Chapter VI: Part 6

"What do you suppose it's going to be?" asked Concetta, with two buttons conspicuously fastened to her waist bearing the motto, "Remember the Maine."

"Some kind of a picture show, I guess; I saw two boxes of thumb tacks on Miss South's table. I tried to make Maggie tell, but she's as still as a mouse; she always is. Don't she make you think of one?"

"Yes, she does," replied Haleema. "I've a good mind to peek in now; there's nobody about."

At that moment Angelina came around the corner.

"I'm exceedingly surprised," she said, in her haughtiest manner, "that you should try to pry into what doesn't concern you."

"I didn't."

"Yes, you were trying to."

"No, I wasn't, and, besides, I have a perfect right to; I belong to Miss Northcote's class. So there! You needn't stand and watch me."

"I'll report you to Miss Dreen," said Angelina. "It's your day in the kitchen. I remember that."

Concetta's face clouded as Angelina passed on to the kitchen.

"I wish people would attend to their own business."

Concetta had hoped that Miss Dreen, who was a little absent-minded, would fail to notice her absence. Another grievance was added to the long list that she cherished against Angelina.

But after all they were not kept so very long in suspense, for on the Saturday after this little episode the doors were thrown open, and all the girls marched in to see what really had been going on behind the closed doors. Those in the secret were proud enough, and Maggie in particular displayed an unexpected talkativeness. At least she was able to explain the why and wherefore of the exhibit quite to the satisfaction of all who heard her.

The first exclamations of pleasure were called out by the sight that met their eyes. One side of the room had been divided by partitions to make two rooms. Each was furnished completely, and even those girls who were too old to play with dolls were fascinated by the house; for each of the two rooms was fitted up with absolute perfectness, from the wall-paper to the tiny cushions on the sofa. They were on a scale large enough for everything to be seen in detail, but a degree or two smaller than life size. Pamela justly prided herself on the completeness of it all, and this completeness had been made possible only by the kindness of Julia, who had told her to spare no expense in having the house furnished exactly as she wished it to be. She was safe in giving this wide permission, since Pamela's friends all knew that extravagance was absolutely impossible with her, and that she would use another's money more carefully even than her own.

Both rooms were furnished like sitting-rooms, but they differed utterly in style. Maggie put it correctly by saying that one was "warm and fussy-looking," while the other was "cool and restful."

The floor-covering on the former, painted to imitate a real carpet, was of bright colors and florid design. The reds and greens of which it was composed were just a little off the tone of the flowered wall-paper,--a greenish background with stiff bunches of red flowers, "that look as if they were ready to jump out at you," as one of the girls put it.

The little chairs and couch were upholstered in bright brocade velvet, each one different from the others, and none in harmony with the paper or with each other. On the tiny centre-table were one or two clumsy pieces of bric-a-brac, and the pictures on the walls were small chromos in ugly gilt frames. There were bright cushions on the divan, and crocheted tidies on every chair.

Nellie thought this room "perfectly beautiful." Her cousin's wife, whose husband was a prosperous teamster, had one almost like it, she said. "Oh what lovely easy-chairs! I hope I'll have a parlor as elegant as this some day."

The other room did not please her, it was too plain; whereas Concetta, within whose breast there must have lingered some remnant of Italian artistic instinct, thought it altogether beautiful.

This second room had a plain, dull-green wall-paper, on which hung a few photographs suitably framed. There was matting on the floor, and in the centre a green art-square. The chairs were of rattan, in graceful shapes, with green cushions, and one of artistic design in black wood with broad arms was comfortably cushioned for a lounging-chair. A bookcase, also of black wood, was filled with plainly bound books. On the rattan centre-table was a tall green vase with a single rose in it, and near by two or three small volumes of good literature. The ornaments on the mantle-piece were few and well chosen, and each had an evident reason for being there. The simple gilt moulding at the top was in contrast with the fussy frieze in the other room, and the plain net draperies at the windows were much more agreeable than the lace curtains in the other room, with their elaborate pattern and plush lambrequins.

Each girl as she came in was given a small blank-book, and was asked to note down what she thought of each room, and to state her reasons for preferring one room to another.

"Ought we to like one more than another?" Inez asked anxiously.

"Oh, Inez," said Haleema, "you are like sheep, you never stand alone," which, although not an exact rendering of the proverb, at least partly described the disposition of little Inez, who was far from independent.

"My book isn't half full," said Phoebe, after she had written for several minutes.

"Ah, that isn't all," rejoined Maggie.

"No, indeed," added Pamela, who had been listening with much interest to all the comments. "You have entirely neglected this end of the room. You will probably find more to do here than at the other end."

Here the wall had been covered with a plain gray denim, against which were pinned samples of wall-paper of every quality and color. Some were quiet and in good taste, as well as inexpensive; others were evidently costly, and at the same time loud and glaring. Each piece was numbered, and the girls were asked to write in their books their opinion of these samples.

Again, on a table near the wall-paper lay a number of cards with pieces of dress fabric fastened to them, and the girls were asked to state which would probably hold their color the best, which would be suitable for a working dress, which for a durable winter dress; and near certain bright-colored fabrics were trimmings of various sorts, and they were asked to tell which would best harmonize with the fabric.

"It ought not to be so very hard for you to answer these questions," said Julia, as she found Concetta scowling over her blank-book. "I know that Miss Northcote has had much to say to you this winter about furniture and wall-papers, and you ought to remember the reasons she has given for calling one thing more beautiful than another. Then, as to dress materials, why, think of our shopping expeditions, and the trouble I have taken to make you understand what is best."

"Yes, 'm," said Concetta. "If there's to be a prize, I'll try to prefer the best things; but if there won't be one, why, I think I'll just say what I really think."

"Oh, Concetta! Concetta! you are hopeless," responded Julia; and though she smiled slightly at this frank confession, she felt a little depressed that her winter's work should have had no better effect.

At five o'clock the books were all collected and put in Pamela's care for discussion at the next meeting of her class, and a few minutes later the aunts or cousins of the girls, as the case might be, began to appear. Their "oh's" and "ah's" were genuine as they looked at the two rooms; the numbers were about equally divided between those who preferred the restful room and those who preferred the fussy and gaudy one. They were greatly surprised to find that the more showy room had had no more money spent on it than the other. To them it looked much the more expensive; whereas to Julia and Nora and the others it was a surprise that the cheap and shoddy things of the gaudy sitting-room had cost as much as those in the really aesthetic apartment.

All had been invited to the six-o'clock tea, and this had been designed to show the skill in cooking of some of the number,--or perhaps I should say skill in the preparation of a meal, since much that was to go on the table was prepared under the eyes of the visitors.

The dainty sandwiches, for instance, were so prepared. There were three or four different kinds, of lettuce, of cheese, and some with nuts laid between, to the great surprise of Mrs. McSorley. She had associated with the name only the sandwich of the ham variety. Then the cold chicken, creamed and served in the chafing-dish, and put steaming on the plates; the chocolate that Maggie prepared on a tiny gas range, crowned with whipped cream that she had whipped before their very eyes,--all these things had their effect. When Luisa showed the blanc-mange that she had made, "without any flavor of soup," Haleema remarked so mischievously, that Luisa had to admit that earlier in the season she had prepared some blanc-mange in a kettle which had not been washed since some strong-flavored soup had been contained in it. Each girl had one special dish that she had made the day before,--cake, or biscuit, or jelly. The results were very satisfactory to the admiring relatives, who went home particularly pleased with the Mansion and the young ladies, as well as with their own particular loaf of cake or mould of jelly, as the case may be. Each one, too, carried away a fine photograph of the Mansion, under which Pamela had written one of her ever applicable Ruskin quotations.

"The girls to spin and weave and sew, and at a proper age to cook
all proper ordinary food exquisitely; the youth of both sexes to be
disciplined daily in the studies."

This was at the bottom of the card, and at the top she had written:

"Never look for amusement, but be always ready to amuse."

"There," said Julia, after the last visitor had departed, "I don't suppose that any of our guests know that we are college women, nor probably have they heard the time-worn discussion as to whether college women are capable of understanding the management of a house, but it strikes me that we made a pretty good showing this evening."

"Ah," replied Miss South, "I am older than you, and I can say pretty confidently that no one need stand up for the college woman as home maker; she needs no defence. More than half the college graduates of to-day have homes of their own that are well managed, and have a high sanitary standard, and--but there, I am talking as if you needed to be convinced, whereas this is very far from being the case."

"Indeed, Miss South," said Nora, "even I, who am not a college girl--"

"Oh, but you are; don't forget the good work that you did as a special at Radcliffe."

"Thank you, Julia, but I'm only slightly a college girl. Well, even I always have plenty of ammunition ready when one or two persons I might mention have things to say about the uselessness of a college education."

"You are a good champion in any cause, and we thank you," said Julia, slipping her arm in Nora's, and making a low courtesy.

This exhibit of Pamela's was the end of the festivities at the Mansion. The evenings were growing warm, and the interests of the girls were turning in other directions. The meetings of the League were regular sewing circles, and the busy needles of the members struggled through the heavy denim that was to be used in comfort bags for the soldiers, or they hemmed flannel bandages, or applied themselves to other useful bits of work suggested by the Woman's Auxiliary of the Aid Association. While others worked, Angelina read aloud to them, for she was fond of reading; and those girls who had friends or relatives in the regiments that were going South were proud of the fact, and referred to it often.

But Maggie--poor Maggie! It seemed to her that she had reason to be prouder than any of them, for she not only had a letter, but a photograph, from a soldier, and to her Tim was a really heroic figure in his blouse and campaign hat. And the words had a sacred meaning, "I'm going to do something great before you see me again; I'll do something great, and by and by we'll have that home of our own."

She could not talk about this to any one, for the mention of Tim's name still aroused a very bitter spirit in Mrs. McSorley, and Maggie feared that if she confided even in Miss Julia, Tim's plans might in some way come to Mrs. McSorley's ears. Although living now afar from her immediate authority, Maggie still stood in great awe of her aunt, and though the rather scanty praises bestowed on her showed a change in Mrs. McSorley's spirit, Maggie knew how unwise it would be to speak to her of Tim.

Of the staff, Brenda was the only one who had little to say about the war. She had not written to Arthur nor he to her since the Artists' Festival; but she heard of him indirectly through Ralph and Agnes. His regiment had gone to Tampa before the end of May, and if he was waiting for her to reply to that unanswered letter, he waited in vain. Brenda, when once she had made up her mind, was very determined. She showed, however, that she was not happy. Her face had lost its color, and she had less animation.

"It all comes from staying indoors so much. Really, you must come with us to Rockley," her parents insisted.

But Brenda would not change her mind. She was now taking the place of Anstiss, who had been called home on account of the illness of her mother.

"I did not know that you could be so industrious, Brenda. Have you any idea how many hundred of these comfort bags you have made this spring?"

"No," said Brenda, so shortly that Edith knew that she had made a mistake in asking the question.

XVIII

WHERE HONOR CALLS

In all his life Philip Blair had hardly learned a harder lesson than that teaching him that it was his duty to stay at home with his father at a time when so many of his friends and classmates were setting off for the war. "They also serve who only stand and wait," echoed constantly in his ear, though unluckily almost as imperative was another refrain, "He that lives and fights and runs away, may live to fight another day." It seemed to him not unlikely that those who did not know him very well might put him in the latter class,--of those who avoided a present danger for an unlikely and distant good.

He could not deny the fact that his father was evidently ill, and as evidently needed him. This in itself was reason enough for his staying in Boston. He had so thoroughly mastered the details of the business, that it would have been false modesty to deny that his departure would make no difference. Even had his father been in perfect health, Philip's departure would have thrown a certain amount of care upon him; but in his present rather weak condition the young man felt that he had no right to add to his burden. He envied Tom Hearst his commission as captain in a regiment of regular troops, and he felt that his years on the ranch had especially fitted him for a place with the Rough Riders. What an opportunity this war might offer a young man for real distinction! and yet the chance was that he could have no part in it. Poor Philip! If some of his critics could have read his heart, they would have had less to say about his staying at home. Certain complications in his father's business had led him to give up his plans for studying law. He was now a business man, pure and simple, and almost any one would admit that he was devoting himself to his father's interests.

In one of his downcast moods one evening he strolled over to the Mansion to take a message from Edith to Julia. His family had already gone down to Beverly, but Edith, with her usual conscientiousness, let hardly a week pass without sending some special message to Gretchen.

The evening was one of the close and sultry evenings of early spring, and as Philip drew near he was pleased to hear the voices of Brenda and Julia. The two were seated on a rattan settle that had been drawn out into the vestibule, and upon greeting them Philip discovered Pamela and Miss South near by. After delivering Edith's message the conversation drifted to the ever-engrossing subject.

"I hardly expected to find so many of you here," said Philip. "Surely some of you intend to go as nurses to help your suffering countrymen."

"Angelina," responded Miss South, "is the only one of us who is desperately in earnest about becoming a nurse."

"So far as I can remember she has all the qualities that a nurse ought not to have."

"Oh, you are rather severe; she is not quite so bad, yet I doubt that she would make a good nurse. But she really is interested, and I have known her to make many sacrifices this spring to help the soldiers."

"She thinks that the Red Cross costume would be very becoming, and that is the secret of her interest," said Brenda, with a slight tinge of bitterness.

"What do you hear from the seat of war?" asked Philip, turning to Brenda, as if to change the subject.

"Oh, I never hear anything. Agnes and Ralph have letters, but I have too much to do to bother about the war."

Brenda's tone belied her words, and Philip wisely attempted no rejoinder. A moment later she made an excuse for leaving the party in group.

"Ralph," explained Julia, "expects to go abroad in a few days; his uncle is very ill in Paris, and it is necessary that he should see him. I believe that Agnes is not sorry that he has decided to go. Otherwise, I am sure that he would soon be starting for Cuba."

"It's hard for any one to stay behind," said Philip; and then as Inez and Nellie came out from the house with a message for Miss South and Julia, the duty of entertaining Philip fell on Pamela. He never knew just how it happened, but soon he was opening his heart to her more freely than he had ever opened it to any one else; and when their little talk was over he felt that at least one person realized that in staying North at a time when men were needed in the South he was truly trying to do his best. Undoubtedly Julia understood this, and Miss South, and all sensible people who saw that Mr. Blair's health was now so precarious; but Pamela made it so clear to Philip that his duty to his father was really the higher duty, that he left the Mansion in a much more cheerful frame of mind than that in which he had approached it.

"It is just as she says," he thought, as he walked homeward. "If my country were attacked, or if our flag were in danger, then it would be the duty of every man to rush to the front. But now--why, when it comes to fighting on land, we'll just have another walkover like the battle of Manila Bay."

He stepped briskly down the hill toward his home.

"What a bright girl Miss Northcote is, and how thankful she must be that her teaching is almost over for the year. Though she never admits it, she must find teaching very tiresome."

Pamela was glad, indeed, that her school tasks were over in season to give her a week or two for special study, as she was anxious to do her very best in the work that she had chosen at Radcliffe this year. The two courses would count toward her post-graduate degree. Strangely enough, a few days before the examination she had a chance to put her own theories of duty into practice.

A telegram from Vermont told her that her aunt had been thrown from a carriage and seriously injured, and that in her moments of delirium she was constantly calling for her. It took Pamela but a few moments to decide, and packing a small trunk she was ready for the evening train North.

"My examinations can wait until next year," she replied to Julia's expostulations; "and even if they could not, this is really the only thing for me to do."

Though for many years her relatives had been far from sympathetic, Pamela recalled the days of her childhood, when they offered her a home, and when in a clumsy way they had tried to make her happy. Knowing how her uncle had depended on his wife, she could not bear to think of his helplessness, and to help him became at once her nearest duty.

Thus it happened that when Philip a few days later came again to the Mansion for counsel, he found Pamela gone. Julia, too, happened to be out, and Brenda, with whom he talked, was so downcast that he was obliged to put himself in the most cheerful frame of mind to assure her that there was not the least danger of actual fighting.

"Why, before you know it, they'll all come marching home, and there'll be processions and speeches and all the things that conquering heroes expect--"

"They won't be conquering heroes if they haven't done any fighting."

"Don't interrupt; and you can throw a wreath at Arthur's feet."

"I wasn't thinking of Arthur."

"Excuse me, but I think that you were; and then, well--and then they will live happy ever after."

"Philip Blair, you are too absurd. Conquering heroes and wreaths, indeed!"

But Philip's nonsense had made Brenda smile, and for the time she was decidedly more cheerful.

When Mr. and Mrs. Barlow went down to Rockley, Brenda had simply refused to go. When they told her that she would suffer in town from the heat, she replied that she did not care, she hoped, indeed, that she would suffer, and concluded by saying emphatically that she was tired of being a mere idler.

"But since you are so unused to hard work, and to the city in hot weather, you must not overdo now. I do wish, Brenda," and Mrs. Barlow's tone was unusually serious, "that you could do things in moderation. If you had taken a little more interest in the work at the Mansion last winter, perhaps you would not feel it necessary to go to extremes now."

"It isn't extremes now, only I have more time to give to Julia, and I don't feel like going to Rockley; and why should any one care, especially as you have Agnes and Lettice with you."

Mrs. Barlow for the time said no more. She managed, however, to persuade Brenda to spend a day or two each week at Rockley, usually Saturday and Sunday; and every Wednesday a large box of flowers was sent up to the school with a card marked, "With love, from little Lettice."

Concetta was now more than ever devoted to Brenda, and the latter found her conversation more entertaining than that of any of the others,--possibly because she heard more of it. Often during the hour before bedtime she sat on the old rattan settle in the vestibule, while the tongue of the little Italian girl rattled on over a great variety of topics. Maggie, passing in or out sometimes after watering the plants in the little garden, often felt like sitting down beside Brenda, but she was never asked to join the two, and, unasked, she would not venture. Then to console herself she would put her hand on the crumpled letter at the bottom of her pocket. There was one person who cared for her, and Tim, knowing that his letters would not be intercepted by Mrs. McSorley, wrote to her often. His description of his life with the troops seemed to her most wonderful, and oh! how she longed to show to the others that picture that he had had taken of himself in uniform and broad campaign hat.

Angelina's interest in the war turned chiefly on her belief that she was destined to be a nurse. A large red cross cut from flannel she had sewed to her sleeve, and she told the younger girls that as soon as her mother should give her permission she was going to Cuba. "As soon, at least, as there's been a perfectly dreadful battle; of course I don't want to go until I can be of real use."

As a matter of fact Angelina had little prospect of entering upon this career of nurse, though she cherished the hope that her mother and Miss Julia might some time give their consent.

From Tampa in June Arthur wrote home much about the condition of the volunteers who had gone to the war without suitable equipment, and the fingers of the young girls at the Mansion flew more swiftly, that they might the more surely increase their quota of comfort bags.

"Just think of Toby's having to work like a laborer," said Nora, two of whose brothers had already found their way to the army in the front at the South. "He says that if it were not for the hammock that he sleeps in at night he never could stand the heat; but oh, dear! I do hope that there won't be any real fighting. Where do you suppose that the Spaniards are now?"

"Off this coast, probably," said Edith; "they say there's a big pile of coal at Salem, and that the Spanish ships will be sure to try to get it. I wish we were going to Europe this summer, for I'm afraid that I should not enjoy seeing a battle."

"Well, I'd sooner see one than feel one, as might be the case if there should be fighting off this coast; but I am sure that this will not be the case, and we must feel that our part in the war is simply to keep up our own courage, and that of our friends and relations, especially of those who have gone to the war marching toward Cuba."

This was the sensible view to take, and Nora was only one of many girls whose chief work those long spring days consisted in cutting out garments, in hemming and sewing, in knitting bandages, and in following the directions of those older women who had organized themselves to care for the needs of the soldiers in the field.

Some of them, I am afraid (but we will whisper this), were a little impatient that nothing happened; that is, that there had been no fighting. But they were those who had no relatives and no friends in the army.

Brenda waited eagerly for each letter from Arthur, for he wrote frequently from Tampa to Agnes. Ralph had already reached Paris, and the house at Rockley seemed strangely quiet; for Lettice was a demure little girl, playing very quietly in her corner of the garden or the drawing-room.

Two letters of Arthur's had lain unanswered, and now Brenda was unwilling to make up for her neglect. "Arthur should write to me," she said to herself, although she really knew that she could hardly expect such a concession from even a young man far less proud than Arthur Weston. Yet Brenda for a time tried to nurse a grievance, rather vainly, it must be admitted, essaying to persuade herself that Arthur was in the wrong.

In the mean time, at the Mansion, she was really very helpful. She was especially zealous in taking the girls to some of the factories that Julia and Miss South thought it well for the girls to visit in little groups. Thus the process of biscuit-making, and spice-making, and half a dozen other processes had been made clear to them in the course of the spring, and Brenda said that in accompanying Miss South and the girls on these expeditions she gained much more than she ever had from the occasional historic pilgrimages that she had sometimes made with her cousins.

The girls of the Mansion made one or two historic pilgrimages, too. In Brenda there was not a deep poetic vein, and something akin to this is needed to make one thoroughly appreciate historic surroundings. In the bustling factories she found something with which her spirit was more in sympathy.

The questions asked by the girls with her diverted her; the explanations given by their guides in these places took her out of herself.

During the summer the girls were to be invited to New Hampshire; for Julia had been able to arrange with a farmer living not far from the home of Eliza, her former maid, to have half a dozen of the girls board with him for two months, while two were to be under the care of Eliza. Julia or Miss South was to be at the farmer's during all the stay of these girls, but on the whole the summer was to be considered a time of recreation rather than work, and what the girls should learn in the country was to be gained rather by observation than by direct teaching.

As the choice had been given them, three or four had preferred to return to their own families for the summer rather than to go to the country, and thus the number to be looked after was not too large for the successful carrying out of Julia's vacation plans. Her first intention had been to take a house and equip it for summer work, carried on upon the same plan as that of the Mansion in the winter, but her uncle and aunt and others had pointed out so clearly the disadvantages of this scheme that she had quickly given it up. The girls were likely to return to their duties in the autumn much fresher, and much readier to set to work, than if they had had the same kind of household tasks that fell to them in winter.

Mr. and Mrs. Barlow wished that Julia had planned to close the Mansion on the first of June instead of July, for they saw that Brenda had no intention of coming down to Rockley permanently until July.

"Surely you are not so very much needed at this season. Julia and Miss South could undoubtedly get some one else to take your place," her mother remonstrated; and Brenda merely replied:

"Oh, I am needed; I like to feel that I am needed, and besides it is my own choice; I am staying in town because I want to."

It was evidently useless to argue, and Mrs. Barlow made no further effort to persuade her to change her mind. Naturally, however, she was somewhat concerned to notice that Brenda was growing paler and thinner. She felt that no good could come from Brenda's staying so late in town.

XIX

THEY STAND AND WAIT

"Why so pensive?"

"Pensive! Am I? I did not mean to be; it is certainly not exactly polite when I have company." Julia smiled at Lois as she spoke, for Lois was making one of her infrequent visits to the Mansion, and the two girls had been reviewing many of the events of their college years.

"Yes, you were pensive; you looked as if something weighed on your mind. That particular expression has vanished now," concluded Lois; "but since I caught that very unusual look, please tell me what it means. Is it the war?"

"Oh, no, not wholly."

"Then partly; do you wish to go as a nurse?"

"Oh, no; that is a kind of personal service for which I have never thought myself especially well adapted. I leave that to experts like you and Clarissa, for I suppose that now Clarissa is on her way to Cuba, ready to do the bidding of the Red Cross. Why, Lois, with your bent in that direction I do not wonder that you are pleased at the prospect of going where you can really do some good."

"I am not altogether sure that I can go. My mother is opposed to my going, and to-day when I went to see Miss Ambrose I found her seriously ill. I came to town to do an errand for her, but I could not resist running up here for a few minutes; I wished to know what you had heard from Clarissa."

"It was only the briefest note, but she seems perfectly delighted with the prospect before her of going. She is so strong that I am sure that no harm will come to her, and she will be a perfect host in camp or hospital."

"And the cap and apron will become her. Can you not see her with her cap tilted over her dark curls? I haven't the slightest doubt that she will pin a bow of scarlet ribbon somewhere on her gown, even though the regulations prescribe sombre costume."

"Indeed, I can see her at this very minute, a real ray of sunshine; but, Lois, I hope that Miss Ambrose is not very ill."

"I cannot tell. It is a nervous break down. All that she reads and hears about the war carries her back to the days of the Civil War. She lost several dear relatives and friends then, and the present excitement has caused what I should call a kind of reflex action. Unless this Spanish War proves longer than we expect, a few weeks rest will bring her around. I am glad that my examinations are just over, for I must spend my time with her."

"Naturally," responded Julia; "and after all, this will be as good a cause as nursing sick soldiers, though I understand your disappointment."

As the two friends talked, Julia's face lost the pensive expression that Lois had remarked when she first came in. The expression had no deeper reason than her feeling of dissatisfaction with her winter's work, a regret that what she had undertaken must hamper her now, when greater things were claiming the attention of so many other of her friends. Yet before Lois went home she had begun to see that she need not be dissatisfied with her own limitations.

"'They also serve who only stand and wait,'" Lois had quoted apropos to herself, just as Philip had quoted it some weeks before, and Julia found this line of Milton's even more applicable to her own case than Philip had to his. For there was a prospect that Lois, if the war continued, might find it possible to offer herself as a nurse, while Julia was sure that the duties that she had assumed would prevent her doing this, even as Philip knew that he could not leave his father. Julia regretted, too, that she had not as much money to offer as she would have had but for her year's work at the Mansion.

Miss Ambrose, to whom Lois had referred, was not a relative, nor even an old friend. She had made the acquaintance of this elderly woman by chance toward the close of her Radcliffe course, and had found her way to Miss Ambrose's heart without special effort on her own part. An accident had enabled her to do Miss Ambrose a real kindness. The older woman had been greatly pleased to learn that Lois was studying at Radcliffe. Her own tastes in her younger days had inclined her to a college education, but, alas! at that time there was small opportunity for a woman to go to college. In interesting herself in Lois' college work she had seemed to live over again her own youth, and she was never weary of hearing the details of college life. Later, when Lois was on the point of leaving Radcliffe, because she had not the money to stay there longer, Miss Ambrose insisted on her accepting from her the sum necessary to enable her to remain. In view of the older woman's kindness, and also because a genuine friendship existed between the two, it was natural that Lois should wish to stay with Miss Ambrose while she was ill. Indeed, she was glad to do this, even though she had to curb her desire to be a nurse during the war.

When Lois left, Julia put herself through a little cross-examination; for a month or two she had not been wholly satisfied with her year's work. Had she used her time and her money in the best way? Was there not some other work that she might have carried on to greater advantage? Was it altogether wise to have given up so entirely her own personal interests? Ah! Clarissa was right; she was not justified in putting entirely aside her music--especially her work in composition. What, indeed, had she to show for the year? So her thoughts ran. Ten girls better trained in useful things than would have been the case without the Mansion teaching; but this year must be followed up by another year of teaching, and then in the end could she be sure that they would retain what they had learned? Concetta and Haleema had improved superficially, but she was by no means confident that they were really neater or really more truthful than in the beginning. Maggie--and here she smiled--broke fewer dishes, but her reticence was far from commendable. Frankness was a virtue that she herself constantly preached, yet she had been able to instil very little of this quality into Maggie's breast. In spite of all her precepts, too, Inez was still as willing as at the beginning of the year to put on her stockings with the feet unmended, and--"Difficulties are things that show what men are." Like a ray of sunlight this thought from Epictetus flashed across Julia's mind. After all, how few real difficulties she had had to meet during the year; and had not the successes been more than the failures?

Mary Murphy had been the only one of the girls to insist on leaving the school, although she had occasionally heard the others expressing their dissatisfaction, especially when some of them had undergone some of the discipline that they had to undergo. One of the first lessons to learn had been that of the general deceitfulness of girls, and of these girls in particular, who did not hesitate to make many little criticisms as unjustifiable as they were foolish.

After all, the balance sheet did not show a total against the experiment, even when all the things were counted that had to be called not quite successful.

"It is the warm weather," thought Julia, "that depresses me. Instead of dreading next year, when autumn comes I shall probably wish that I had twice as much to do."

Brenda was disturbed by no such doubts as those that assailed Julia. She was helping Julia that she might help herself forget that a war was hanging over the country, and that if there should be a great battle, if Arthur should be killed, she could never forgive herself. Yet, after all, what had she had to do with his going, unless, indeed, she had been foolish in repeating her father's criticism of Arthur's idleness. She could not forget that autumn ride and that half-jesting conversation, and the change in Arthur from that moment; but for that, perhaps, he would not have gone to Washington, and if he had not gone to Washington she was sure that he would not have volunteered so early. Had he been near them, certainly Agnes and Ralph would have shown him that it was his duty to stay at home, just as much his duty as it was the duty of Ralph or Philip.

Philip had stayed behind on account of his father, and Ralph felt it his duty to fly to Paris on account of his sick uncle. Arthur could have gone there in his place, and then he would have been perfectly safe. Now, even while Brenda was reasoning in this foolish fashion--yet it could hardly be called reasoning--she did not fully face the question as to whether she had not done wrong rather than Arthur. She still blamed him for not writing to her. What if she had not answered his last two letters? He was the one who had gone farthest away, and he should have written.

Now all of this was the very poorest logic, and no one understood this better than Brenda herself, slow though she was to admit that she had made a blunder.

Miss South heard frequently from her brother Louis, who had been one of the first to go to the front, and a box had been already sent from the Mansion filled with useful things for the men of his company, about whose privations in camp he had written very entertainingly. "How would you like it," he wrote, "to have to take your occasional bath in a rubber blanket? Yes! that is exactly what I do. We cannot bathe in the creek, for its muddy water is all we have to drink. So when I wish to bathe I dig a narrow trench some distance away, lay my rubber blanket in it, and carry enough water to fill it. In no other way could I get a decent--I mean a half-decent--bath." Then he told of the canned beef and hard bread that was his chief diet, and added that if the heat continued, he would have nothing worse to fear from the Cuban climate, "for to Cuba they say we shall go before the end of June."

Brenda, listening to the letter, wondered if Arthur, too, had had the same experiences.

More than all, she wondered if the troops now in camp would really go to Cuba, and if--if--

Then she would not let her thoughts go too far. She could not bear to think of the coming battles; for every one said that the Spaniards would not yield without a bitter conflict.

Maggie, whose devotion to her was unnoted by Brenda, watched the latter from day to day, and often saved her steps by anticipating her wishes. Maggie observed that Brenda's face was paler and thinner than when she first began to live at the Mansion. She noticed, too, that she no longer cared for pretty gowns. She wore constantly a blue serge skirt and shirt waist, suitable enough in its way for one who was a resident at a settlement; but Brenda had formerly cared little for suitability, and Maggie, though she would not for a moment have admitted that her idol looked less than beautiful, still wished that she had the courage to ask her to wear occasionally one of the dainty muslin gowns that she knew she had brought with her to the Mansion.

One day as Brenda strolled through the upper hall she saw the door of Maggie's room ajar. This reminded her that it was her turn to inspect the bureaus of the girls, and acting on impulse she went at once to Maggie's drawer. This inspection usually consisted only of a passing glance to make sure that the contents of the drawers were not in the state of hopeless confusion into which the bureaus of young girls have a strange way of throwing themselves.

Maggie's bureau, if not above criticism, was fairly neat, but as Brenda turned away something strangely familiar caught her eye. It could not be--yet it surely was--and she took the bit of silver in her hand to assure herself that it really was the chatelaine clasp of the silver purse that she had lost. As she took up the little piece of silver her hand trembled. There was no doubt about it; too well she recognized the elaborately engraved rose, surmounted by the double B, that had been her own especial design. How vividly came back to her the day on which she had lost the purse--the day of the broken vase, of the discovery of Maggie, of the deferred walk with Arthur; all came back to her vividly, and yet these things seemed years and years away. She had never associated Maggie with the lost purse, but now suspicion followed suspicion, and all in an instant Maggie McSorley had become not merely a tiresome little girl, but one deserving of reprimand if not of punishment.

Then discovery followed discovery. Just back of the silver clasp lay the picture of a young, good-looking soldier in campaign uniform, and Brenda could not help reading at the bottom the words, "From your loving Tim."

At that moment there was a step at the door, and immediately Maggie was beside her. The little girl reddened as she looked over Brenda's shoulder.

"My uncle," she exclaimed.

"Why, Maggie! How often your aunt has said that you haven't a relation in the world but herself and her husband."

"Then it's she that doesn't tell the truth," and frightened by her own boldness Maggie burst into tears.

Brenda did not feel like consoling her. Moreover, Maggie's next words, "Don't tell my aunt," were not reassuring; so Brenda went rather sadly downstairs. The clasp was still in her left hand; she had even forgotten to show it to Maggie. Near the library door she met Concetta, looking bright and cheerful. What a pleasant contrast to the weeping, unsatisfactory girl upstairs!

That evening Maggie did not appear again downstairs. She would take no tea, and Gretchen, who had gone above to inquire, reported that Maggie had a severe headache. As Julia left the rest of the family after tea to see what she could do for Maggie, Brenda seated herself at the library table beside Concetta, who was turning over the leaves of a book.

Half absent-mindedly Brenda fingered the clasp which had been in her pocket since the afternoon, and Concetta, as her eye fell upon it, put out her hand as if to seize it. Then as quickly she drew her hand away, pretending not to have seen the bit of silver. Brenda did not notice Concetta's action, though she was pleased to hear her say a word or two in excuse of Maggie's weeping proclivities.

"She's such a kind of tender-hearted girl. Yes, she told me the other evening that she hated to kill a mosquito; she'd rather let them bite her. Why, I'd kill hundreds of mosquitoes without thinking of it," concluded Concetta boldly; "and it made Maggie cry when the kitten got scalded the other day, but I wouldn't think of crying."

Brenda listened to Concetta quietly; she was wondering if she ought to disclose her suspicions to Julia. At length she decided that it was her duty to do so.

"Let us ask Miss South what she thinks. Perhaps there is some explanation that she can suggest."

Miss South, when consulted, was inclined to question the accuracy of Brenda's memory.

"Isn't it possible that you have forgotten just when you lost the purse?"

"No, indeed, I have not forgotten," said Brenda. "It made a great impression on me that I should have lost it on the very day when I had had to pay for that broken vase, and that was the day when I first went home with Maggie; but really I never thought of her having taken it, and I'm very, very sorry."

Brenda spoke in tones of genuine distress. It is true that she had never been very fond of Maggie, and that her first pride in her as an acquisition for the Mansion had soon passed away. Concetta and one or two of the other girls had interested her more. Yet in a general way she had had a good opinion of Maggie, which it hurt her very much now to be obliged to reverse.

Thus, as the school year closed, Brenda, like Julia, was beginning to have doubts about the value of the work that she had been doing; for if Maggie had the clasp, she must also have the purse and its contents. The money contained in it had amounted to only about three dollars, but the purse itself had been valuable, and doubtless Maggie had sold it. "I suppose she was afraid to sell the clasp on account of the initials," Brenda thought, a little bitterly.

Even though she had not liked Maggie as well as some of the other girls, she was not pleased that she had made this unpleasant discovery. She would have been more than glad if she had never seen that harmless-looking little clasp lying in Maggie's bureau, if Maggie had never told her that untruth about the soldier's photograph.

XX

WEARY WAITING

Toward the end of June letters from Arthur were infrequent. Indeed, but one had come from him since he had left camp for Cuba, and this, like the earlier letters, had been addressed to Agnes, not to Brenda. Letters were mailed to him twice a week, and various things had been sent to him that the family hoped might be of use in camp. But although Brenda helped pack the little boxes, and though she had bought, or at least selected, many of the things that went in the boxes, she did not write. She was still waiting for Arthur's letter.

The last week in June several of the girls from the Mansion went home to be with relatives for a few days before going up to the farm, and Brenda at last agreed to go down to Rockley. Mrs. Barlow had told her that she might bring with her any of the girls whom she wished to have with her. "Naturally, I suppose, you will wish to bring Maggie, as she is your especial protegee."

Mrs. Barlow had not realized the waning of Brenda's interest in Maggie, but Brenda, as she read the letter, knew that she would not invite Maggie. She had not yet spoken to Maggie about the silver clasp, but she saw that the time had now come to do it, and she nerved herself to the disagreeable task. Accordingly, a day or two before she was to start for Rockley she called Maggie to her room, but when Maggie appeared she was not alone. Concetta was with her. It hardly seemed wise to send Concetta away, and the two little girls sat down, as if to make an afternoon visit. Hardly had she been seated five minutes, however, when Concetta spied the little silver clasp that Brenda had laid on the table near by. At first she put out her hand as if to take it, then even more quickly drew it back. But Brenda had noted the action, and after they had talked a few minutes of other things she brought up the subject of the lost purse.

She had described the pretty purse that she had so valued, because it was a present from one of whom she was especially fond, and told how its loss had distressed her. It must be admitted that her heart beat a trifle more quickly as she looked at the two, but neither of the girls appeared the least self-conscious. Then she held up the clasp--perhaps it wasn't just right to say this before Concetta--and added:

"It surprised me very much a day or two ago to find this little clasp in the possession of one of the girls here at the Mansion, for it is the very clasp that I lost with the silver purse."

Then Maggie reddened and looked at Concetta, and Concetta looked from Maggie to Brenda.

"Did you think that somebody stole it?" asked Maggie anxiously, and then she seemed to search Concetta's face for an answer.

"I hardly care to say what I think," replied Brenda. "I should not like to believe that any one had stolen it."

This time her gaze was so evidently directed toward Maggie that Maggie was almost driven to reply.

"I know that it was in my drawer, Miss Barlow, but--"

"Oh, it was I who gave it to her, I really did; but I didn't steal it." Concetta spoke very positively.

Brenda was certainly puzzled by the turn of affairs, the more puzzled because she realized as well as any one else in the house that Maggie and Concetta had never been good friends, yet it was Maggie whom she now heard saying:

"Oh, I'm sure, Miss Barlow, that Concetta isn't to blame."

"I never saw the purse," explained Concetta, "but the clasp was given to me--that is, I paid twenty-five cents for it. The girl I got it from lives in the next house to my uncle's; you can ask her about it."

"Well, I'm obliged to you, Concetta, for freeing Maggie from suspicion. It is indeed strange that the day I lost the purse was the very day on which I first saw Maggie. You remember, Maggie, the day when I went home with you."