"She is very pleased and, I think, patient—four years older than you."

"Oh, suppose they didn't want me back?" and the child drew a long breath of half fear.

"There will be something else," in an assuring tone.

Marilla leaned her head back on the pillow. She had talked herself tired. How queer that was, too, when she had talked for hours to the babies.

"Would you like me to read to you?" inquired Miss Armitage.

"Oh, yes, if it's verses. There's a curious music in verses that goes all through you, keeping time to something in your brain. I just love them."

The lady found "Songs of Seven" with its musical lilt and the child listened wide-eyed as if it made pictures to her. Then the doctor came in and was very much pleased over her improvement.

But the next day she was quite languid again. She took a few steps when suddenly everything swam before her eyes and she would have fallen but for Jane's strong arm.

"Oh, you don't suppose I can never walk any more?" she cried in affright. "For there was a nurse at the Home who fell down that way and she had been very well, too. But something happened to her hips. I can't think what they called it, and she never could walk again. They had to send her to the hospital and she could get about just a little on crutches. Oh, dear" and Marilla began to cry.

"There don't think of such a thing. It was only weakness," comforted Miss Armitage. "Once when I was ill I fainted a great many times for just nothing at all. You have not had a chance to get strong yet."

Marilla recalled seeing the nurse brought down stairs on a stretcher, they called it. And the doctor said she could never walk again. Oh, how dreadful that would be. She turned her face over on the pillow and let the tears drop silently, and she could not swallow any supper, something lay so heavy on her breast. Miss Armitage kissed her, and Marilla twined her arms around the soft white neck hardly hidden by the lace. There had never been any one to love during the later years. And her mother had been busy and away in a store.

"Don't worry, dear," said the soothing voice. "God takes care of us all."

The sun was shining the next morning and the next door canary hanging out on the back porch was singing with all his might and main. Such long sweet warbles, such a merry staccato with little pauses, as if he asked—"Now, what do you think of that?" and the child laughed with a sense of glee. Oh, how nice it would be to be a bird. But she wouldn't want to live in a cage all the time.

Jane came and gave her a bath, rubbed her softly but thoroughly across the hips and up and down the spine, holding her up with one strong arm. Marilla took a frightened step, then another and laughingly flung her arms around Jane's neck, crying—

"Oh, I can walk! I can walk!"

"Why did you think you could never walk again?" Jane laughed wholesomely.

"I felt so queer—and I thought of the woman at the Home."

"But she must have been quite an old body. They do get paralyzed; children don't. Oh, you must not think of dreadful things. Come, see how you can walk."

Jane's arm was around her and she led her back to the room and dressed her. Miss Armitage came up just then and greeted her with a happy smile. But Marilla felt shaky and was very glad to sit down on the couch.

"Now I shall bring you up some breakfast," said Jane.

"Don't you suppose I could go down and have some real breakfast at the table—not today, but sometime."

Then Marilla flushed. She was a bound-out girl and had always taken her meals with Bridget.

"Yes, I think so. We will see what the doctor says this morning. I shall have to go out presently and see twenty girls get started for a vacation. They are in stores and factories, and have two weeks in the summer, and the Rest House doesn't charge any board—they earn so little. When you are well enough to travel about, I must take you out to the House."

Maybe she wouldn't have to go back to the babies right away!

The breakfast tasted good, though it was only a poached egg and some toast. But she didn't seem very hungry, and though she felt sort of joyously well at heart her body was tired and she lay on the couch to rest. The doctor found her quiet and there was a whimsical light playing over his face and settling in his eyes.

"So you haven't run away yet?" he began.

"I don't believe I could run very far. Yet I seem quite well—and it's queer, too."

Jane said you fainted yesterday.

"Well it was—something, and then I was frightened—"

"Stand up a moment." He helped her to her feet, then he passed his hand down her spine and over her hips. "Does it hurt any?" he asked.

"No, not a real hurt."

"You fell off of the stoop over there, a boy said."

"The baby dropped something and I went to pick it up, I guess I stumbled. And when I turned round everything was upside down and black and I don't remember any more until I was over here. Miss Armitage was so good, is so good."

"Yes; well it might have been worse. But I think now you are on the high road to health again."

"I've never been real sick unless this is it," and she gave a vague smile.

"I think it is," nodding humorously. "The babies have been rather too much for you this hot weather. Were you very fond of them?"

"Well, they were not bad and very funny. You can't love bad people."

"Oh, can't you?"

"No, you can't," with an emphasis. "You may like them and think they're pretty and sweet sometimes, but you don't truly love them I mean you wouldn't choose them if you had you choice."

"Which you don't often have in this world. Now what would be your choice?"

"Oh, I'd like to stay here. I don't know what I'd do if I was Miss Armitage's bound-out girl. Jane does everything and—cook does the meals. She might let me wipe the dishes. But—maybe you don't know I'm bound-out to Mrs. Borden until I'm eighteen, so I shall have to go back. And the babies need me. I'm teaching them to talk. I'm almost Cinderella, not the kitchen kind, though I wouldn't mind that with Bridget."

"I heard you went to the King's ball with a fairy godmother. Would you mind telling me?"

Marilla colored. Yes, she would be quite pretty if she wasn't so thin.

"Why it was just a dream. And I was asleep by the kitchen stove. I hadn't any belief in her at first. Oh, do you know anything about that curious part of your brain that dreams?"

"No, I do not. I think no one really does. I suppose you had been reading about Cinderella."

"I used to read it over to the babies, or tell them. But there was Red Riding Hood and Jack and the Beanstalk and Hop o' My Thumb. Jack had them all, but I never dreamed of them. And the babies seemed to understand them all. They laughed at the funny places and they looked so shocked at the dreadful things, and were so pleased when the old wolf fell down the chimney, dead. Why it was just delightful to me, only sometimes I did get tired talking so much and had to wait for my breath."

"Are you tired now?" and he listened a moment to her heart.

"Oh, no. I feel all good and rested, and Jane said I ate a nice breakfast. I'm almost well, though I wouldn't mind being ill a long, long while if I could stay here. There was a little girl once who died and went to heaven. Miss Florence had the book. That wasn't any fairy story, and I think this must be a good deal like heaven. It's so quiet with no one troubling you, and when Miss Armitage plays——"

Her soft eyes were like wind-blown lakes and the far-away sight moved him inexpressibly.

"Suppose you tell me about the dream?"

"Oh, you'll only laugh at me."

"No, I won't laugh. I never knew a Cinderella who went to the palace and danced with the King's son."

He drew her up a little in the bed and placed the pillows around her. Then he seated himself on the couch at her feet and smiled so persuasively that she really couldn't resist. She pictured the kitchen and how comfortably she had settled herself and—she really couldn't have been asleep she saw everything so plainly and, at first, she did not believe the fairy godmother.

Dr. Richards was really charmed as she went on. It was all so vivid, so beautiful. She appeared to have a better command of language than most children of her years, and the whole picture was exquisite. Why, it seemed very real to him. And her face was a study. Surely the child must be a genius, she made the things so real and not overdrawn. A veritable fairy palace.

Then she drew a long breath and a lovely smile irradiated her eyes.

"I'm so glad I went," she said in a satisfied tone, freighted with a certain joyousness that appealed to his heart. She really was transfigured at that moment. What possibilities were lying in her soul unawakened. The little bound-out girl would never, could never realize them alone in her fight with life. For he had known:

"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen And waste its sweetness on the desert, air."

When a helping hand would have transplanted it into a garden of appreciation.

A sudden fatherhood stirred within him. He had thought more than once of the woman he would like for his wife; now he wanted this little girl to grow up by his side and bloom with the sacred joy within her.

"I'm glad, too," he said in a strange, full voice that trembled with emotion.



CHAPTER VI

DOCTOR RICHARDS

Doctor Richards went slowly down stairs, Miss Armitage let herself in with her latch key.

"How is my little patient today?" she asked.

"Stronger in some respects. But I don't quite like the heart action. And I'm afraid I haven't improved it any."

"Oh, you did not scold her—?" in a half upbraiding tone.

"No, no. But I coaxed that dream story out of her and several other things. In a year or two more those Borden babies will have her all worn out. So many of the little Cinderellas don't get half a chance with life, the stolid ones do better. But she could hold an audience with that story, if she was not afraid of the audience," smiling a little, "and the lovely expressions that flit over her face! She is not the usual child."

"I've been a little afraid to think that. So many of the child prodigies flatten out and make ordinary people."

"And some of them never get the true opportunity. I've a boy under my observation who is going to make a first-class surgeon, and I'm persuading a man to educate him. His father is going to put him in a foundry. Think of hands fitted for the nicest surgery being coarsened by contact with rough iron and hard tools. He would lose the fine touch by hard manual labor if he worked for his education. No one knows all the children sacrificed to Moloch. But the little girl! Of course she thinks of going back. She isn't even tugging at the chain. But I, for one, don't believe God puts people in just the place He wants them to stay, when He must see that they can't work out. Well—did you get the girls off?"

"Yes, and they were a delighted lot. Three only are to have their wages paid. Yet an employer told me about a week ago he had subscribed twenty-five dollars to one of these girls' summer homes. That at four dollars a week would have paid six girl's a week's wages. His name goes down on the generous list of course. Oh, I don't wonder people like to do the things that show! The things that only God can know do not come up for credit. But it is 'deal justly' first of all."

"I'd like to stay and talk—but there is a serious matter before me. Take good care of our little girl—but I needn't charge you. I'll be in again tomorrow."

Miss Armitage went slowly upstairs, paused a few moments at her desk to jot down some items. When she went through to the next room, Marilla was asleep. The little face was framed in with rings of shining hair, the lips were palely pink and parted with a half smile, the skin still showed blue veins. With a little care, such as rich people gave their children, she might grow up pretty, she would always be sweet. And the pudgy babies with their wondering eyes loved her!

Marilla improved slowly but surely. She walked from room to room, and one day she went down stairs to luncheon. Just the small round table in the recess by the side window set out with all manner of pretty dishes and a pretty glass basket of flowers in the center. And there was Jane to wait upon them, and she seemed so pleased to have Marilla down stairs though the little girl had held tight to the bannister, lest she should lose her balance and fall. Everything looked so cool and sweet. The pictures were of woods and lakes, or a bit of sedgy river. There were fine sheer draperies at the windows, a tall vase of flowers on the beautiful centerpiece that adorned the real dining table.

Oh, how good the delicate asparagus soup tasted. And the cold chicken, the rice and the dainty potato cake. Marilla was all smiles inside, she could feel the quiver. She had not been waited on this way since the night in fairy land. Bridget had a way of shoving things toward you or asking you to get up and help yourself. But then, Bridget had done the cooking and was tired, and Marilla was glad to wait on her.

After the dessert, they went through to the drawing room and that looked lovely to the little girl. There was a portfolio of engravings on a sort of stand, and you could sit there and turn them over without any effort. There were so many pretty children among them, and some of royal families that were to be kings and queens.

The postman came and Jane brought in a handful of letters. Miss Armitage looked them over casually. Here was one from Bayside and she opened it.

"My dear Miss Armitage," it began.

"I don't know how we can thank you for taking Marilla in as you did, and by this time I hope she is about well. Mr. Borden comes up on Saturday morning to see a client and will call for Marilla at about two. We simply can't do without her. We've had the most awful time! Two babies getting four teeth apiece are enough to drive one crazy. There was no trouble about the other teeth, but I think it would not have been so bad if we'd had Marilla. They have missed her and cried after her and no one could get them asleep until they were fairly worn out and then they sobbed in the most heartbreaking way. We've had no rest day or night. Ellen is very good and patient, but the babies simply won't let her touch them. Marilla always knew just what to do. She was so entertaining. She certainly was born for a nurse girl, though I thought she was most too young when I took her, I've never let her lift them, for they're like a lump of lead. They have grown thinner and I do hope it will keep on, unless Marilla makes them laugh so much they fat up again. They have each cut two teeth and they had to be lanced. Sister and I have had an awful time. We shall be so glad to get Marilla back. I think Ellen will not be a success as a child's nurse. And I can get her a first-class place as a parlor maid where she can have eighteen dollars a month, which I couldn't afford to pay. There is a cook and a laundress kept, so she won't lose by coming down. She is very nice, pleasant and tidy, and we had to have some one in the emergency. And poor little Marilla must have gone to a hospital but for your kindness. We are all so obliged and if Mr. Borden can be of service to you, sometime, he will be very glad. These are the favors money cannot repay.

"So if you will have Marilla ready about two o'clock on Saturday, Mr. Borden will call for her. If she needs a dress will you kindly purchase it and tell him. We have all her clothes down here. There is a beautiful big lawn with hammocks and everything, and if she is not very strong yet she can have sea bathing which is splendid, and fine diet. And we certainly are your deeply grateful friends.

"Mrs. Mary Borden."

Miss Armitage read the letter over twice and watched the pale little girl enjoying the pictures. It was not quite a heartless letter but, it had no special sympathy for the poor little Cinderella, if she did not have to sit in the ashes. Then she laid it by and went at the others.

"Please Miss Armitage, may I go upstairs? I am so tired. What do you suppose makes me feel tired so easily?"

"You are not strong yet. Yes, we will go upstairs and you must lie down."

She placed her arm around the slender body. Marilla kissed the white hand.

The doctor came in the next morning, and Miss Armitage handed him the letter.

"Has the average woman any soul!" he exclaimed angrily.

"Mrs. Borden has had no means of knowing how severe the case really was——"

"See here, she might have written on—say Tuesday and inquired. Why Marilla might have died with just a little more. She doesn't go. She won't be strong enough to bother with teething babies in some time yet, if at all."

"Oh, you don't think——"

"She has a weak heart. It may have come from the shock and there is time enough for her to outgrow it, with care. Are you going to tire of her?"

She saw there was no doubt in his face and smiled.

"Marilla's no more trouble than a kitten. Jane is positively in love with her. I'm not sure but I shall ask to have her transferred to me."

"Hilda Armitage you ought to be the mother of girls. I don't know about the boys," with a doubtful laugh.

"I've had two disappointments."

"I told you that Conklin girl was not worth the trouble. She's singing in a vaudeville show and it does suit her. You couldn't get any refined ambition in that vain and silly brain. It is casting pearls before swine. Save the pearls for some one worthy. She doesn't go back to the Borden's this summer. When you get tired of her——"

"Shall we quarrel about her?" She glanced up with an odd, humorous smile.

"Perhaps we shall in the end, but that is a good way off. When that man comes today, just let him see Marilla."

Mr. Borden came punctually at two and was quite profuse in his thanks for Miss Armitage's kindness.

"I regret to say that Marilla has progressed very slowly. She had quite an exhausting fever at first. She was not able to come downstairs until yesterday, and lies down several times through the day."

"Is it possible! Why we thought—and we need her so much! Did you—" he flushed a little, "have a good physician?"

"An excellent one whose practice is mostly among children. He thought her quite worn out, but it was being overcome with the heat and she fell off the steps. It was near congestion of the brain I believe."

"I'm awfully sorry. We were so busy just then, and my wife was worried to death. The babies had always been so good, but I can't imagine anything being so—so dreadful as they've been for a week. I've scarcely slept an hour at a time and Mrs. Borden is clear worn out. She thinks just the sight of Marilla would comfort them. We might go on keeping that Ellen, though the babies won't take to her. I think Marilla charmed them; but they're always been good until now. And there's four more teeth to come through," in a despairing sort of tone.

Miss Armitage had large sympathy and she felt really sorry for him. Yet how providential that Marilla had missed the care!

"You have had a very bad time, certainly, and it is fortunate that Marilla didn't give out on your hands. Would you like to see her, though I think she is asleep."

"Yes—oh yes. If we kept Ellen, don't you think she might come down next week. The sea-bathing would no doubt strengthen her."

"She has some heart weakness. I'm afraid she couldn't stand the bathing."

Then she rose and led the way up stairs.

Marilla was asleep. Mr. Borden studied her in surprise.

"Why, she's grown dreadfully thin. Yes, she must have been very ill, but like the babies, she'd always been well. I'm awful sorry. I don't know what we shall do. Mrs. Borden had counted so on her coming. And she said over half a dozen times that I must not forget to thank you for all this kindness. You must send me the doctor's bill. She's such a nice child, Miss Armitage."

Marilla stirred and opened her eyes, closed them sighed and opened them again, then half murmured—"Oh, doctor," and started.

"Marilla, child, don't you remember Mr. Borden?"

"I had not told her about your coming. We keep her as tranquil as possible."

"Oh, Mr. Borden!" Marilla sat up. "And the babies?"

"The babies are in a very poor way, Marilla. They certainly are homesick for you. We try to keep them comforted with the promise of you. Oh, I hoped you would be well enough to go down with me this afternoon. Their mother will be telling them you will surely come. Poor little girl, but you are going to get well, aren't you? And Jack thinks there's no fun without you, and no one to read to him or tell him stories."

The child gave a vague smile. She was very glad to be away from Jack; indeed, sick babies did not appear attractive to her just now, but she said—

"Oh, I'm very sorry. The doctor said it was the heat and——"

"It was awfully hot that week. That made the babies worse. Oh, if I could take you down just to amuse them. You made them laugh so, Marilla. You know just how to do it. Well—it can't be helped, but you must try to get well and have some good of the pretty country place. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Miss Armitage is so good. And Jane and the doctor. And the yard is full of flowers. I'm very happy."

"I suppose so. Maybe you won't want to come back. But you belong to us, you know and we can't give you up."

Then he turned to go.

"Will you kiss the babies for me and tell them how sorry I am, and ask Jack not to tease them, and—and—" she swallowed over a great lump in her throat—"I shall come back when I get well."

"That's a good girl. Good-bye. I shall be in town next week and will come in and see you."

He gave the little hand a clasp. Miss Armitage went down with him. Marilla turned her face over on the pillow and cried as if her heart would break. Could she go back to the babies and Jack? And Bridget wasn't as sweet as Jane, and there was sharp Aunt Hetty——

"My dear! My dear!" said the soft voice with its infinite pity, and the sweet lips kissed hers.

"Oh, Miss Armitage, won't God take you to heaven if you pray very hard? I should hate to leave you and the dear, nice doctor, but I'm afraid I don't want to go back to the babies and Jack. I'm tired of them, and I feel as if it was foolish to be funny when there are so many sweet things to think of and books to read and your beautiful music. But I must go away from all that, and somehow heaven looks nicer. And when you die doesn't an angel come and take you in his arms and just carry you up and up to the other side of the sky where everything is peace and loveliness, and no one will torment you——"

"Oh my child, perhaps God wants you to live here a little longer and do some work for him. The doctor would be very sorry not to have you get well. Some one might say—'He let that little girl die when he might have saved her,' but they wouldn't know it was because she kept brooding over it all the time and would make no effort to get well. God knows what is best for us."

"I didn't mind about going back. But today it seemed to be—dreadful," with a convulsive sob.

"Then we have spoiled you. Oh, I am sorry for that."

"Oh, dear Miss Armitage, don't be sorry when you have been so good. But I don't quite understand how anyone can bind you out and make you stay years if you didn't want to."

"But children do not know what is best for them. Some go wandering round the streets without any home and are picked up and put in a place almost like a prison where they have to work whether they like it or not. And some even have cruel fathers and mothers. You said the Bordens were good to you. Would you rather be there or at the Home?"

"Oh, I'd rather be there than at the Home, but——" and she swallowed hard over a sob.

"If they worked you beyond reason or half starved you a complaint could be made but they all seem to love you——"

Miss Armitage smiled with a soft kind of sadness, as if she wished the truth were not quite so true, and the things that looked so delightful were not so often the thing it was best to give up for honor's sake.

"Yes, they do love me, babies and all, and of course I must go back when I am well enough."

Then she turned her face away and tried to keep back the tears. Jane entered at that moment and the tension was broken.

Miss Armitage read verses to her after she was in bed that evening, and kissed her good night with motherly tenderness. Then she sat for some time and thought.

Why should she have taken a fancy to this little girl? She had seen prettier children who were homeless and helped provide for them. The Bordens were not rough or heartless. Bridget had spoken well of them. The child had a comfortable home, and she was bound in honor. It would be mean to entice her to break the bargain, to make her dissatisfied. No, she must not do that.

Miss Armitage's life lines had run along smoothly through girlhood. Her mother was a widow and they had a comfortable income. Hilda had a good voice and sang in church, gave some music lessons. There had been a lover and a dear friend and the old tragedy had occurred, that might have been more heartbreaking if her mother had not been taken ill. For days her recovery was doubtful. Then an uncle at Los Angeles besought her to come out to that genial clime and spend her remaining days with him, for now he was quite alone.

Hilda made all preparations. Such of the furniture as had intrinsic value was to be stored with a friend, the rest sold. And then Mrs. Armitage had an unlooked for relapse and Hilda went out alone.

Her uncle was a kindly man past middle life and he took an instant fancy to Hilda. The house and its surroundings were loveliness itself. Life here would be really enchanting. It was such a beautiful world.

"But you have not seen half of it yet. Hilda, what would you say to going abroad? I've wanted to half my life. But my wife, as you have heard, was an invalid and not inclined to travel. We lost our two children. I'm not too old to start out now and view some things with the eyes of an enthusiastic young girl."

So abroad they went. She had seven years of the richness of the old world, learning languages, listening to music that stirred every pulse of her soul, haunting art galleries with loving companionship that somehow saw the best and most beautiful in everything if it was not always high art.

And then she returned alone. It seemed more of a loss than the death of her mother. She remained awhile in California settling up some business and then the longing seized her to return to the home of her youth, to have a real home where she could make the center she was still dreaming of, surround herself with friends and do something worth while with her money.

Newton had changed as well, enlarged its boundaries and made itself beautiful at the northern end. The shops and factories were kept down by the railroad center where two important lines crossed, and the river was navigable. Then Main Street was devoted to really fine stores, Brandon to offices and men's businesses, the Postoffice being there. A handsome library building adorned Broadway, there were Orphan Homes, an Old Ladies' Home, a Social Settlement.

Miss Armitage liked the aspect of it. Boarding at a hotel for awhile she looked about and decided on Loraine place. The houses stood in a row, but they had a pretty court yard in front, and a real stretch of ground at the back for grass and flowers and two fine fruit trees.

Of course old friends sought her out. Perhaps the fortune helped. The young girls of her time were matrons with growing children. How odd it seemed! She thought sometimes that she felt reprehensibly young, as if she was having girlhood over again in her heart, but it was a richer, wiser and more fervent girlhood, with the added experiences of the woman.

There were many things for her to take an interest in but they finally settled around the babies and little children's hospital, and the Settlement House. In a way, she was fond of the sweet, helpless babies who seemed so very dependent on human kindness. If there was one of her own flesh and blood it would take possession of her very soul, all her thoughts, all her affection. But it should have been hers earlier in life. Now she wanted companionship. She could not wait for it to develop and then find unpleasant traits that had come from alien blood. No, she could not adopt a baby and wait a dozen years to know whether it would satisfy or not.

She had helped two or three girls to better things. One through the last two years of High School and who was now teaching. And there had been one with a charming voice and an attractive face who had been injured in a mill and who would never have perfect use of her right hand. If she could be trained for a singer!

She and Doctor Richards came to words about her. He said plainly she would not be worth the money spent upon her. But Miss Armitage insisted on spending it a year when the girl threw up her friend and joined a concert troupe, slipping presently into vaudeville where she was a success.

And out of the dispute came a proffer of love and marriage. Alvah Richards had begun life at the opposite pole from Miss Armitage. There had been a fortune, a love for the study of medicine, a degree in Vienna and one at Paris. Then most of the fortune had been swept away. He returned to America and some way drifted to Newton. They were just starting the hospital and he found plenty to do. He could live frugally. To help his still poorer fellow creatures in suffering, to restore them to strength and teach them to be useful members of society, or to comfort them and make the path easier over the river to the other country; this was his highest aim.

Miss Armitage was almost dumb with surprise. She raised her hand in entreaty.

"Oh, don't! don't," she cried. "It is quite impossible; it cannot be. I like you very much, but I am not in love. And then——"

"Then what?" with eager eyes and incisive voice.

"You had a birthday last week. I heard you telling it. You are thirty-one."

"Well—" There was a proud smile on his manly face.

"And when my birthday comes, I shall be thirty-six. When you are sixty, rich in experience, famous, a real man among men, I shall be quite an old woman. No, I shouldn't do it for your sake."

"As if a few years made any difference! Why you could discount seven years at least. Have you been loved so much that you can throw away a man's honest, honorable, tender love that will last all his life, that wear it as you like, in any stress, you can never wear out."

"Oh," she cried. "You have spoiled a splendid friendship. I liked you so much, I have no love to give in return."

"Then let us be friends again. I would rather have you for a friend than any other woman for a wife. I simply will not give you up."

So the pendulum went on swinging evenly between the two points, when Cinderella entered both lives.

And now it was Sunday morning and the chimes were pealing—"Oh, come all ye faithful." Marilla listened with a throb of joy, though she did not know the words they were saying in sweetest melody. Miss Armitage came and stood by the cot with a cordial good morning.

Marilla stretched out her hand and glanced up with an entreating sort of smile.

"Was I very bad last night?" she asked in a wistful tone.

"Bad? Why—what was it?"

"I've been thinking it over. Oh, I didn't want to go back to Mrs. Borden. It is so lovely and quiet and beautiful here. But it is right. I am her bound-out girl, and I was glad to go there. You wouldn't like me to be always looking for what was nice and pleasant and shirking other things, would you?"

"Dear." She stooped and kissed her. She had been going over some arguments fitted for a child's understanding, and she was afraid of a rather painful time. And the worst to her was the fact that she had come to love the child and really desired her.

"The babies, you know, are so fond of me, and they are all very good. So I wouldn't have any reason for not staying with them. And it will be only five years more, then I shall be eighteen. And I thought—" flushing daintily, "that maybe Jane might marry, and you would want some one in her place and if it was—me," rather tremulously—"I could come—I love you so. I'd be your Cinderella always. And when I go back it will be like the King's ball—I shall keep thinking how lovely it was for you to bring me here instead of sending me to a hospital, and it will comfort me just as the music did."

Miss Armitage bent over and kissed her but there were tears in her eyes. She was touched with the child's reasoning that was so like heroism.

"Yes, dear," she said. "We will think of it that way. And if you should be ill at any time, I will have you brought here, and you shall stop when you take the babies out and let me see them, and rest a little."

"Oh that will be just lovely. You are so good," and she kissed the white hand lying on her shoulder.

Then Jane came in and she had her bath. How delightful it was to be rubbed so carefully, to have her curly mop brushed.

"I ought to dress myself now. Why I'm not sick at all only I get tired easily, but I am stronger every day."

The breakfast was so nice. And to be waited upon! Marilla gave an inward laugh of delight.

And while Miss Armitage was at church, Dr. Richards came and bundled her up, carried her downstairs and deposited her in the buggy. He was very merry, somehow. He was going out in the country and, oh, how beautiful everything was! There had been a shower in the night and the air was full of fragrance from the grass, the pines and cedars, the orchards, wild flowers, and newly cut hay, that had not all been gathered in. Children ran about or swung in hammocks. Hens were fairly shouting with no regard for Sunday. Birds were caroling all sorts of joyous tunes and the tree twigs were gaily dancing. And here and there such beautiful drifts went over the sky, ships, she called them. They were going to fairy land—something that was not quite heaven, but a lovely place for all that. There must be so many lovely places in this great world! Over the ocean where Miss Armitage had been, and she recalled the castles and palaces and beautiful woods, and peasants dancing on the green and laughing; that she had seen in the portfolio of engravings. And the legends she had listened to! Oh, if she could go to school and learn ever so many things now, for when she was eighteen she would be too old, and a kind of perplexity settled in her smooth forehead.



CHAPTER VII

A DAY TO BE REMEMBERED

Dr. Richards had been studying the changes in the child's face. It was like reading a book, but it had many variations. Her thoughts must have traveled far and wide. What were they?

"Are you very happy?" he asked.

"Happy?" she echoed, wonderingly. "Why it is a beautiful Sunday. One ought to be happy—here with you and watching all these lovely things."

"Are Sundays happier than any other days?"

"Well—" slowly. "They ought to be. It seems as if it was the day of the Sun, and that's always glad and merry."

"But when it rains or is cloudy?"

"Oh, you know it is there, and maybe He is fighting away the clouds. And He draws up the water. I read that in a book—and when He gets enough He lets it fall down as He did last night and that makes the world so fresh and sweet. And there are fifty-two Sundays when you ought not——"

"What?" watching the shadow in her eyes.

"Well, I think you ought not work very much. I suppose some people have to when you have meals to get and babies to see to. I go to Sunday school with Jack and I like it so much. I've learned ever so many of the songs. But the lessons puzzle me. They are about God—we had them in the Home, you know, and God seems so big and strange. Do you know all about him."

"No, child, and no one, not even ministers can know all, so you need not worry about that. God has the whole world in His keeping. Don't you like the week days?"

"Well, they don't seem to have the same joy in them, only at Miss Armitage's every day seems like Sunday. But I keep counting them. You see, I'll be thirteen in September. Then when we've had fifty-two Sundays I'll be fourteen and so on, until I am eighteen."

"And then?" in a sweet kind of tone.

"Why I won't be bound-out any more. It's right for me to stay, she said so, but it would seem such a long while if I was just counting the years. And Sunday comes so quick, most times, and then you can be glad."

What a touch of philosophy for a child!

"But—they are good to you at Bordens?"

"Oh, yes. I love Bridget, though I was afraid of her at first. But the grown people have each other and since I don't really belong to them—oh, I can't explain it," and the knot came back to her brow. "You see when you're bound-out and going away for a while they can't feel the same to you. They're never real cross and they don't whip you as they did at the Home, and you have nicer things to eat. Sometimes when you were awful hungry you didn't seem to get enough. You wanted one more piece of bread, but you couldn't have it. Oh, I like it so much better at Mrs. Borden's Only Jack—Are boys always bad?"

"I guess they are for the most part," laughing.

"But he will go to school again. And his father says he will outgrow it. His father truly does want him to be good, and he said I must tell when he pinched me or kicked me, and he would punish him. But I don't like to, always, for he denies it, and his mother isn't pleased when I do. You can feel when people do not like you to tell things. At the Home when you told tales they whipped the child that was bad, and then they whipped you for telling tales. It didn't seem as if that was quite fair, so I tried never to tell on anyone."

"Generally speaking, it is a bad habit," he commented, gravely.

Then they had reached their destination. A poor old paralyzed man sat in a wheeling chair on the porch. Medical skill could not do much for him, but friendship and interest made pleasant times to remember when the hours were long and weary. Dr. Richards had brought some illustrated magazines, and they talked over the happenings of the week.

A sweet-faced, rather elderly lady brought Marilla a rocking chair, and asked her if she was the doctor's patient. Then she offered her a piece of cake and a lovely pear, and afterward took her down to see the flower garden that was fairly rioting in beauty, and a flock of snowy white chickens, as well as some fine pigeons that circled around like swallows. She was the wife, and there was a daughter who had gone to church. She talked of Dr. Richards, how good and comforting he was to "father." Marilla thought he must be good to everybody.

"I've had a lovely time with you," the child said. Then she shook hands with "father," who said—

"I s'pose you're the doctor's little girl?" His mind was not always clear on some points. "Come again, won't you?"

She smiled and nodded. "The doctor's little girl," how sweet it sounded! But of course that could not be.

They had a delightful ride home though it was growing warmer. How beautiful her eyes were today—a sort of gray-violet, and the bronze lashes almost curled. And as he listened to her soft, flowing voice, he kept thinking—if he was to marry some one and have a little girl full of quaint ideas as this one was! But it would take a long, long while, and he sighed.

Miss Armitage was sitting by the parlor window when they returned, and she came to the door to meet them.

"I ran away with your little invalid," the doctor exclaimed. "Haven't I brought her back improved?"

Her cheeks were positively rosy and were rounded out by the exquisite shading. She clasped her small arms around Miss Armitage.

"And I've had the most splendid time! A real Sunday. We've been out in the beautiful country where birds were singing hymns and I'm just full of happiness."

They had kept their pact, these two people; they could not have worked together otherwise, and each one was following the same path, for the good of the poor of this world.

"I am very glad——"

"Then you are not going to scold me?" with a questioning smile. "I promised her a drive you know, and today was rather a holiday to me."

"Why, she doesn't scold," cried Marilla in a sort of joyful contradiction.

"Won't you come in and have some dinner with us?"

"Pete would grumble if he stood here an hour. Now, if you would change it to supper—and a cup of tea——"

"Let be a cup of tea, then. I want to talk over some plans."

"Very well. Expect me on the mark. Six, isn't it?"

"Yes," with a smile.

"Oh, I'm just delighted," and Marilla squeezed his hand.

"So you had a lovely time. Where did you go?"

"Oh—through the park and then out on such a beautiful road. Things seem nicer on Sunday, because there isn't so much noise. And there was an old man who has to get about in a chair with little wheels, and can't walk any more. And the lady gave me some cake and such a luscious pear, and asked me to come again. I just wished that there was some little girl from the Home living there."

Marilla had her face and hands washed, and a fresh white frock put on. She was so bright and chatty and really charming. But after dinner she lay in the Morris chair and Miss Armitage read her to sleep. It seemed as if she had improved so much in the twenty-four hours.

They had such a genial and charming supper, and Miss Armitage played on the organ afterward and then talked about the girls who were going to the Rest House next week. Five of them were very much worn out. They would need to stay a full fortnight.

"And I think one of them needs some medical attention. Come to the Settlement and see her before she starts. And you know I am booked for that Canadian journey with the Winslows. I am almost sorry I promised. Do you think it would be safe to let the child go to the Bordens on Saturday?"

"You won't let her go back! She is worth something better than baby tending."

"You shouldn't have cured her up so soon! I don't exactly see my way clear or I should keep her for good and all. I like her very much. You may laugh at me about my swans being ordinary geese—but we must admit the Bordens have the right to her at present. And I do not want to make bad friends with them, seeing that in law he may exact the pound of flesh. They may tire of her or she may not be able to stand the babies and Jack. I could leave her here with Jane or send her to the Home. But she is very much resigned to the return. She has a curious bit of conscience about it. So it is best to let her try again."

"I can't bear the thought of it." He uttered it with vehemence.

"I don't like it much myself. But it seems the only way at present. Bridget will look out for her. We can't accuse them of any cruelty or neglect."

"And she fairly worships you—fairy godmother."

"I wish I were. I should change the lot of more than one Cinderella. Well—we will wait and see."

Marilla came in with a bunch of flowers.

"Jane said I might pick them for the doctor, and the ride was so nice. I shall put it in among the splendid things of my life—like the dream, and coming here—and when I get settled in bed and all is dark I can make a real fairy land out of it."

He took her flowers and kissed her, and said "Good-night" to them in a low tone. But he went home racking his brains to see if something could not be done toward keeping her.

Bridget came around one afternoon and was enthusiastic over her improvement.

"They're doing pretty well and I believe the twins are not to get any more teeth in a year or two. And the boss says they've thinned out astonishing, and they can talk a good bit. And that girl's going to the other place and they say you just must come down. But not a foot should you stir if you wasn't real well. An' its glad enough I am to have himself at breakfast at the morn and dinner at night. It's like living again, but I don't want to see any more twins."

Marilla laughed. "Yes, I feel all well only sometimes I have a little catch in my breath; and I'll be ready to go on Saturday."

"An' I'll just be praying to the saints to send you back safe and sound. I don't see why people should be kitin' off to strange places, when they've a good, comfortable house to stay in. But the saints be praised for the rest with that imp of a Jack being away! They do be grown up after awhile an' I s'pose you couldn't have men if there were no boy babies."

Then Mr. Borden called late one afternoon and brought a note from his wife. Ellen had to leave on Saturday or lose the nice place, and the babies were well now, walking all round and beginning to say cunning words. Pansy called "Illa, Illa," and then looked around for Marilla to come, and said—"Papa bing Illa." They wanted her so much. All their meals were taken over in the next cottage, and the laundress came twice a week for the washings. The children were out of doors most of the time, and they were on the ground floor, so there was no going up and down stairs. Marilla would have it very easy and they would take the best of care of her.

Mr. Borden was both kind and gentlemanly. He hoped there would be some way in which they could repay Miss Armitage for all her care. Would she accept a contribution for the Babies' Hospital, he had heard she was interested in, or any other charity?

It was very nice of him, Miss Armitage thought, and she chose the hospital. Marilla had been out walking with Jane and when she came in Mr. Borden was so cordial that it won the child's heart, and she was the more willing to go because she should lose her dear Miss Armitage for a month.

"And afterward, you must come and see me and we will have nice times together, and I may teach you a little music—you learn so easily. Oh, I count on seeing a good deal of you."

The parting was not as bitter as Miss Armitage had feared, partly because Mr. Borden was there and in such good spirits, and Marilla was thinking that the month would soon pass and that in any event she could not see her dear fairy godmother in that time.

The journey interested her very much. She had never taken so long a ride in the cars. Mr. Borden bought her a box of marshmallows and he had some illustrated papers. And there at the station was Miss Florence who gave her a cordial welcome, and the big surrey drove them and three other passengers to their destination. Mrs. Borden ran down the path to meet them.

"I've been on pins and needles lest something should happen," she began. "Why, Marilla, you don't look as if you had ever been ill! And we're so glad to get you back. Oh, you don't know what an awful time I had, and at first the babies wouldn't let Ellen touch them. Flo or I had to feed them. I'm clear worn out now, but I do hope the babies haven't forgotten you, for I want a little rest. It seemed too bad that you should have given out just then. And I do believe you've grown taller. Why, you are quite a big girl."

The twins sat on a blanket on the grassy space at the side of the house. Mrs. Borden led the girl out to them with a glad sound in her voice.

"Here's your dear Illa come," she said. "Dear Illa that you've wanted so much."

Pansy looked up. Marilla gave one spring and knelt down beside them. It was nice to be longed for, to be remembered. She had really loved them. Her heart was always reaching out for something to love.

"Illa, Illa," almost shouted Pansy and went down head first in Marilla's lap.

"Oh, you darling!"

"I'm glad you didn't get weaned away, Marilla. I was afraid you would, having such a fuss made over you. Mr. Borden said the house was fine. That Miss Armitage must be rich. Well—she was very good to you and did the best she could for us. But that Ellen didn't like children, that was the long and the short of it, and she has just the place for her, and eighteen dollars a month. Yes, Violet, this is our own Marilla come back to us, and we shall never let her go away again."

Violet had looked rather wary and been chewing on the end of her thumb, but now she nodded and began to hitch toward Marilla.

"Now we're going over to the cottage to dinner. It's such a pleasure to go together. I always take Jack. He has nice table manners if he isn't an angel otherwise. Oh, there he is! Jack, here's Marilla!"

Jack gave a sort of wild howl of delight and started on a run with outstretched arms. Over went Marilla and Pansy and Jack on the top of the heap. Pansy gave a smothered scream.

Mrs. Borden caught Jack by the shoulder and dragged him up. "You bad, bad boy!" she exclaimed, angrily.

"Hello! what's the row?" asked Mr. Borden, advancing to the fray.

Jack rubbed his eyes to make some tears.

"Well, you said you was glad to see her an' so was I. An' I was jest gone' to hug her an' the bug fell over, an' I couldn't help it."

Mr. Borden laughed. Mrs. Borden picked up Pansy and comforted her. But she did howl as if she had been half killed.

"Jack, go to Aunt Florence and be made ready for dinner," in a commanding tone. "Oh dear, it does seem——"

"Well things will go better now," said Mr. Borden soothingly. "Marilla, you are going to be the salvation of the household. Did the twins really know her?"

"Pansy did, I think Pansy's really smarter that Violet, I do hope we'll have a little comfort now. There Pansy, dear, go to your sweet Marilla," and she stood the child down. "We must hurry or we will be late for dinner."

Marilla saw the four go over to the cottage, as it was called. She had been tired out with the railroad journey, entertaining as it was, then the excitement of meeting them all again, the bump on her forehead when she had come down so hard on Pansy's head, and the screams that seemed like a stab going from temple to temple tired her inexpressibly. Then, too, she was hungry. Oh, if she could have a glass of hot milk such as Jane used to bring her! She really could not help crying a little. Both babies stood up by her. Violet pounding on one shoulder, Pansy making a grab at her hair that seemed to pull it out by the roots.

"Pitty, pitty!" she said gleefully.

"Oh, Pansy dear, you hurt." She disentangled the one hand, but the other made the same clutch and was more difficult to manage. Then she rose to her knees that her head might be out of reach. Violet came down heavily and began to cry. Poor Marilla hardly knew what to do.

The babies were much thinner and their faces not so pudgy, but Marilla thought they still resembled the Campbell soup little girl and laughed in spite of her own hurts. Then Violet spied a green apple and made a bee line for it.

"She can't bite it," thought Marilla, and as it kept rolling it amused the baby. Then Pansy crept toward it and there was a rather funny time. Violet slapped her twin in the face and there was another howl and Marilla went to the rescue. Oh, what should she do? Everything was so strange!

"Bed'y mik, bed'y mik," demanded Pansy, "Bed'y milk."

"Let us go and find some," and she raised the baby to her feet, taking her by the hand. They walked up on the porch, and she placed her in the carriage while she glanced at Violet. Not a moment too soon—the little sharp teeth were making inroads on the apple. She ran and snatched it, throwing it out of sight. There was another howl. Mrs. Borden came hurrying down.

"What is the matter?" rather crossly.

"Violet found an apple and bit in it; I threw it away."

"Oh, that was right Marilla," in a mollified tone. "Where's Pansy?"

"On the porch, in the carriage. I think she's hungry. It sounded as if she meant bread and milk."

"Yes. They have that for their supper. I guess I can start it. I used to feed them first. Let me see. I guess I can show you—you're so handy unless they've spoiled you."

She had Violet in her arms and said—"Bring in Pansy," leading the way to a room that seemed a general storage place. She lighted the little pyro stove, opened a closet and took out a saucepan, a bottle of milk, a sugar dish and some spoons.

"Now as soon as it gets warm, you fix it—you cannot have forgotten how, and then turn this screw and put the light out. For heaven's sake don't set anything afire! Oh, there's no place like your own home. I haven't had an hour's comfort since I came down here. And my dinner's getting cold. Nice baked veal it was, with dressing. There babies, Marilla will give you some nice bread and milk."

She ran off. The babies whined a little and then watched the proceedings. The stove stood up on a table and she poured out part of the milk. Then she gave the babies a crust of bread to stop their clamoring while she crumbed up some in the saucepan and kept stirring it so that it shouldn't scorch, taking out part, presently. Pansy climbed up by a chair and began to call "Bed'y mik, bed'y mik."

Marilla put on her bib and began to feed her. Then Violet joined with her starvation cry. First it was one open pink mouth then the other. The viands disappeared as if by magic. She meant to have a little for herself—she was so weak and gone in the stomach, but she found she must make some more, even, for the babies. So she crumbed up the remainder of the loaf. How they did eat! She was very tired of ladling it in each little mouth.

She had a very little left for herself, but it seemed to help the desperately tired feeling. She had put the stove out without any mishap. Pansy began to cry—"Wock, wock."

"What is it dear? Was it anything more to eat?" She glanced through the closet.

"Wock, wock," hanging to her skirt.

"Me wock," joined in the chorus that might be Chinese.

Oh, would they never come! She took the babies out on the porch. There was a big rocker. Pansy ran to it and patted it, rolling up her eyes.

"Oh, yes, Rock. I might have guessed, but my head feels so tired and queer." Then she took the cushions and blankets out of the carriage and lifted up Violet, settling her in one side. But Pansy would have none of it. She squirmed down on the floor and began to cry.

"Oh, I don't know what you want!" Marilla almost fell into the chair and jogged it gently. Violet was going to sleep. Poor Cinderella wiped the tears that would have run down her cheeks. She was so tired. Even the babies crying did not move her. But when she heard the voices she sprang up.

"Oh, what is the matter?" asked Mrs. Borden.

"They wanted to be rocked," explained Marilla, "and I put them both in the chair, but Pansy wouldn't stay——"

"We have spoiled them. Ellen used to sit in the chair and hold them both. That seemed about the only thing she could do that would please them. And I've held one in the right and Aunt Florence the other until my back ached and I was fit to fall to pieces. We've had the most awful time, Flo and I. But I remember I had a dreadful time cutting my wisdom teeth, and I was grown. I used to walk the floor at night, they would swell up so. We can't blame the poor babies. And they missed you so. They used to be so good, wasn't they M'rilla; and I suppose they'll be good again. They must be undressed and put to bed. Flo, you look after Violet, and M'rilla you run over and get some dinner. You must be most starved."

Mrs. Borden had picked up Pansy who had now turned to her comforting thumb.

"Oh, run over. You needn't be afraid. Ellen liked the girls first rate. Here, Mr. Borden will escort you."

"I expect you're tired out and homesick," he said sympathetically. "But we will have things better tomorrow. And we are all so glad to have you—this way. Here, Katie, give this little girl a good dinner. She deserves the best you have."

They were clearing the dining room. One long table was piled up with the used dishes. At the other, covered with rather worn enameled cloth, sat two women and one young man. Kate made a place for the child and brought her a plate with most everything piled on it. Bridget, at home, was so much neater, but then she didn't have so many hungry people to feed. And Jane with her dainty ways!

Oh, she was just a little bound-out nurse girl. She had danced and feasted with the prince; she had been in the palace with the fairy godmother where she was waited on as if she were a little lady. And there had been the Sunday ride with Dr. Richards. Was it all dreams?

She could not eat. The food was mostly cold. There was a big lump in her throat and a heaviness in her heart. How long and dreary the five years looked!

"I'm not hungry," and she pushed the plate away.

"But you'll have some pudding and some cream. I told you, Maggie, they'd stuff theirselves on that there puddin'! You can beat the band on that."

"I'll just have the cream," the little girl said, timidly.

"Well you won't last long to take care of them there babies if you can't eat better'n that!" said Katie. "I never see such squabs in my life!"

"Oh, Katie, that won't do. They're 'Kate Greenaway' children. Was she some one who fatted up young ones? Well, she'd better let 'em alone to my thinkin'. And their great round eyes! And the crossest things I ever did see! Mrs. Munson thought she'd have to give up t' other side of the house."

"Be careful," cautioned Maggie, with a slight turn of the head.

Marilla ate her cream, and it really tasted good. Then she rose and said good-night in a quiet fashion.

"Katie, you must remember about little pitchers," cautioned some one.

"Well—that's a nice little girl and I don't believe she'd carry tales. Ellen said she wouldn't take care of those babies for ten dollars a week. And what's this child ever going to do——"

"Mr. Borden is a nice kind of a man and when he's around that Jack behaves like a little gentleman, and the ladies do very well; they're pleasant and don't put on airs. But what they'll do with those twins——"

"Well, they won't always be getting teeth. It's a hard time with babies."

And so they gossiped while they washed dishes and set the kitchen in order for morning. If they had ever been Cinderella they had forgotten about it.



CHAPTER VIII

A NEW GLIMPSE OF SERVITUDE

Marilla wandered about a little. The stars were coming out and afar off the wood robin was singing his low sweet song. The dew was scattering the fragrance of flower and shrub and she drew in long breaths of it that seemed to revive her. Was Miss Armitage sitting at the organ and evoking the music that stirred one's very being and made you wish unutterable things? And would Dr. Richards go to comfort some poor patient tomorrow?

Then she went to her new home. Miss Florence sat alone on the porch. The babies were soundly asleep.

"Did you have a nice dinner?" she asked. "And I suppose you are very tired. Will you sit here awhile or would you rather go to bed?"

"Yes, I would like to go to bed," she answered, wearily.

They went through the place they were using for a sort of kitchen and up a narrow stairway. Only part of the room had a fair ceiling, the rest slanted down to some narrow windows. There was a cot, an old fashioned wash stand and a sort of closet. Their packing trunks were up here.

"Mr. Borden had taken the other part the house first. There is more room and it is rather nicer. But the woman who had taken this wanted so to exchange and made an offer in the rent and they do charge scandalously for these summer places. And when you're not keeping house it doesn't matter so much. It saves lots of trouble. They just give meals over there and they are first rate. I put your clothes that we brought in that closet. It was very nice in Miss Armitage to get you some others and she wouldn't let Mr. Borden pay for them. I want to hear all about her tomorrow. You won't feel afraid, will you?"

"Oh no," was the reply. It didn't seem to matter much what happened to her now.

"Good-night, then, I hope you will sleep well."

"Good-night," steadying her tone.

She thought she wouldn't sleep at all, but her poor little body was so tired out that exhausted nature demanded rest. And she was awakened in the morning with the singing of some birds, and a beautiful poem floated through her mind. She would not count any Sundays until September came in.

Mrs. Borden called her and she replied, dressing quickly and going down stairs.

"Oh, you look quite rested," said the lady. "I'll give the babies their bath and dress them and then you will give them their breakfast and keep them out on the porch while we go for ours. They take only one nap now, sleeping from eleven until about two. They just have bread and milk. There's a woman here who says I am ruining their health with that, because it makes them fat, but they were fed when they had only milk. Then they have some oatmeal, jelly and a soft boiled egg when they wake up. There's nothing like system; you know just what to do. Now you go over to the kitchen and get a bottle of milk. The babies drink that, too. Then I'll show you how to light up the stove. It's the handiest little thing. I couldn't manage without it."

Marilla had a pleasant greeting from Katie who declared, "she looked ten per cent better and hoped she would have a good appetite for her breakfast as she didn't eat enough to keep a bird alive last night."

The babies were pretty good natured, as well.

"You know they always were real sweet," said their mother, "and so easily amused. I hope you haven't forgotten your knack of story telling; and how they used to laugh! That Ellen was the stupidest thing."

While she was feeding the babies, the grown folks went over to their breakfast. The kitchen and the servants' table was in much better order, and there were some delightful muffins and fresh fish and muskmelons. The babies played about; Jack's father took him out for a walk, then there was a long quiet time at the luncheon hour, and the babies were fed again.

"I succeeded in getting a two-seat carriage, so we will all go out this afternoon," said Mr. Borden. "They say Braun is a queer Hungarian settlement and on Sunday the people are all out in their best. We'll take a look at it."

"Can we all go?"

"Why Florence said she wouldn't mind caring for one baby, and Marilla can take the other."

The two nurses had the back seat, Florence made Marilla put her baby between them on the seat. "We'll change off when I get tired of holding mine," she said.

They went straight over to the Sound—the upper end of the great South Bay. Oh how splendid it was! Marilla almost held her breath with surprise, then they drove up the road a short distance, but she hated to leave the glorious views. Pansy dropped in her lap and went to sleep. As they turned they passed through one of the magnificent residential settlements, then to the odd Hungarian town where a foreign Sunday was in full life and vivacity.

Little tables were standing around, some filled with families, some having a couple of lovers; other parties were walking up and down; all in picturesque holiday attire. The tables were set out with small, hard brown cakes, slices of bread that each had brought to the feast. There was beer of course, merrymaking and jollity—but no one seemed to overstep the bounds. Children ran around, grotesque copies of their elders. Rows of cottages and gardens, great corn and hayfields, stubble where cattle were browsing, enclosures of fattening pigs whose squealing had a mirthful sound.

"It is well worth looking at," said Mr. Borden. "A bit of Europe on one of our islands and really a lesson to our own thriftless poor."

Violet chattered in a funny fashion, but Pansy slept through it all. Marilla tried several times to shift her position, but the little form was too heavy to stir. Yet it was delightful, though she kept thinking of last Sunday and Dr. Richards.

Mr. Borden stopped at the gate and helped them out.

"Lift Pansy, she's asleep," said Aunt Florence.

"Oh, Marilla, why didn't you keep her awake! I've been trying not to let them sleep in the afternoon so they would go to bed the earlier."

"Just as you get a baby in good habits, someone comes along and spoils it all," exclaimed Mrs. Borden in a vexed tone. She was a little tired, having answered at least fifty questions for Jack.

But Pansy woke when her father stood her down, and said, rather drowsily—"Nice horsey;" and sat squarely down in the path. Aunt Florence picked her up and led her to the porch.

"Now, Marilla, get their suppers ready and feed them. And put away their things. I can't bear to see them lying round on chairs."

Mr. Borden drove off, taking Jack.

"Ont bedy-milk," announced Violet.

"Yes, yes; go to Marilla."

The child had laid the caps in the drawer and hung up the coats. Both children came out and clamored for supper and pulled on her skirt until they almost tipped her over.

Then the great bell clanged for the boarders' supper. They had dinner at noon on Sundays. Mr. Borden returned and escorted the ladies over. This was always a rather chatty, long-drawn-out meal.

Marilla fed the babies, washed and put away her few dishes, then took the children out on the porch. Violet wanted to be "wocked," so she sat beside her in the big porch chair. Pansy ran up and down uttering queer unmusical noises. The piano in the other part of the house was accompanying a singer.

The mistress of that part leaned out of the window and said in a sharp tone—"Can't you keep that child still? She's an awful nuisance."

"Let us go indoors," said Marilla. "Come, and I'll tell you a story about a bunny that got lost away from all his folks."

But Pansy had no mind to come. She screamed when Marilla took hold of her arm and then kicked, jerking away, she rolled down the three steps, landing on the grass. Marilla, frightened, picked her up in her arms and ran through the hall with her. The suddenness had really taken the breath out of the little body for a moment, then she looked rather wildly at her rescuer.

"It didn't hurt you much and you were a naughty baby to run away! Don't cry any more and you shall have——" she cast about to see what solace there was—"oh, you shall have some sugar—see—" and she offered her some in a spoon.

Pansy laughed and reached out for the sugar, quite restored to good humor.

"Now, I'll go out and get sister and you shall have some more sugar."

Violet came in quite willingly. She sat on the floor with them and thought of the stories she used to tell. This one was about a runaway squirrel. It grew dark and he was afraid, for he heard a queer noise that kept saying, "Who—who," so he ran another way. Then a dog barked, and Marilla made the sound of a dog and both babies laughed delightedly. "So he ran as fast as he could but the dog ran, too, and the squirrel climbed up in a tree," and Marilla climbed with her hands on the back of the chair in a funny fashion. "'Come down,' said the dog. 'I won't,' said the squirrel. 'Then I'll climb up and eat you.' But the squirrel laughed and said: 'You can't climb a tree.'"

The babies laughed, too, but Violet wanted to be "wocked" again. She really was sleepy. So Marilla put them both in the rocking chair and began another story about a bird who had three little babies in a nest and had to go out and get them something to eat. The ladies came back and Violet began to nod and let her eyes droop.

"They must go to bed," said their mother.

It was supposed that Pansy would make a protest. She slipped down out of the chair and held out her fat little hand, murmuring—"Illa, Illa."

"Well, Illa shall put you to bed, come Violet."

Mrs Borden found their nighties. "Me too," and Violet took hers over to Marilla.

"Now, isn't that cunning? Marilla they are getting back all their old love for you! But it is time I had a little rest."

The babies were safely deposited in their crib, each with a thumb in her mouth, a rather recent habit. Then they went out on the porch again. Jack was there with his chum, Stevie. The ladies joined the procession up and down the board walk. Stevie was recounting some wonderful experience, so Marilla dropped into a chair and her mind went back to last Sunday night. How long ago it seemed!

Stevie was summoned home by his nurse. Quite a party went to the kind of sacred concert. Jack crawled up beside Marilla, for he was getting sleepy. When she proposed he should go to bed he turned obstinate and held on tight to the arm of the chair.

"I won't go to bed. I'm going to stay here until mama comes."

"Oh, you must. The clocks have struck eight."

"But I'm not going to." He caught the arm of the chair. "You try now and I'll kick you with my hind leg."

She knew well enough that he would kick. Somehow she did not feel equal to the struggle.

"Tell me a story," was his next demand. "About somebody being put in the pit. Sunday school teacher told it. Why, I'd climb out."

So she told him the story and then another, rocking slowly, and as the demand ceased she knew he was asleep. But she did not dare try to get him to bed. So she went to her own thoughts, the last week passed with the fairy godmother and Dr. Richards.

It was ten when the family returned.

"Oh, Marilla, how could you let him go to sleep! He's so cross when you wake him up."

"I couldn't get him to go——"

"Jack!" His father picked him up and carried him to the sleeping room.

"Now you run to bed," said the mistress, still sharply.

It was very well, Marilla thought, that Jack had a companion who was not fond of "kids." Stevie lived quite a distance below and had brought no end of playthings, had an auto wagon that two could sit in, though only one could be chauffeur. So Marilla had the babies out on the side lawn all the morning in the shade, and after their nap took them out in the carriage. They were quite fond of walking, too. They really were rather amiable again.

"Miss Florence, could I have some paper and a pencil?" she asked during their noontide nap. "I promised to write to Dr. Richards and tell him if I kept well."

"Why not to Miss Armitage?" was the inquiry.

"She was going to Canada, and—I'm quite well again, and the babies are so much better. He will be glad to hear, for he felt very sorry about them, and he said I must write."

"I suppose Miss Armitage's house is very grand, much finer than ours?"

"It's beautiful and she has such a lovely organ. Well, it's different and there are two big parlors and some curious things that I never saw before and chairs in beautiful light blue, all flowered, and some tall vases and marble statues. And there's Jane and Norah—and the wash goes out. Yes, I suppose she's rich."

"And you'd like to live there?"

"Perhaps she wouldn't want me," the child said simply.

Evidently there had been no talk about it.

Miss Borden gave her pencil and paper.

Marilla went to the kitchen nursery, sat down on a stool and put her paper on the bottom of the wooden chair. She began—"Dear Dr. Richards." Oh, there was so much to say! She was well and the babies were improved and could talk a good deal and looked better for not being so fat. She really liked home better and Bridget's kitchen was so clean, and there was always a nice white cloth on the table. It seemed a funny way to live but many of the people did not have meals in their own houses, but went over to the eating place. "I can't spell the other word," she admitted naively. There were so many pretty girls in lovely frocks who walked up and down and didn't have to take care of babies. "I don't believe I am as fond of babies as I used to be. I get tired of having them every day," she explained frankly. "And soon I shall begin to count on the five years."

She filled up the whole sheet, folded, slipped it in the envelope and fastened it. Oh, she must ask for a stamp. She could run down to the postoffice.

Miss Borden was curious to know what was in the letter, whether Marilla had found any fault with her surroundings, but the eager, honest face disarmed curiosity that could not be easily gratified. So the letter went its way.

There were many things to entertain a child whose former life had been narrow. Some of the girls spoke to her. "Were the babies her sisters?"

"Oh, no. She was—well their nurse."

"How odd they looked! Is that little Jack their brother?"

"Yes." Oh how ardently she wished they were pretty.

"He looks more like you than like them. You've both got such pretty curly hair, though his is darker. I think curly hair's just lovely. I wish mine curled, and you've such a pretty dimple in your chin."

Marilla blushed at the praise.

"What are the babies called?"

Marilla repeated their names.

"That's funny—they're so much alike."

"Well—they're twins," said another.

Then the babies thought it was time they joined in the conversation, and a funny mess they made of it. Pansy said—

"Ont to dit down."

"No, you can't," answered Marilla. "Their mother said I must never take them out."

They happened to be strapped in very securely. But Pansy made a great fuss and gesticulated furiously with her little fists.

"I had better go on," said Marilla.

"It's awfully funny. Does she often get in such a tantrum?"

"Not very often," returned Marilla half ashamed and almost afraid the baby would break the strap.

After a few days she began to get quite acquainted with some of the girls. They came from various places and were quite ready to talk about themselves. There was to be a lawn party next week at the Sheldon's, just for the girls, and they were going to dance.

"Oh, did you ever go to a ball?" asked Marilla.

"Why, girls don't go to balls! They are for the big folks. My grown up sister does and they're just splendid."

She had half a mind to tell them about the beautiful dream and how she had danced with the Prince. But Pansy was going on at such a rate that she pushed the carriage along and by the time they reached home she had forgotten her trouble.

And there was a letter from Dr. Richards.

She wanted to kiss it, she was so glad, but Mrs. Borden stood there, so she simply said—"Thank you," and opened it.

It was quite to a child's capacity. Marilla smiled in some places, looked sad in others. The little boy who had been so dreadfully injured by an automobile had died, but he would have been a terrible cripple if he had lived. There had been two very hot weeks and the poor babies had suffered. He was very glad to hear that the twins were doing so nicely, and had all their teeth safe and sound. And was she growing stronger, and did she have a chance to take the baths he advised? Miss Armitage was having a fine time. And a friend was to take them in his yacht around the islands in the Gulf of St. Lawrence and come down to Nova Scotia, so she wouldn't be home as soon as they expected. And he was so busy he couldn't have any vacation at all; but then he had taken years before and must be satisfied.

There were bits of fun and queer sayings interspersed that made a sort of jolliness in her face.

"Don't you want to read it?" she asked, rather timidly.

Mrs. Borden just did. She and Florence had wondered whether Marilla had made any invidious comparisons about the change to actual service instead of being treated as a guest in a fine house.

"If—you'd like me to," with the proper hesitation.

"Oh, yes. And I used to tell him about the babies, that they were so good and hardly ever cried, and how I told them stories and they laughed just as if they understood—didn't they?"

"You made them understand. You're an odd little girl, Marilla, and I don't know what we would do without you, but then you do really belong to us. I do suppose the baths would be a good thing if you were not afraid. Now, we can't coax Jack to go in the water, though he delights to run along the edge barefooted. That's fun for the children. But you see if we all went some one must look after the children. Then there's the time for their nap and there'd be no one to go with you. There seems so many things to do in the afternoon now that we have joined the Clubs. And there's teas and things——"

"Yes," Marilla returned, meekly.

"Why wouldn't you go in the water?" she asked Jack a few days afterward.

"'Cause there's sharks. Stevie said so. An' they eat up people."

"Why don't they eat up—well, they haven't eaten up any one yet. We should have heard of it."

"They only eat up children. The big folks kick 'em out of the way. But you've got to be real strong an' have a big foot. You just give it to 'em by the side of the jaw and they flop down in the water. That big Jimmy Lane has seen them lots of times."

There was a great sand heap where the smaller children went to play and tumble about and build forts and ovens and sometimes sand each other. Marilla took the babies out in the carriage after they had their dinner and were dressed afresh. Sometimes she met the girls sauntering about, sometimes with the nurse maids. The two ladies went to a Whist Club, and one afternoon played Bridge, and between times they met on each others' porches.

The afternoon of the children's lawn party the street was fairly thronged. There were grown people within the enclosure by special invitation. And how pretty the young people were in their beautiful summer attire with laces and ribbons and bead chains and white ties with a great bow almost as big as the foot.

There were four pieces of music. Oh, the dancing was just bewitching? Marilla drew long breaths and wished she was among them; every pulse in her body kept time. The trees waved and nodded, some birds sang and there were sounds of happy laughter.

"Get away from here with this big caboose of yourn!" said a rough voice, "you take up too much room," and he wheeled the carriage around so suddenly the babies almost toppled over. "Other people want a chance. Get along, I say!"

She had no choice but to go on.

"I'm glad he sent off that nurse girl," exclaimed a woman with two children clinging to her skirts. "Those great wagons are such a nuisance!"

Marilla crossed the street and went slowly up and down. When the throng moved about a little she could see the white fairy figures floating over the greensward, and hear the music that set one's nerves a-tingle. The outside crowd began to disperse, but the man loitered about, so she did not dare go back.

Then they brought out some tables on the lawn and began to arrange them. Oh, how daintily pretty it was! She recognized some of the girls, and in spite of her courage, sighed as she turned away.

Those were the sisters for whom the coach and four waited, with the footman and outriders, and who would be made welcome at all the grand functions of life, while the Cinderellas were relegated to the chimney corner. And the godmother must come out of fairy land, if she came at all, and transformed one with a wand. That was why the glories were so unsubstantial, and why the dream must end at midnight.

The babies were clamoring for supper. The house was all alone. She lifted them out and helped them up the steps, then gave them each a biscuit while she prepared their bread and milk. The ladies came home from their Whist. Mrs. Borden had won the first prize and they were talking as eagerly as boys over a baseball score. There was Jack, dirty and tousled as any tramp.

"Wash him up Marilla and put him in some clean clothes or we'll be late for dinner. Come, be quick, child."

That was the portion of the Cinderellas.



CHAPTER IX

THE LITTLE THORNS

They were all very glad to be home again. The house was so clean and orderly and there were so many closets and drawers in which to pack away things. Bridget had scoured and scrubbed and polished windows largely to pass away time, for the people next door had been away as well and the maids on a vacation earning money at seasides.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you again!"

Marilla was hugging Bridget and her tone was full of delight.

"Ah, dear, an' it's glad enough I am to get ye back, but you've not grown very fat an' rugged looking, but them babies do beat all! They're quite ginteel one may say, an how they do run and talk! You'll have your hands full, I'm thinkin', if they're goin' to copy Jack!"

"Oh, Bridget, they're real sweet, only they're noisy when your head's tired. It sounds worse indoors. There was a big out of doors and grass, and people passing and some children came in to play. But now you have to look after them all the time."

"Marilla! Marilla!"

No, she could not waste her time in the chimney corner.

"Put on the babies' things and take them out walking, they'll drive me crazy."

She walked them round to Loraine place. Would she dare call? Oh, how her heart yearned to see them all again! but the blinds were drawn; perhaps no one was at home.

Then as they were going down the street, just at the corner, a lady and two girls about her size crossed. The lady and one of them lived about a block further down Arch street. The other she had known at the seaside. She smiled with a sudden pleasant surprise. The girl simply stared. Marilla's face was scarlet. Was it possible she was not to know any of these girls if she should meet them? This one did not live here, she knew that.

Then Aunt Hetty came home looking thinner and more dried up than ever, but glad to get back to her room. She would not come down to dinner but M'rilla could bring her up some toast and tea.

So instead of having a cozy time with Bridget she carried the small waiter up stairs. The tea was in the pot; Aunt Hetty had the kettle boiling on the gas stove. The toast was on a hot plate.

"Sit down a minute, I've hardly seen you. Did you have a nice time? I suppose the twins will be on the everlasting trot, now they can walk so well, and as for talking—well I'm glad I don't have to live with them; that I'm clear this end of the house. You see that they don't come up stairs. It's nice to be in your own place, though the folks where I staid were very good and pleasant, I s'pose they thought I might remember them in my will," and she gave a shrill sort of cackle. "Now I tell you there isn't much fun in living to be old, and I seem to have lost my spunk. It's just a kind of drowsing life away. Now tell me what you did! My, but this toast tastes good! Better than all their flummery."

"Oh, there were a good many nice things and pretty houses and gay people, and a big place where they all went to meals. And Jack is better than he used to be, he had the nicest little playmate and was out of the house most of the time. But I must run down, for Bridget said my dinner was ready. I'll come up again when the babies are in bed; can I bring you anything?"

"Well, yes, a glass of hot milk. No, bring it in a cup with a handle—it is so much nicer to hold. You're a good willing girl, Marilla."

"I thought you never would get down," Bridget said, almost crossly. "If you have to wait on that old woman and all the rest of us you'll wish you were in the grave. My! You look all tired out. Now, here's a nice bit of chicken that I laid aside for you. I'm not goin' to have you fed on leavings. And it wasn't nice down there?" nodding her head.

"Oh, Bridget, such a kitchen and such a table, and no white cloth on it! They, the servants didn't seem to care, and they were nice and clean at the Home, and you're—well, you have things as nice as in the dining room, and to have things shoveled out of the kettle on your plate or cold on a dish! Sometimes puddings were good, and the creams and frozen things were clean and nice. But I'm so glad to get back to you. And the lovely bath room! We didn't have any in the cottage. Why it saves half the work taking care of babies."

"You bet it does, I couldn't and wouldn't live in such a muxy kitchen. If I couldn't have things to suit I'd take French leave, though I guess I'd call it Irish leave. And people, women, think it a fine thing to go off and live that way. But the boss got very tired of it."

Marilla laughed faintly. She was almost too tired to eat, but the chicken was so tasty, and the fresh home-made bread delightful. And the cheery voice put heart in the girl. Then the dessert was delicious.

"I promised to take Aunt Hetty a cup of milk. I'll see first if Mrs. Borden wants me. But I'll dry the dishes for you."

"No, dear, I did the most of them while you were up stairs."

The babies had been put to bed. They did have an unlimited capacity for sleep, now that they were well. Jack was perched on his father's knee detailing some wonderful adventures. No, they did not need her.

"I'm going in next door awhile," said Bridget on her return. "Mrs. Dawson's girl left in a huff, and she asked me if I knew anyone. And there was my friend, Maggie Brady, just out of a place and a nice tidy girl; a good cook, too. So they both suited. Maggie's mother and mine lived in the same town. It's nice to have a friend at hand. And when ye's through with the old lady I'd run to bed. You look tired as a wagon wheel that's run round and round."

Marilla laughed and took a bottle of milk with her. Aunt Hetty drank a good cupful, hot, and the remainder was set out on the window sill. Then she settled herself in bed with two pillows under her head; she could hear better she thought.

"Now, you open that book at the mark and read to me. 'Twon't be very interesting, for you can't know what's gone before. And no doubt I'll fall asleep—I always snore a little at first, and when you hear that you may light the burner in the other room and turn it very low and put the window down from the top and skip off to yourself."

She was very tired but she read quite awhile before the gentle snoring began, and she was glad enough to go to bed.

They had been home just a week when school opened. It was a comfort to get rid of Jack. They began to settle into quite regular living.

"I've just had a fright," said Mrs. Borden, coming up to her sister's room. "A man has been here inquiring about school children and I did stretch the truth a little. You see, now children have to go to school until they are fourteen. I simply can't let Marilla go. I didn't adopt her nor consider her in any sense my own. A child like that isn't worth more than her board and clothes. What good would she be to us if we had to get her off at nine in the morning, and then have only an hour in the afternoon. The twins must be taken out, and there's so much running up and down. She's a nice honest, truthful child and a born nurse girl. But if I had to send her to school, I'd trot her off to the Home."

"There is so much to do this winter. When you come to that, she knows enough for ordinary, and later on she could go to evening school. There's so much shopping and planning, and we must be out a good deal. The twins mightn't take to a new girl. Let us keep her if we possibly can."

Miss Borden's lover was to return before Christmas and wanted every thing ready for a speedy marriage. It would be in church with a very small reception afterward. And that was hardly three months' distance.

Marilla was coming home with the babies one afternoon when two lady callers and a girl were saying adieu and coming down the steps. Yes, that was Ada Brant who had been at Bayside in the summer and at first had been quite friendly with her. Now she looked as if she had never known her.

Maybe that was the way all the girls would feel to one who had been bound-out from an institution. There they had all been on an equality. And somehow the Bordens had not really put her down. Then that lovely Miss Armitage. Why, there had been a place for her at the table, and Jane had waited on her as if she had been a guest!

Perhaps it would be different now. Then came a very bitter knowledge to Marilla Bond. Five years more of this, and wouldn't people remember she had been Mrs. Borden's nursemaid? Why, even now she would be glad to be Miss Armitage's maid. What made the difference?

She was to hear more of it that evening. After the babies came in from their outing they were washed, undressed, and a nice warm wrapper put over their nightgown, and then fed. Afterward laid in their crib. They didn't go to sleep at once but kicked and laughed and chatted in a regular frolic. Phlegmatic babies can be easily trained. Then Marilla came down and waited on the table as Bridget sent various things up on the lift. She was a really charming little waitress.

"Such an odd thing occurred today," began Mrs. Borden. "John do you know a firm, Davis & Calthorpe, who manufacture something—"

"Yes, Calthorpe is selling out, I drew up some papers for him. He's been up in the Adirondacks all summer and is going to Bermuda; but he will never come back alive."

"How queer it all is! We met Mrs. Brant a few times at Bayside. They have come to Newton to look into the business and are staying with Mrs. Wheeler. They came to call and Mrs. Brant has a pretty, stylish young daughter. Of course they'll have to move here. She is quite taken with Newton. I told them about that Jamreth house down the street and they decided to look at it. Of course I didn't get much acquainted with her, but she seems a very nice body. And that's a promising business, but Calthorpe had to give it up and I'm sorry for the poor fellow; glad, too, that he met with this chance of disposing of his share. Brant appears to be a nice, brisk fellow and it is lucky for Davis as well."

The Jamreth house had stood empty all summer. Marilla passed it on her way to the park, for Arch street led direct. Suppose Ada was there sitting on the stoop or at the window and giving her that indifferent stare when they had been quite acquaintances!

For the first time fairy land and her dancing with the Prince failed to comfort. The whole world seemed changed, and how would Miss Armitage be, now that she was well?

But she was very, very busy; Jack went to school a week and was delighted with the boys.

"Sam Gordon has a little brother just big enough to begin school. I wish one of the twins was a boy. What's the use of so many girls?"

His father laughed a little at that. The second week the charm began to fail. His head ached and he wanted to stay at home and have Marilla read to him.

"Boys don't have headaches," said his mother. But he was cross and his face flushed up so that in the afternoon his teacher sent him home. "And I don't want this scratchy flannel on! I like the other better; can't I pull it off?"

"The others are worn out, and it is coming cooler weather. Oh, you'll get used to it," said his mother, teasingly.

Then he kicked the babies' playthings about and pinched Marilla's arm and wouldn't eat any dinner, and said his pudding was bitter. His father sent him to bed, but he tossed and tumbled and cried out for a drink ever so many times, and in the morning was red with a fever and some sort of eruption. So they sent for Dr. Baker, who pronounced it a fine case of measles.

"I don't see where he caught it, unless it is in the school, and I suppose the twins will have it," said Mrs. Borden in despair.

There were three pretty bad days and Jack tried the patience of the whole household sorely. Then the babies showed symptoms and seemed vexed that such a thing should happen to them, and now school was not to be thought of in some time.

"Run out and take a little airing, Marilla," said Mrs. Borden, late one afternoon. "You haven't been out of the house for days."

She was very glad to go. Jack was still a recluse though he seemed well.

Which way should she go? Her heart cried softly for Loraine place and almost unconsciously her feet turned thitherward. Miss Armitage sat by the window but she sprang up and opened the hall door with, "My dear, dear child!"

Marilla had her face in a transport of happy crying, from an overweighted heart.

"Oh, my dear!" leading her in.

"Oh, Miss Armitage, we have the measles round at our house. Perhaps I oughtn't come in."

"Oh, I had the measles long ago, and I've seen three cases this afternoon. I've only been home four days and had the most splendid time. But I want to hear about you—have you been well, and was it nice at the seaside? Why it seems like a year since we parted."

"Yes, I was well and the babies walk and talk and are real cunning and they do grow prettier. They're getting some real nice hair but I can't make it curl. I didn't like the house so well and there was no bath only a cold water faucet and a gas stove, and I missed Bridget so much. We staid out of doors most of the time. I didn't go in bathing—I was a little afraid, I think, and I would have had to go with some of the servants. There were a good many of them—we took our meals outside. I was glad to get home, and oh, so glad to see you!"

She caught the hand and kissed it rapturously. Miss Armitage held up the face with her hand under the chin.

"No, you haven't gained any."

"I think I did at first, but Jack was so troublesome, and the old lady, Aunt Hetty, wants one to read her to sleep and sometimes it takes so long."

"You surely are not helping with her?"

"Oh, only reading and answering her bell. She's somehow so nice when you wait on her. I think, like the rest of us, she's so glad to be back. One day she gave me a dollar and said I must spend it for candy, but I haven't yet. Do you think I ought to have told Mrs. Borden?"

"Why, not necessarily."

"I'm not so very fond of candy. There's a beautiful book of fairy stories in a store down town that I'd like. Only Jack takes every thing, and he keeps asking if I haven't a penny when we go out. His mother doesn't give him pennies to spend, and a very good thing, too."

"What kind of books do you read to the old lady?"

"Well, you see it's this way, she reads on pages and pages and puts in a mark, then I go on where she left off and so I don't get the real sense of the story. They seem to have a good deal of trouble. I'd rather read about little girls who went to their grandmother's and had nice times, and beautiful verses full of music such as you used to read."

Miss Armitage laughed pleasantly. "We'll have some nice reading again. And you ought to go to school."

"But you see I can't. I look over Jack's books and I write on pieces of paper. I don't know how to spell all the words. Oh, I wrote a letter to Dr. Richards. He asked me to, and he sent such a nice answer. I did want to write again, but I hadn't any paper nor postage stamp, and I didn't like to ask the second time. Oh, I might buy some with my dollar, mightn't I?"

"I'll do you up a little package. He wants to see you, so I'll ask him to come here and let you know. And sometimes when you are out with the babies you must stop here and let me see them, and I'll call and see you all."

"Oh, how nice that will be. I'm so glad you love me. For I never shall be like the girls who have pretty homes and parents to love them. But you'll be the fairy godmother always, won't you?"

"Yes, dear," in a soft tone.

"And now I must go. It's so sweet to know that some one really loves you even if you are a bound-out girl. And now I'm beginning to count the years."

Miss Armitage kissed her and watched her tripping down the steps. She was worthy of a better fate. Would she love the hand that set her in pleasanter places and not come to think wholly of self? For she, woman past thirty, as she was, longed for a little daughter's love, a daughter to grow up along side of her, to share her very life.

The babies went out walking up and down the block one day and took no harm. Violet was wild to run away, as Jack had been, and so was quite a care. Then the men came to fumigate the house and they all went to a friend's and took lunch.

"Dear me, what a nice little maid you have," said the friend. "She seems to know just what to do, and she's so pleasant tempered. Where did you find her?"

"She came from Bethany Home and she's bound to me until she's eighteen. She'll be of good service."

The Autumn was glorious with a good deal of sunshine; Jack went back to school and was getting to be a regular boy, full of pranks; they were sometimes rather rough. He did stand in awe of his father, but he occasionally said things to Marilla that were not a bit nice, then he would coax her not to tell of them.