Chapter IV: Part 4

It was good discipline for Brenda, because strangely enough she found herself more inclined to blame than to praise, and she could not help noticing how much defter and neater than all the others were the fingers of Concetta. Indeed, the latter did not really need the instruction. She had already, like many little Italian girls, served an apprenticeship in embroidery under her aunt. She did not intend to deceive any one in joining Brenda's class, but she could not bear the idea that she, among all the girls, should be deprived of the chance to be near the charming young lady, as she called Brenda, simply because she knew more than the others; so she too puckered her thread, and made occasional mistakes in fear lest perfection on her part should lead to her being excluded from the class.

Amy called herself a detached member of the Mansion staff. She could not give much time to assisting Miss South and Julia without neglecting her college work. But there were certain things that she could do in her leisure, and occasional spare hours she gave with great good-will to a class in literature. Amy was still devoted to her early love, "The Faery Queen," and once in a while, like Mr. Wegg, of fragrant memory, she dropped into poetry herself. She was winning her laurels in college, however, for more serious work than poetry--more serious, that is, in the eyes of the world; and already she was famous among her classmates for her literary ability.

Indirectly she had been the means of Haleema's going to the Mansion. It had happened in this way: during her first year in college she had gone once a week to play accompaniments at a College Settlement. In the chorus, for which she played, Haleema had been one of the most vociferous singers, and although Amy had not been able to see her much outside of the class, she had become much interested in the little girl, and had received one or two letters from her during the summer. What Haleema herself wrote, and what the head worker at the Settlement told her about Haleema's home life, convinced her that the little Syrian was exactly the kind of candidate desired for the Mansion school, and she was really pleased with her judgment when, after the first week or two, she heard Miss South and Julia praising the quickness and docility of her protegee. Haleema, however, was not a young person capable of great personal devotion, a fact that her pleading, poetic eyes seemed to contradict. As she sometimes confided to the other girls, she liked one person as well as another, and if she had gone a little further in her confidences, she might have said that the person in the ascendant was usually the one who at the time was doing some special favor for her. She appreciated presents, and had a hoard of pretty things stowed away in the bottom drawer of her bureau.

On Mondays Brenda often found herself going to the Mansion, chiefly because this was her only chance of seeing Amy. Monday, the Wellesley holiday, Amy gave in part to a Mansion class in literature, and when her little informal talk was at an end Brenda would seize her for a half-hour of "gossip," as she called it. Sometimes she arrived at the house before the class was over, and then, if she slipped into the class-room, Amy had not the heart to send her out. Amy protested that her work was by no means up to the standard that Brenda should look for in a teacher, while Brenda insisted that Amy's account of certain great poets and their work was so stimulating, that she should take up a course of reading herself; and, indeed, she did induce Amy to make out a list of books that she ought to read.

"I should rather they were interesting, but even if they are not really exciting, I'll promise to read at least three or four of them."

"To please me?" queried Amy.

"Well, partly to please you, but more to--to--well, to give me something to think about. Everything seems so dull and stupid this winter, that I'm going to try a homoeopathic remedy and try to read dull books--just to see if I can't strengthen my mind."

Then Amy, noticing that Brenda seemed far from happy, wisely asked no questions, and as they walked across the Common to the station they talked of everything except the subject that lay nearest Brenda's heart.

"How is Fritz Tomkins?" Brenda asked, almost abruptly, referring to an old playmate of Amy's, now a Harvard Sophomore.

"Oh, Fritz is doing splendidly. I hardly ever see him, and I'm so pleased."

"What a funny way of putting it--pleased because you seldom see him."

"Why, yes, because I know that means that he is so busy with his work that he has no time for other things. He has come to Wellesley only once this winter, and he tells me that he never worked so hard in his life."

If Amy's speech was a little disjointed, Brenda understood her, and in contrast her mind wandered to Arthur Weston. He, too, was busy, and perhaps doing his duty by remaining at his post in Washington. But unlike Amy, she did not feel pleased that he could so contentedly keep his back turned to his Boston friends. Consequently she sent only the briefest answers to his letters, and his replies became at last, if possible, briefer than hers.

Belle, however, kept her informed of Arthur's doings, and Brenda was never quite sure whether the information that she gave her was intended to please or to trouble her. She wrote, for example, of a riding party to Chevy Chase, where Arthur and Annabel Harmon had led all the others in gayety.

"Annabel Harmon!" The name was familiar; and soon Brenda recalled one of Julia's classmates at Radcliffe, a popular girl, and yet one whom some of the best girls did not like. She had had some trouble with that strange Clarissa Herter. Although Brenda had never cared so very much for Clarissa Herter, she was pleased now to recall that she had heard that Clarissa had in the end been more popular, or rather better liked, than Annabel. She remembered that Annabel's father was a politician, and when a second letter came with Annabel's name still connected closely with Arthur's, Brenda thought more deeply on the subject. She wondered if, perhaps, Arthur was planning to stay permanently in Washington, and if he hoped to get some position through the influence of Mr. Harmon.

Had Arthur been at home, Brenda would, undoubtedly, have given less time to the Mansion work; for in the first place, in starting the work Miss South had not counted on her aid. Other girls, more enthusiastic in the beginning, had given less service in the end, and Brenda was almost the only one who, without having promised much, was willing to do a great deal.

On the whole, Miss South was well pleased with the interest shown by her former pupils. There was Anstiss Rowe, for example, one of the most valued of the residents, who, after a year in society, had pronounced it all a bore. She had been one of the younger girls during Julia's days at Miss Crawdon's.

"You never knew," she said once to Julia, "my intense admiration for you. It would have spoiled it all had you known. But each of us little girls had to have some object of devotion, and you were my pattern of perfection."

"The idea!" responded Julia. "I suppose that I ought to blush, but what you say is too absurd."

"Oh, I suppose that you never wondered who used to send you those valentines; probably you had so many that you never thought about mine. But there was one with some lovely mother-of-pearl ornaments. In fact, I sent you two valentines that year, and two the next; but, of course, you wouldn't remember mine especially."

"It's all very touching, and, indeed, I do remember them, my dear Anstiss, for I have an idea that I received no other that year. At least, I have them safely put away at this very minute."

"Well, I suppose that you thought some extraordinary youth sent them."

"He would, indeed, have been extraordinary. But to tell you the truth, I suspected that some girl had a hand in them."

"We missed you when you went to College," said Anstiss meditatively.

Though Anstiss had pronounced society hollow and a bore, she had not entirely forsworn it, and at times she went home for a week or two, returning, however, always on the evening of her history reading. This was her special contribution to the school work.

Anstiss had her own protegee at the Mansion--a girl who had been in her Sunday-school class. Phoebe had been loath to leave school when her parents insisted, and Anstiss said it was merely avariciousness on their part, as her father was earning good pay. "When I came to investigate," she said, "I found that he was only her stepfather, and her mother said that she did not need her money. So in the end I was able to get her consent to her coming here. Phoebe was never very bright at school--"

Then Julia interrupted her.

"But she's doing splendidly here. Miss Dreen says that she's a born cook, and never makes a mistake."

"Yes, I know. And when she has finished her course I'm going to see what can be done to encourage her to study still further. She says she'd like to be a cook, but it seems to me that if she continues to be interested in her study, she might be a director of cooking somewhere."

"She'd earn as much by being a cook in some household."

"Yes, but after all she has hardly the physique, and certain qualities of hers lead me to think that she would be a good manager. We are going to have an exhibition soon, and although we do not expect the greatest results this first year, still I am sure that you will admit that the girls have learned something, and Phoebe shall exhibit one of her model luncheons. She has already served us some very good meals at a fabulously low cost. That is one of the things she is learning, to make the best use of inexpensive material."

It was Edith who had been listening attentively to all that Anstiss had said, and her reply, "I believe that I would rather see than eat those very, very inexpensive things," was given seriously. Edith was always glad to help the work at the Mansion when some matter of additional expense was brought to her, and she made conscientious visits to Gretchen, and in turn reported her progress to the old gardener. But there was a certain coldness in her manner that the young girls felt. They thought that she was not really interested in them, and her visits were never greeted with the delight that was so evident when Nora made her appearance. Edith was decided in her likes and dislikes. She could always be depended on to stand by a friend, and as certainly was she apt to be severe toward a wrongdoer. Though devoted to Julia and Miss South, she was less fond of Pamela and Anstiss.

"An artist's model! how Ralph would love to paint her!" Brenda had exclaimed to Miss South after first seeing Concetta. "How I wish that I had discovered her instead of Maggie."

"She may have more personal charm," Miss South had responded, "but Maggie is devoted to you, and some persons call her rather pretty, although," a little apologetically, "we all understand here at the Mansion that 'handsome is what handsome does' should be our chief rule of conduct. I never permit the girls to make one word of comment about the personal appearance of another."

"Oh, naturally," responded Brenda, accepting the implied reproof; "but the comparisons that I make will not come to the ears of the girls."

"No, not the comparisons, perhaps; but we try ourselves not to let them think that any girl is preferred by any one who comes here. All girls of fifteen are sensitive."

Yet Maggie, in spite of the fact that Concetta tried to make her jealous, was unwilling to believe that Brenda had a preference for Concetta.

"Miss Brenda asked Miss South to send me up to her house to get that parcel of embroidery patterns; she could have sent it down by her man just as well," concluded Concetta, with an important air; "or she could have asked you to come."

Then, when Maggie made no reply, except perhaps that she polished her glasses a little more vigorously, Concetta added:

"But I'm sure she just loves to have me come to her house. You see she always invites me to go up to her room, and she asks me all kinds of questions."

Then, as Maggie still continued provokingly silent, Concetta continued:

"You see, my country is a very interesting country, and I tell her all kinds of things that I have heard, especially about the beautiful cathedrals. She thinks I remember them all, but it is what I have heard the elders say, and she listens quite open-eyed, that, so young, I can remember so much. Don't you hate that you were born only in Boston."

"No, I don't," said Maggie gruffly; "I despise foreigners."

Then did Concetta become wisely silent, for she heard the step in the hall of one in authority, and she did not wish at the moment to bring Maggie to the point of tears. Maggie wept with unusual ease, and just now Concetta was not anxious to draw on herself a reproof, lest it should be followed by a withdrawal of the permission to go to Miss Barlow's.

It was true that Maggie had never swerved in her devotion, showing it often in unexpected ways. Whenever Brenda entered the room she followed her with her eyes, and when her goddess addressed her she always blushed deeply. Mrs. McSorley was constantly putting poor Maggie through a course of questioning, that the former might be made sure that little girl had done nothing likely to drive her out of this paradise.

XI

SEEDS OF JEALOUSY

Fortunately for many of the girls at the Mansion, they did not live under a very rigorous system of rewards and punishments. Every one was expected to report once a week what property she had injured, and this usually meant what dishes she had broken. She was also expected to tell what other things she had done that were not for the good of the school. One or two girls really liked to have a long list of misdemeanors. They seemed to think that it gave them an air of distinction, and Concetta was especially delighted to read from a written list:

"Bed not made until ten o'clock Monday.
Bureau drawers untidy for three days.
Forgot to put salt in the bread.
Let the kitchen fire go out.
Spilled ink on my best apron.
Broke one of our blue cups," etc.

Most of the girls were contented with one or two faults, and some were inclined to forget that they had any, until reminded by nudges from some of their neighbors. These "confession meetings" were held once a week, between four and five o'clock. A girl would have had to show herself unusually bad to be excluded from the pleasant hour that followed when Miss Julia played for them to sing, and then around the open fire gave them good advice for half an hour,--good advice that they never imagined to be anything but a bit of pleasant conversation, although they all said that they went away feeling as if they could be good forever.

It is true that the girls whose conduct was especially approved by Julia, regardless in many cases of their reports, were permitted to borrow some book from her bookcase that they especially wished to read. At first she had been surprised to find that few of these girls had any idea about choosing books.

Haleema didn't care to read; she liked to do other things better. Concetta loved to read, but had actually never read anything but stories; indeed, she was surprised to hear that people ever read anything else.

Little did Brenda realize that she was sowing the seeds of jealousy. She felt much pride in Maggie as having been her own discovery. She thought, with some complacence, that but for her Maggie might still have been condemned to the tiresome round of a cash-girl's duties. She did several little kind things of which Maggie herself was unaware, that enabled Julia and Miss South to enlarge the work of the school in directions that were especially helpful to Maggie.

But with the best intentions in the world, Brenda could not help showing her preference for the pretty Concetta, whose dark eyes seemed mirrors of truth, and whose manners were always so charmingly deferential. Had she known that she was giving pain to Maggie by showing her preference in this way she would herself have been always ready enough to admit that this was not wise. But Maggie, although her tears flowed so easily, had the ability to keep her thought to herself.

Mrs. McSorley herself, with her Scotch canniness, had an exalted opinion of Brenda, and on Maggie's weekly visits home impressed on her the great advantages that she might expect from having the interest of a Back Bay young lady. "And if she likes any other girl better than you, it will be all your fault, and I'll take it a sign that you ain't doing your very best."

So Maggie had never said a word to her aunt about Miss Barlow's growing preference for Concetta. To have spoken of this would only have drawn a reproof upon herself. It was hard enough to confess her real faults, to tell over the list of things she had broken during the week. She had promised on first entering the Mansion to do this, and thus far she had kept her promise.

Now Maggie had her own little bit of a secret, and sometimes she drew from her pocket a crumpled half-sheet of paper, and wept when she saw at the bottom:

"From your loving Tim."

What would her aunt say, what would Miss Brenda say, if they knew that at intervals she received these misspelled letters from a jail-bird. Yes! "a jail-bird," that was what her aunt had called him, and though it was true that he had only been in the reformatory, and that his offence, as he had explained it, was due more to the fault of another man. Still he had been imprisoned, and Maggie was forbidden ever to speak to him again.

Yet he was her uncle more than Mrs. McSorley was her aunt. The latter was only an aunt-in-law, while Tim was her own uncle, and in spite of his faults she loved him. Of course he was a ne'er-do-well, but his smile was so jolly in contrast with the long-drawn, severe expression of Mrs. McSorley. The latter said that it was very easy for him to be jolly, when he never had the least care in the world for himself or for any one else. But Maggie remembered many kind things that he had done. "Since for him I'd never have been to the circus, and it was a whole day we spent at Nantasket, and he gave me that plush box of pink note-paper;" and Maggie would wipe away one of her ready tears as she thought of Tim, and she gazed at the tintype that she kept with a few other treasures in the plush-covered box.

Many a time she pondered what she should do if he should ever come to Boston, for he was now in Connecticut looking, as he said, for work. "And it won't be so very long," he wrote, "before I'll have me own house, and you for housekeeper; so learn all you can, for it won't be long."

For Maggie had written him once or twice since coming to the Mansion, and her letters had been more cheerful than those that had found their way to him when she was living with her aunt.

So Maggie had her day dreams; and the real secret of her patience, and her anxiety to learn everything relating to the work of the house, came from this hope, that she was to have the chance of showing her uncle what a good housekeeper she could be. Now Maggie should have realized that her aunt had done much more for her than her uncle; that Mrs. McSorley had shown her kindness in comparison with which Tim's occasional bursts of liberality were very small indeed. Where would she and her mother have been but for Mrs. McSorley? And Mrs. McSorley was only a sister-in-law, whereas Tim was her mother's own brother. Yet the kindness of Mrs. McSorley had been so overladen with good advice and reprimands, that it did not stand out as kindness pure and simple. Maggie was as sure that Mrs. McSorley did not love her as she was positive that Tim did love her.

Among the girls at the home she found little Haleema almost the most sympathetic. At least Concetta disliked them both, and this was their first bond of sympathy. The girls were apt to be sent in pairs on errands, and occasionally on pleasure walks, and it had come to be the habit for Maggie and Haleema to go together. They had gone together in company with Julia to present their scrap-books and dolls to the Children's Hospital, and there it was that they had fallen in love with the prettiest little blue-eyed girl, who had been sent to the hospital with a broken leg. She was then almost well, and when Miss South saw how deeply interested the two were in her she allowed them to go each week on visiting day. Later, when little Jennie went home, the two continued to visit her; sometimes they even brought her to the Mansion to visit. There she soon became a great favorite, and poor Maggie saw that Jennie no longer owed everything to her and Haleema. Concetta won the child's heart by dressing her a beautiful doll, and all the others vied with one another in doing things for her.

It was especially hard for her when, in answer to a request from Concetta, Brenda herself sent a box of useful and pretty things for Jennie's use.

"It might just as well have gone through me," thought poor Maggie; though, on further reflection, she had to admit that Concetta deserved these things, because she had been bright enough and quick enough to think of asking for them.

A few days later, when she went to see Jennie she took with her a beautiful bouquet, purchased with money taken from the little hoard that she had so carefully saved. This was a real sacrifice on Maggie's part, and when she saw the joy with which the little girl received her gift she was more than repaid.

Moreover, in the hour that she spent with the little girl she was sure that Jennie cared for her as much as ever. Indeed, had she been able to reason more deeply, she would have discovered that a child discriminates very slightly as to the value of different gifts. Jennie, like other children, loved Maggie quite as well as she loved Concetta, and though she enjoyed the presents that each one brought her, she had no scale of values by which to measure them.

XII

DOUBTS AND DUTIES

"But of course you haven't given up your music. If I thought that
you had, I should march straight East, and find the reason why. If
it's on account of that Mansion school, you'd have to leave it
instantly; so when you write tell me what you've been composing,
and whom you are studying with this year. As for me, I really am
rather idle, and I'm learning that a college education isn't really
wasted, even if one practises only the domestic virtues. My mother
has been far from well this year, and she's luxuriating in having
me here to run things. Running things, you know, is rather in my
line. But ah! how I wish that I could see you and Pamela and Lois
again, and all the others of our class who are enjoying themselves
fairly near the classic shades. I suppose that you go out to
Radcliffe at least once a week, and do you feel as blue as I do to
think it's all over? But don't forget to tell me about your music.

"Ever your

"CLARISSA."

As Julia folded up this letter from her old classmate her face grew thoughtful. She certainly was not even studying this year, nor had she composed a note. It was kind in Clarissa to remember her little talent. Even Lois had spoken to her recently about hiding her light under a bushel. Was she doing this? Might her little candle, properly tended, shine out large enough to be seen in the world? Her uncle and aunt had remonstrated with her for neglecting her music, and Julia had promised to resume her work later. But thus far the exact time had not come, and she hesitated to tell them that she doubted that she had the talent that they attributed to her. This feeling of discouragement had come to her in the last year at Radcliffe, when she began to see that her ability as a composer had its limits. Now, with Clarissa's letter before her, she wondered if she had been right in letting one or two slight set-backs discourage her. She had continued her practising, and her rendering of the great composers was a continual uplifting to those who heard her. But the other,--her work in harmony,--was she right or wrong in laying it aside for the present? Was this the talent that she should be called to account for? Ought she to keep it concealed in a napkin? As she thought of this, Julia longed more than ever for Ruth--Ruth, with whom she had found it easier to discuss these personal questions than with any other of her friends. But Ruth, on her wedding trip, was thousands of miles away. It would be six months, at least, before they could meet, and she glanced at the map on which she marked a record of Ruth's wanderings, and noted that now she was in the neighborhood of Calcutta. "The other side of the world," she thought. "Ah! well, I will let things go on as they have been going, and next year, perhaps, I shall see more clearly what I ought to do."

Pamela was perhaps carrying out her ideals more thoroughly than Julia, for all her teaching was along the artistic lines that she loved the best. She was not always sure that the girls got just what she intended them to get from her little talks on the nature of beauty, and the relations of beauty to utility. She used the simplest language, however, and made her illustrations of a kind that they could easily comprehend. She had tried to show them the meaning of "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful," and in expounding this she saw that she must try to train them to understand the truly beautiful. For her own room she had had some mottoes done in pen and ink artistically lettered, and one at a time she would set them in a conspicuous place, sure to attract the attention of the girls at their lessons.

Ruskin's "Every right action and true thought sets the seal of its beauty on person and face; every wrong action and foul thought, its seal of distortion," put up in plain sight, though at first it was not thoroughly understood, served as the text for a little talk, and each girl for the time being decided to curb her tongue, lest her face should show the effect of backbiting.

Samples of dress fabrics, samples of wall papers, gaudy chromos contrasted with simple photographs, queer and over-decorated vases in comparison with graceful Greek shapes, were all used by Pamela to enforce her lessons. Yet she often had misgivings that her words were not accepted as actual gospel by Nellie and Haleema and one or two others, whose preference for crude colors and fantastic decorations often came unexpectedly to the surface.

Nora laughed at her efforts to develop an aesthetic sense in these girls.

"They'll never have the chance to own the really beautiful things, and they might as well think that these cheap and gaudy objects are beautiful."

But Pamela shook her head at this.

"Why, Nora, you surprise me! What I am trying to teach is the fact that beautiful things are often as cheap as ugly things. Of course, in one sense, they are always cheaper, because they give more pleasure and often last longer. But when a girl's taste is cultivated she can often find more attractive things for less money. Who wouldn't rather have a wicker chair than one of those hideous red and green plush upholstered affairs, and the wicker chair certainly costs less."

"You are absolutely correct, Pamela Northcote, and your sentiments do not savor of anarchism, though I hear that Mrs. Blair is greatly perturbed lest this work at the Mansion should interfere with the labor market, and prevent the householder of the future from getting her rightful quota of domestics."

"It would not surprise me," said Pamela, "if not more than two of the girls here actually became domestics. I think that Julia and Miss South are right in encouraging them to live up to their highest aspirations."

"Well, I doubt if any of them have begun to aspire very strongly yet. On the whole they are remarkably short-sighted, and when I ask them what they intend to be they are usually so taken by surprise that they can make no reply."

"Miss South feels that she can judge them only very superficially this year; but she hopes that next year she will know them so well that she can give them definite advice. In the mean time they are at the mercy of laymen like yourself and myself, and we have the responsibility of guiding them toward the heights of art, whether in the aesthetic or the culinary line."

Theoretically Pamela took some of the girls each Saturday to the Art Museum; really the average was hardly oftener than every other week. There were rainy Saturdays, there were days when Pamela had special work of her own, or an occasional invitation would come for her to go out of town. Three girls at a time were invited to go. Julia would not permit Pamela to leave the house with more than that number, lest she should be mistaken for the head of an orphan asylum.

Pamela made these trips so interesting that for a girl to be forbidden to go when her day came was the greatest punishment that could be inflicted on her. Julia and Miss South had discovered this, and the discovery had solved one of their greatest problems,--this question of punishment; for although the girls were old enough to be beyond the need of punishment, yet there were certain rules that only the very best never broke, and to the breaking of which certain penalties were attached.

Thus it happened that on this particular Saturday afternoon Haleema, whose turn it was to go, was not of the trio, and in her place was Maggie, triumphant in the knowledge that for a whole week she had not broken a single cup or saucer, nor in fact a dish of any kind.

"That means that I have my whole quarter to do as I like with," she said as they left the house.

"That means," interpolated Concetta, "that you'll put it in your little bank. She's a regular miser, Miss Northcote."

"No, I ain't," responded Maggie, "only just now I'm saving."

"That's right," said Pamela. "'Many a little make a mickle.'"

"Yes, 'm," and Maggie lapsed into her wonted silence.

Concetta, however, was inclined to be more talkative.

"Oh, she isn't simply saving, she's mean. Why, she got Nellie to buy her blue necktie last week; sold it for ten cents. Just think of that!"

"Well, well, that is no affair of ours."

"She sold a lovely story-book that her aunt gave her Christmas. She said it was too young for her, and she'd rather have the money."

"That may be, Concetta; but still I say that this is none of our business."

Yet although she thus reproved Concetta for her comments, Pamela wondered why Maggie wished to save. Economy was not a characteristic of girls of her age; though, recalling her own past need of money, Pamela felt that thrift was not a thing to be discouraged.

"Oh, please let us go to the paintings first," begged Concetta.

"No! no! to the jewelry," cried Gretchen; while Maggie, knowing as well as the others that they would first go where Miss Northcote chose, wisely said nothing, expressed no preference.

On their first visit they had walked through all the galleries to get the necessary bird's-eye view, and a second visit had been given almost wholly to the old Greek room. But all the casts and reliefs were as nothing in Concetta's eyes compared with the richness of color in Corot's "Dante and Virgil in the Forest," and the wonderful realism of La Rolle's two peasant women.

"I don't know whether they're Italians," said Concetta of the latter, "but there's something about them that makes me think of Italy;" for Concetta had vague remembrances of her native land and of the picturesque costumes of the Italian women. Although she was proud enough to consider herself an American citizen, she still was pleased when people called her a true daughter of Italy, and she loved everything that reminded her of her old home.

Of all the things that she had seen, Gretchen declared that she would much prefer the great crystal ball to which a fabulous value was attached, although there were some exquisite gold necklaces that had an especial charm for her.

Now on this special day Pamela meant to combine instruction with pleasure, and so the quartette quickly found themselves in the Egyptian room.

"You don't think that beautiful, do you, Miss Northcote?" and there was more than a little doubt in Concetta's tone as she pointed to a granite bust of a ruler in one of the earliest dynasties.

"I like it better than the mummies," interposed Gretchen, before Pamela could reply; "they give me the shivers."

"I wish you'd take us into the mummy room," continued Concetta seductively; "there are some lovely blue beads there."

But Pamela was sternly steadfast to her purpose, reminding them that there would be other opportunities for them to wander about indefinitely, whereas now she wished them to get a little idea of history through these reliefs and statues. But I am afraid that of the three Maggie alone really listened very attentively to her explanation of the difference between the Egyptians and the Assyrians, which their works of art brought out so well.

But neither Thotmes, nor Assur-bani-pal, nor Nimrod, nor Rameses were names to conjure with, and in spite of her efforts to make her subject interesting, by connecting things she told them with Bible incidents, Pamela could not always hold their attention. To give up too easily would have seemed ignominious, and she decided to allow them a diversion in the shape of a visit to her favorite Tanagra figurines.

"That will be good," said Gretchen, in her rather quaint English, as they turned their backs on the grim relics of Egypt; "and we'll try to remember every word you've told us to-day."

"Then what _do_ you remember?" said Pamela with a suspicion of mischief in her voice.

The three looked uncomfortable. On their faces was the same expression that Pamela often saw on the faces of her pupils in school when unable to answer her questions.

"The names were rather hard," ventured Concetta.

"Yes, but you must remember one fact,--at least one among all the things that I have been telling you."

"I remember one," ventured Maggie.

"Well, then, we shall be glad to hear it."

"Why the Assyrians used to make their enemies look smaller than they when they made reliefs of battles," ventured Maggie.

"And the Egyptians were very fond of cats," added Gretchen; and with all her efforts this was all the information Pamela gleaned from the girls after her hour's work.

But before she had a chance to try a new and better way of presenting the Tanagra figures to them, she heard her name pronounced in a well-known voice, and looking up she saw Philip Blair gazing at her charges, and at her too, with an air of amusement.

"This is a surprise. I did not realize that you were a lover of art," she said a little awkwardly.

"Oh, yes, indeed, though I can't tell you when I've been in this museum before. It looks just about the same, though, as it did when I was a kid."

"There are some new paintings upstairs," said Pamela; "though it's almost closing time now," she added, glancing at her watch.

When they saw that Pamela was fairly absorbed in conversation, the three girls wandered off toward another room where, Concetta whispered, there were prettier things to be seen.

"Do you bring them here often?" There was something quizzical in Philip's tone as he watched the three for a moment.

"Some of them every week; it's a great pleasure." Pamela was bound not to apologize.

"Do you think they'll get an idea of household art by coming here?"

"I'm sure I hope so, though that isn't my whole aim. It will take more than these visits here to get them to change their views of the really beautiful. Concetta is always telling me about some of the beauties in the house of her cousin, who married a saloon-keeper. They have green and red brocade furniture in their sitting-room, and a piano that is decorated with a kind of stucco-work, as well as I can understand her description, for it can hardly be hand-carving."

Emboldened by Philip's hearty laugh Pamela continued:

"She also thinks our pictures far too simple, 'too neat and plain,' I think she called them. Certainly she told me that she likes chromos in gilt frames."

"It is clearly, then, your duty to raise her ideals, though when it comes to a whole houseful of new ideas, you will certainly have all that you can do."

But from this lighter talk Philip and Pamela turned to more serious things, and as they walked through the long galleries, unconsciously they were showing themselves in a new aspect to each other. Philip, at least, who had had so many trips abroad, had profited more than many young men by his opportunities; and as they walked, Pamela, for almost the first time in her life, felt a little envious as he talked of this great painting and then of that,--of paintings that she had longed to see,--speaking of them as casually as she would speak of the flower-beds on the Public Garden. Ah! was she never to have this chance of crossing the ocean? It was but a passing shadow; for a swift calculation of her probable savings showed that, though the time might be long, there was still every probability that some time she could take herself to Europe. But meanwhile--

"Ah! you should see a real Titian, or a Velasquez like the one the National Gallery bought a few years ago; I saw it the last time I was over. Oh! I should love to show you some of my favorites in the Dresden Gallery."

"Yes, yes!" Pamela spoke absent-mindedly. She had suddenly remembered the existence of her charges.

"I wonder," she began, when her speech was cut short by Gretchen, who ran rapidly up to her from the broad hall outside, a look of alarm on her face as she grasped Pamela's arm.

"It's--it's Maggie!" she exclaimed excitedly.

"What is it? Has anything happened? Is she hurt?"

"I can't say as she's exactly hurt," responded Gretchen, "though she gave an awful scream; but you'd better come."

With Gretchen leaning on her arm, or rather dragging her on, Pamela hastened to the large room with its tapestries and cases of embroideries.

"No, no, not here; this little room," and Pamela soon saw Concetta and Maggie. The latter was weeping bitterly, the former stood near looking rather sulky. One of the custodians, with severity in every line of his face and figure, was talking to them "for all he was worth," as Gretchen phrased it.

In a glance Pamela saw what had happened. There was a hole in the top of the glass case, and the man held in his hand a large glass marble. Pamela remembered that Maggie had been tossing it up and down on her way across the Common.

"I didn't do it." Maggie was crying.

"Nonsense, Maggie! I saw you playing with it myself."

"But not now--not now."

Pamela glanced suspiciously at Concetta, but the little Italian was already at the other side of the room, pretending a great interest in a case of ivories. For the moment Pamela was overcome. Her old shyness had returned. Several bystanders were gazing at the strange group, and Pamela was at a loss what to say. Clearly it was her duty to offer to make restitution, but she could not speak; she did not know what to say; and when Gretchen, too impressed, doubtless, by the brass buttons on the coat of the official, said anxiously, "If he's a p'liceman, will he put us all in jail?" the climax had been reached, and Pamela herself felt ready to cry.

In a moment she saw Philip pass her; he had been not far behind all the time, and the few words that he spoke in a low voice made the grim features of the official relax.

"Oh, certainly, sir, certainly," he said, as Philip gave him his card. "I'll go with you to the office."

Philip paused only a moment to say to Pamela, "There, I leave you to your charges; let me know if they break anything more on the way home." Then, as if this was an afterthought, "By the way, it's all right about that glass; my father's a trustee, you know; I'm going to fix it in the office downstairs."

When Pamela told her of the incident, Julia only laughed. "I dare say it cost Philip a pretty penny; that kind of glass is very expensive."

"Oh, I feel so ashamed," said Pamela. "It was really my fault. I should not have let them leave me. I must repay the cost of the glass."

"Nonsense! Philip might as well spend his money for that as for other things. He never has been considered especially economical. Besides, it was at least partly his fault that you left the girls, or let them leave you;" and this was a fact that Pamela could not deny.

XIII

THE VALENTINE PARTY

When the "Leaguers" announced that they intended to have a valentine party, Julia and Miss South gave their assent with hesitation.

"It has a sentimental sound," said Julia,--"a valentine party! and I do wonder whom they wish to invite."

But when they were questioned the girls explained that they did not intend to ask a single person from outside, and, of course, not a single boy. The valentines that they most enjoyed sending were to other girls, and they wanted only girls at their valentine party.

These, at least, were the words of Concetta, their spokesman, and if any of the others dissented, they did not express their disagreement.

"But we expect you, Miss South, and Miss Bourne and Miss Barlow, and all the ladies who have been so very kind to us. Miss Northcote is in the secret, but every one else is going to be very much surprised."

"We'll try not to be curious, and I suppose that you wouldn't let us bribe Angelina to tell us."

"Oh, no'm; no, indeed. Miss Angelina," and Gretchen turned to Angelina, who was standing near, "if you tell we'll never--never--"

"Oh, I'm not afraid."

"We'll never call you Miss Angelina again--just plain Angelina."

"I wouldn't stand being called 'plain Angelina,'" said Miss South, patting Angelina's shoulder as she passed by.

Now for a week or two there was much secrecy, much whispering, many hours spent in the gymnasium at times when the rules about exercising did not require the girls to be there. Snippings of bright-colored paper were found in the hall, and not only bits of paper but of colored cambric; and Julia, and Nora when she came to the cooking-class, and all the other older persons interested in the Mansion, professed to be entirely mystified by what was going on.

But at last the eventful fourteenth of February arrived, and all the guests had assembled in the dining-room. The little stage had been set up, and the audience awaited the performance with great interest. Each girl, as before, had been permitted to invite two guests, and a number of boys and men were present,--brothers, cousins, uncles, and an occasional father, and the women relatives were out in full force.

Angelina's sister had come in from Shiloh to spend a day or two, and she was doorkeeper in Angelina's place. As the guests went to their places, each one was given a heart-shaped card, the edges gilded, to which was attached by a pink cord a small pencil shaped like an arrow.

"Evidently we are to keep some kind of a score," said Nora, "but what it is to be I cannot imagine."

"Nor I," responded Brenda; "I haven't been taken into the secret, but I know that it is to be something exciting."

Brenda had not yet outgrown her love for emphatic words, and "exciting" once in a while reappeared as a reminder of her childish years.

They had not waited very long when the door from the little room behind was opened, and a barefooted maiden with a broad straw hat torn at the rim, and a blue calico gown looped up over a paler blue petticoat, appeared. She carried a rake, and "Maud Muller" was breathed around the room before Angelina, coming from behind the scenes,--that is, from the other room,--had had time to say, "Ladies and gentlemen, you are asked to listen to each character, and to make a record of two things: First, those who look the best, then those who speak the best, that is,--I mean--" and for the first time almost in the memory of those present Angelina seemed to have stage fright, and was unable to translate her sentences into the clearer and more elegant phrases that she had intended to use. Thereupon she retired in some confusion, and Maud, who was really Nellie, recited the simple lines of the charming poem:

"'Maud Muller, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay,
Under her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.'"

"I doubt that Maud had exactly that brogue," said Nora. "If she had, I believe that the judge would have been too thoroughly fascinated to ride away."

After this came a strange, Spanish-looking figure, who took a kneeling attitude with bowed head. The solemnity of the effect was somewhat marred when Concetta--for she it was--turned her head around slightly to make sure that the audience was fully appreciative of her. Many were the guesses as to what she portrayed, and indeed it was one of the guests, a thoughtful girl, who ventured Ximena, "the angel of Buena Vista," and then every one else wondered why she had not been clever enough to think of this.

"'From its smoking hell of battle, love and pity send their prayer,
And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air.'"

After the women of Marblehead and Barbara Freitchie had made themselves known, "The Witch's Daughter" was given in series of tableaux, in which Maggie took the part of Mabel, and Angelina the part of Esek Harden, in a coat which, if not historically accurate, was at least a suitable kind of masculine attire for a girl to wear. Next came Haleema as the Countess, and Luisa as Amy Wentworth, in rather elegant clothes that surely must have come from one of the chests in the end room; and last, but not least, Anna and Rhoda, the two sisters in their long white gowns,--Anna timid and shrinking and Rhoda vehemently denouncing her; Inez the former and Phoebe the latter,--reciting some of the more tragic stanzas of the poem.

"Must we give up these pretty hearts?" asked one after another as Phoebe began to collect the cards.

"Oh, you can have them back again if your names are on them, we only want to count the votes;" and then there was a general murmur, for some people had forgotten to record their opinions and a little time was lost. But in the interval Julia played a Chopin waltz that several of the girls especially liked, and followed this with a few chords of one of the choruses they had been learning, in which they all joined very heartily.

When the score cards were brought back it was found that there was a tie for the favorite character between Haleema as the Countess, and Maggie and Angelina as Mabel Martin and Esek.

Angelina was in a state of excitement when this result was announced, and was determined that the decision should be immediately in her favor; while Maggie, disturbed by being so conspicuous, hoped that the prize might be given to Haleema.

"It isn't for you to decide," said Phoebe sagely; "they'll find some way of settling it--the ladies, I mean."

This, of course, proved to be the case, and when an umpire had been chosen whose decision all present agreed to respect, he decided that the first prize should go to the Mabel Martin actors. This was not entirely to the satisfaction of the followers of the Countess, and Concetta, who was sometimes on Haleema's side and sometimes against her, now became a very active partisan, and the two younger girls frowned ominously on Angelina and Maggie. So far at least as prizes were concerned, Anstiss, as President of the League, had brought it about that every actor should have a prize, in each case an attractively bound book, with the only advantage for the winners of the first prize that they were allowed to have first choice. But there was a book for each of the others, and each girl, too, had the pleasure of hearing from her own friends that she really had made the very best representation of all. It was simply a case of where all were so good it was almost impossible to choose the very best.

Mrs. McSorley was especially proud of Maggie's performance, and her face almost lost its wonted grimness as she walked about among the girls and their guests. "I'm thinking that you'll amount to something, after all," she vouchsafed to her niece; and as this was almost the highest praise she had ever given, Maggie was more than content. It may be said here that in Turquoise Street Mrs. McSorley was much more eloquent than she had been to Maggie's face, and the neighbors for many a day heard the story of this very brilliant evening at the Mansion, and of the remarkable manner in which Maggie McSorley had recited and acted the part of the witch's daughter.

Another pleasant result of the evening was that Haleema became more friendly toward Maggie, for she had been impressed by Maggie's generosity in being willing to resign the first prize to her.

This, however, did not mean the winning of Concetta, who still seemed to feel it her duty to refrain from any direct praise or showing any friendliness for Maggie. But after this an observer would have seen that she seldom showed any direct unfriendliness, and this was one of the things that Maggie especially observed.

The fun of the valentine party was quite forgotten in the excitement that the girls of the Mansion, like every one else in the country, felt on that sixteenth of February; for that was the day when news was brought of the destruction of the "Maine." Angelina was the first to report it when she broke into the dining-room with a newspaper that she had bought from a boy at the front door. It had headlines in enormous, heavy black letters, and Miss South, in spite of her general disapproval of the headlines, could not resist reading the sheet that Angelina handed her.