it left a lovely cool breeze behind it. Last night I felt like a wet rag, but this morning I’m a different creature. Itisgood to be ‘home’ again, Olga, and I don’t mind going back to the shop.”
“That’s good!” Olga’s eyes were shining as they had shone the night before.
The two set off together after breakfast, and wished each other good luck as they parted at the door of Miss Bayly’s shop. Lizette came back at night jubilant. “I got my good luck, Olga,” she cried. “I’m to have eight a week now. Isn’t that fine?”
“Indeed it is—congratulations, Lizette. And I had my good luck too—better than I dared hope for—two splendid orders. Now we can both settle down to work and get a nice start before the next Camp Firemeeting. I’m going to try to keep half a day a week free for our ‘learning Washington’ trips.”
“Personally conducted?” Lizette laughed.
“Personally conducted. Your company is solicited, Miss Stone, whenever your other engagements will permit.”
Over the tea-table they talked of work and Camp Fire plans, and then Lizette went off to her own “corner” and Olga took up a book. She had been reading for an hour when her quick ears caught the sound of hesitating steps outside her door—steps that seemed to linger uncertainly. Thinking that some stranger might have wandered in from the street, she rose and quietly slipped her bolt. As she did so there came a knock at the door. She stood still, listening intently. No one ever came to her door except the landlady or the Camp Fire Girls, and none of them would knock in this hesitating fashion. She was not in the least timid, and when the knock was repeated she opened the door. She found herself facing a woman, young, in a soiled and wrinkled dress and shabby hat, and carrying a baby in her arms.
“Olga—it is Olga?” the woman exclaimed half doubtfully.
Olga did not answer. She stood staring into the woman’s face and suddenly her own whitened and her eyes widened with dismay.
“You?” she said under her breath. “You!”
“Yes, I—Sonia. Aren’t you going to let me in?”
For an instant Olga hesitated, then she stood aside, but in that moment all the happy hopefulness seemed to melt out of her heart. It was as if a black shadowof disaster had entered the quiet room at the heels of the draggled woman and her child.
“This is a warm welcome, I must say, to your own sister,” Sonia said in a querulous tone, as she dropped into the easiest chair and laid the child across her knees. It made no sound, but lay as it was placed, its eyes half closed and its tiny face pinched and colourless.
“I—I can’t realise that it is really—you,” Olga said. “Where did you come from, and how did you find me?”
“I came from—many places. As to finding you—that was easy. You are not so far from the old neighbourhood where I left you.”
“Yes—you left me,” Olga echoed slowly, her face dark with the old sombre gloom. “You left me, a child of thirteen, with no money, and mother—dying!”
“I suppose it was rather hard on you, but you were always a plucky one, and I knew well enough you would pull through somehow. As to mother, of course I didn’t know—she’d been ailing so long,” Sonia defended herself, “and Dick wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Ihadto go with him.”
Olga was silent, but in her heart a fierce battle was raging. She knew her sister—knew her selfish disregard of the rights or wishes of others, and she realised that much might depend on what was said now.
“Well?” Sonia questioned, breaking the silence abruptly.
Olga drew a long weary breath. “I—I can’t think,Sonia,” she said. “You have taken me so by surprise. I don’t know what to say.”
“I suppose you’re not going to turn us into the street to-night—the baby and me?”
“Of course not,” Olga answered, and added, “Is the baby sick?”
Sonia’s eyes rested for a moment on the small pallid face, but there was no softening in them when she looked up again. “She’s never been well. The first one died—the boy. This one cried day and night for weeks after she came. Dick couldn’t stand it, and no wonder. That’s the reason he cleared out—one reason.”
“His own child!” cried Olga indignantly, and as she looked at the pitiful white face her heart warmed towards the little creature, She held out her hands. “Let me take her.”
Sonia promptly transferred the baby to her sister’s arms, and rising, crossed to the small sleeping-room.
“You’re pretty well fixed here, with two rooms,” she remarked.
“It’s hardly more than one—the bedroom is so small.”
“What do you do for a living?” Sonia demanded.
Olga told her.
“Hm. Any money in it?”
“I make a living, but I had a long sickness last summer and it took all I had and more to pay the bills.”
“O well,” replied Sonia carelessly, “you’ll earn more. You look well enough now.” She stretched her arms and yawned. “I’m dead tired. How about sleeping? That single bed won’t hold the three of us.”
“You can sleep there—I’ll sleep on the floor to-night. There’s no other way,” Olga answered.
“All right then. I’ll get to bed in a hurry,” and taking the child from her sister, Sonia undressed it as carelessly as if it had been a doll. The baby half opened its heavy eyes and whimpered a little, but did not really awaken.
When Sonia and the child were in bed, Olga went across to Lizette’s room. Lizette’s welcoming smile vanished at sight of the stern set face, and she drew Olga quickly in and shut the door.
“O, what is it? What has happened, Olga?” she cried anxiously.
“My sister has come with her baby. I don’t know how long she will stay.” Olga spoke in a dull lifeless voice. “I came to tell you, so that you could get your breakfast somewhere else. You wouldn’t enjoy having it with me—now.”
“O Olga, I’m so sorry—sosorry!” Lizette cried, her hands on her friend’s shoulders, her voice full of warm sympathy.
“I know, Lizette,” Olga answered, a quivering smile stirring for an instant the old hard line of her set lips. Then she turned away, forgetting to say good-night. When the door closed behind her, Lizette’s eyes were full of tears.
“O, it’s a shame—a shame!” she said aloud. “To think how happy she was only last night, and now—now she looks as she did a year ago before Elizabeth went to the camp. O, I wonder why that sister had to come back!”
Lizette lay awake long that night, her heart full of sympathy for her friend, and Olga, lying on herhard bed on the floor, did not sleep at all. She went out early to the market, and coming back, prepared breakfast, but when she called her sister, Sonia answered drowsily:
“I’m too tired to get up, Olga. Bring me some coffee and toast here, will you?”
Olga carried her a tray, and Sonia ate and drank and then turned over and went to sleep again, and Olga, having washed the dishes, went off to the school. All day she worked steadily, forcing back the thoughts that crowded continually into her mind; but when she turned homewards the dark thoughts swooped down upon her like a flock of ravens, blotting out all her happy hopes and joyous plans, for she knew—only too well she knew—what she had to expect if Sonia remained.
“Well, you’ve come at last!” was her sister’s greeting. “I hope you’ve brought something nice for supper. I’m nearly starved. And you didn’t leave half enough milk for the baby.”
“I left plenty for your dinner,” Olga answered, “and I thought you could get more milk for the baby if you wanted it.”
“Get more! How could I get it without money? And you didn’t leave me a penny,” Sonia complained.
Olga brought out a bottle of malted milk. “That will do for to-night, won’t it?” she said, trying to speak cheerfully.
“I don’t know anything about this stuff.” Sonia was reading the label with a scowl. “You’ll have to fix it; and do hurry, for she’s been fretting for an hour.”
Without a word, Olga prepared the food and handedit to her sister; then she set about getting supper; but when it was ready she felt suddenly too tired to eat. Sonia ate heartily, however, remarking with a glance at Olga’s empty plate, “I suppose you got a good dinner down town.”
“I haven’t eaten a mouthful since breakfast,” Olga told her wearily.
“O well,” Sonia returned, “some folks don’t need much food, but I do. If I don’t have three solid meals a day I’m not fit for anything.” Then looking at the baby lying on a pillow in a chair beside her, she added, “Really she seems to like that malted stuff. You’d better bring back another bottle to-morrow. There isn’t much left in this one.”
“Isn’t that my dress you have on?” Olga asked suddenly.
“Yes, I had to have something fresh—mine was so mussed and dirty,” Sonia replied lightly. “Lucky for me we’re about the same size.”
“But not lucky for me,” was Olga’s thought.
For a week things went on so—Sonia occasionally offering to wash the dishes, but leaving her sister to do everything else. Then one night Olga found her best suit in a heap on the closet floor. Picking it up she spoke sharply. “Sonia, have you been wearing this suit of mine?”
“Well, what if I have? You needn’t look so savage about it!” Sonia retorted. “I have to have something decent to wear on the street, don’t I?”
“Not if you have nothing decent of your own,” Olga flashed back. “Sonia, you have norightto wear my things so—without asking!”
With a provoking smile Sonia responded, “I knewbetter than to ask. I knew you’d make a fuss about it. If you don’t want me to wear your clothes why don’t you give me money to buy something decent for myself? Then I wouldn’t need to borrow.”
Olga’s thoughts were in such an angry whirl that for a moment she dared not trust herself to speak. She shook out the suit and hung it up, then she went slowly across the room and sat down facing her sister.
“Sonia,” she began, “we can’t go on in this way—I cannot endure it. Now let us have a plain understanding. You came here of your own choice—not on my invitation. What are your plans? Do you mean to stay on here indefinitely?”
“Why, of course. Where else should I stay?”
“Then,” said Olga decidedly, “you must help pay our expenses. You are well and strong. Why should you expect me to support you?”
“Why? Because you have a trade and I have not, for one reason. And besides, there’s the baby—I can’t leave her to go out to work.” There was a note of triumph in Sonia’s voice.
“You could get work to do at home—sewing, embroidery, knitting—or something.”
“‘Or something!’” There was fretful impatience now in Sonia’s tone. “I hate sewing—any kind of sewing. You know I always did.”
“Then what will you do?”
Sonia sat looking down in sulky silence at the baby.
Olga went on, “If there is no work you can do at home, you must find something outside. You can go into a store as you did before you were married.”
“And I guess,” Sonia broke out angrily, “if you’d ever stood behind a counter from eight in the morningto six at night, you’d know how nicethatis! You earn enough. I think it’s real mean and stingy of you to grudge a share of it to this poor sick baby—and me. I do so!”
“I don’t grudge anything to the baby, Sonia, though I do think it is your business to provide for her, not mine. But I say again it is not right for me to have to support you, and I am not willing to do it. It is best to speak plainly once for all.”
“Well, I should say youwerespeaking plainly,” Sonia flung out with an unpleasant smile. She rocked with a quick motion, her brows drawn into a frown. “How can I go into a store, even if I could get a place? I couldn’t take the baby with me,” she muttered.
“I could bring my work home—most of it—and you could leave the baby with me.”
“Ah ha! I knew it. I knew you could do your work here if you wanted to,” Sonia triumphed, pointing to the bench in the corner. “You just don’t want to stay here with me.” Olga made no denial and her sister went on in a complaining tone, “Anyhow I’d like to know how I’m going to get a place anywhere when I’ve no decent clothes. You know it makes all the difference how one is dressed.”
“That is true,” Olga admitted, “but, Sonia, I cannot buy you a suit. I haven’t the money.”
“You could borrow it.”
Olga’s face flushed. “I’ve never borrowed a cent in my life or boughtanything on credit, except—mother’s coffin,” she said passionately. “And I did night work till I paid for that. I cannot run in debt. Iwillnot!”
Sonia shrugged her shoulders. “Well then, if you want me to get a place, you’ll just have to let me wear that suit of yours that you are so choice of.”
Olga was silent. It was true that Sonia’s chance of securing employment would be small if she sought it in the shabby clothes which she had. But Olga needed that suit. The money which would have bought a new one had paid her doctor’s bill. Still—the important thing was to get Sonia to work. “I suppose,” she said slowly, “I shall have to let you wear it, but, Sonia, youmustrealise how it is, and do your best to find a place soon. Will you do that?”
“Why, of course,” returned Sonia with the light laugh that always irritated her sister. “You don’t suppose I like being dependent on you, do you?”
“I don’t think you’d mind, if I would give you money whenever you want it.”
Again Sonia laughed. “But that’s not imaginable, you know,” she answered airily. “It’s like drawing eyeteeth to get a dollar out of you. You’re a perfect miser, Olga Priest.”
Olga let that pass. “I had intended to keep my suit in Lizette’s closet after this, but I will leave it here if you will promise to begin to-morrow to look for work. Will you promise?”
“You certainly are the limit!” Sonia cried impatiently. “I believe you grudge me every mouthful I eat, and the baby her milk too—poor little soul!” She caught up the baby and kissed it.
“Will you promise, Sonia?” Olga repeated.
Sonia dropped the baby on her lap again. “OfcourseI promise. I told you so before. Now for pity’s sake give me a little peace!” she exclaimed.