CHAPTER IX.

THE NEW READING CLUB.

"The beautiful summer of All Saints" was at its height, and the soft haze lay upon the blue hills and rested lightly over the meadows along the river. Such days were tempting enough to entice a hermit from his cell, and Mrs. Adams and the young people had agreed to devote Saturday afternoon to a long drive. Soon after their early lunch they had started off, Job leading the way, with Mrs. Adams, Jessie, Molly, and Jean, followed by Cob, the wiry little mustang that Mr. Shepard had sent East for his daughters' use, drawing Katharine, Florence, Polly, and Alan. Their destination was the nearer of the two mountains, a drive to the foot and then a scramble to the tip-top house, for the sake of one last look down upon the beautiful valley, before winter should shut it in. Unfortunately, Job was in one of his languid moods that day, and in spite of warning checks and flapping of lines, and even a mild application of the whip, he refused to break into a trot; but, with bowed head and discouraged mien, he plodded onward with as much apparent effort as if each motion of his aged frame were to be his last. In vain Katharine again and again reined in Cob, to wait for his companion; the old horse lagged farther and farther in the rear. At length Mrs. Adams called,—

"This is unbearable, Katharine! I am afraid we shall have to give up and go home. Job acts as if he couldn't crawl another step. I'm sorry," she added to her passengers, "to spoil our plan, but I dare not drive this old fellow any further, for fear he might never get home."

But even the turning back again failed to inspire Job as it usually did. In her secret heart, Mrs. Adams regarded this as an ominous symptom, and felt an ever-increasing anxiety lest he should never reach home alive. They were less than two miles from the town, but it was a long hour before Job dragged his weary way up the street, in at the gate, and tottered feebly up to the open door of the barn. By making little side excursions up and down the country, the other carriage had managed to keep respectfully in the rear; and Katharine now tied Cob outside the gate, while the others crowded around Job to watch with pitying eyes, as Mrs. Adams unharnessed this feeble veteran who had probably gone on his final march. The last strap was unbuckled and allowed to fall to the ground, while Mrs. Adams invitingly held up the worn old halter, to slip it on Job's nose. Perhaps she was slower than usual, perhaps some sudden thought of a neglected opportunity shot through Job's brain. However that might be, there was a quick scattering of the group, as two iron-shod heels flew up into the air, the brown head was playfully tossed from side to side, and Job, the feeble, the lifeless, went frisking away across the lawn, now galloping furiously up and down, with a lofty disregard of the holes he was tearing in the soft, dry turf, now stopping to roll on his back and kick his aged legs ecstatically in the air, with all the joyous abandonment of a young colt, then scrambling up again, to go pounding away, straight across a brilliant bed of chrysanthemums and only pausing, for a moment, to gaze pensively out over the front gate.

"Whoa, Job! Whoa, boy!" Mrs. Adams was calling in vain, while Jean exclaimed spitefully,—

"Mean old thing! I'll never be sorry for him again! I didn't lean back all the time we were gone, but just sat on the very front edge of the seat and tried to make myself as light as I could."

Then followed an exciting chase, for Job appeared to have regained all the agility of his far-off ancestors that roamed the plains at their own sweet will. Such sudden wheelings! Such wild leaps! Such frantic kicks! He refused to be coaxed; he cocked up his ears in derisive scorn when they scolded him and requested him to whoa. He had no intention of whoaing. He recognized from afar that a snare lay hidden somewhere in the measure of oats which Mrs. Adams held out before him, and he drew back his lips in a contemptuous smile, as he capered away to the remotest corner of the grounds. The pursuit lasted for an hour, and at the end of that time, Job appeared to be far fresher than his pursuers, fresher even than he had been at the start.

It was plain that nothing was to be gained in this way, so Mrs. Adams and the girls retired to the house to take counsel, leaving Alan to drive Job to the stable, and come back to dinner with the others.

"I am tired, if he isn't," sighed Mrs. Adams, dropping into a chair by the window overlooking the lawn.

"Has he ever done it before?" asked Florence sympathetically.

"Never with me; but he used to get away from John, when he was younger. Now he has started, I am afraid he will repeat the experiment, he has had such a good time to-day. It just makes me want to whip him!" And Mrs. Adams glared out at the unconscious Job who was quietly cropping a tuft of green grass.

It may be that the stolen fruit was not so sweet to his tongue as Job had expected, or his conscience may at length have begun to act once more. He slowly raised his head and gazed longingly up and down the street, as if yearning to try a wider field for his gymnastics. Then apparently his sense of duty carried the day for, turning reluctantly, he plodded away to the open stable door, and quietly marched into his accustomed place.

"Run, Polly, quick! Run and fasten the door!" her mother exclaimed, as she hurried away to tie up the prodigal, to prevent any fresh wanderings.

When the doctor came home to dinner and heard the story, he was merciless in his teasing.

"One woman, six girls, and one boy, all to be outwitted by one poor old horse twenty-nine years old! "he exclaimed.

"Now, that's not so!" interposed his wife.

"Job isn't but twenty-three, so don't put any more years on his devoted head."

Dr. Adams laughed. He took a sinful pleasure in reminding his wife of Job's advanced age.

"Twenty-nine last June," he said, as he gave Polly her second piece of meat. "If you are careful of him and keep him for a few years longer, you can sell him out at a high price, to be exhibited as a curiosity."

"Sell Job! Never!" protested Mrs. Adams. "I would almost as soon sell Polly. No money could ever make up for that old fellow's intelligence, and for the real love he gives me."

"Yes," added Alan sympathetically; "and no money could buy his obedience to you, this afternoon, when he was loose."

While the table was being cleared for the dessert, the doctor suddenly turned to his daughter.

"Well, Polly," he asked; "how comes on the reading club?"

"Finely, papa. Why?"

"I didn't know but you were tired of it, by this time, and wanted something else."

"Oh, no; we have such good times," said Jean enthusiastically. "And if we gave it up, you never would get your stockings darned, either."

"Oh!" And the doctor lapsed into silence.

"What made you ask, papa?" inquired Polly.

"Mere curiosity."

"I know better than that," she said, seizing his hand as it lay on the table. "Now, popsy Adams, you just tell us what you are driving at."

"What is the use?" asked the doctor provokingly. "I did have another plan; but if you are all satisfied, I'll offer it to some of the other girls, or perhaps Aunt Jane will take it in charge."

This was too much for Polly.

"Do tell us," she begged. "We'll do it too, whatever it is; won't we girls?"

"But what if it is something that isn't funny at all, something for which you have to give up your own good times?"

Polly's face fell, but she answered steadily,—

"We'll do it, just the same."

"I am glad to hear you say so," remarked Aunt Jane approvingly. "I have felt that it was high time you girls were made to take an interest in something really useful."

"What is it, Dr. Adams?" implored Jessie, whose curiosity was by this time fired.

"Well, it's just this: down in the hospital there's a girl about Katharine's age shut up in a room by herself, where she must stay a year. She isn't pretty; she isn't especially bright; she is an Irish girl from one of the hill towns in the northern part of the state. But she has something the matter with her back, so all she can do is to lie there on a sort of frame, and look at the wall of her room."

The doctor paused. While he had been talking, he had watched the faces of the girls, curious to see the effect which his short story would have on them. Polly's cheeks were flushed, Jean's eyes were shining with her interest, but Katharine's lashes drooped on her cheek, and were a little moist. He nodded approvingly to himself, as he looked at her.

"Go on, papa," urged Polly.

"There isn't much more to say," returned her father, resting his arm on the back of her chair. "It occurred to me to-day to wonder if you girls couldn't each of you take a day a week,—there are just the six of you, you know,—and run in to see her for a few minutes after school. She is perfectly well, except for her back, and you can imagine how dull it must be for her there. Now, suppose you could drop in for half an hour and get acquainted with her, or read something simple to her? She's not up to 'Pilgrim's Progress' yet." And he pinched Polly's cheek playfully.

He stopped again. This time there was a murmur of assent from his hearers. Then he resumed,—

"Now, talk this over among yourselves and see what you think of it. I don't say you ought to do it, remember; you all have a good deal to do, I know. I only suggest the chance to you. I would think of it well, for unless you could be regular, it might be worse than nothing, for she would come to depend on it, and be disappointed. I warn you, she isn't very attractive, she is only ill and lonely."

"What's her name?" asked Florence, as the doctor started to leave the table.

"Bridget O'Keefe."

"What!" And in spite of herself, Jessie wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Yes, I told you she was Irish, you know," answered the doctor briskly. "Now I must be off. Think it over till Monday and then let me know."

And a moment later, the front door shut behind him.

Aunt Jane went out after dinner, and Mrs. Adams made an excuse to leave the girls to themselves. Gathered around the parlor fire, they had an animated discussion, and, with many a practical suggestion from Alan, their plan of work was agreed upon. Each was to take her own day, and give up half an hour after school to a call on this other girl, who was condemned to lie still and know that the world was going on around her just as usual. There was no difficulty in planning for the first five days of the week; but the girls, though fired with a desire to do good, yet drew back from pledging themselves to break into their Saturday afternoons, the one holiday of the week.

"What's the use of going Saturday?" said Florence. "If we go to see her every other day but that, it ought to be enough."

"I don't want any half-way work," said Jean decidedly, "and yet, it does seem too bad to upset our fun when we've always been together. What if we draw lots for it?"

But Alan objected.

"That's kind of a shirky way to do. If I'm ever ill, I don't want you drawing lots which shall go to my funeral. I'll go Saturday, myself."

"You can't, Alan; you aren't a girl," said Molly. "No," added Katharine, as she leaned over to lay her small, slim hand on his; "the boy can't go, but he can teach the girls a lesson in generosity. I'll take Saturday myself, girls."

Alan turned to her impulsively.

"Good for you, Kit!" he said warmly. "I'm proud to have you for a cousin."

Katharine laughed lightly.

"It's nothing, after all. I have more time than most of you, and it's only a little while, anyway."

It was only a little thing, as Katharine had said, but by it she gained far more than the one short half-hour a week would ever cost her; and, too, from that time onward, Alan looked on his cousin with a new admiration which her beauty and her attempts to win his liking could never have brought.

The girls entered into their work heartily, charmed by the novelty of their experiment. It was an unknown sensation to them to feel sure that some one was eagerly listening for their step in the outer room, to see the dull, plain face before them brighten with a new life, as they came through the door. For the first few weeks, they begged to be allowed to prolong the half-hour; but the doctor, mindful of the fate of "Pilgrim's Progress," and knowing that a reaction would probably come, checked their zeal, and only encouraged their shorter visits. How much good they did to their young patient, they never knew. The healthy, out-of-door atmosphere which they brought in, their scraps of news, and their gay chatter did as much to brighten the rest of the long, lonely days, as the one or two pictures they brought did towards beautifying the plain, white walls of the little room where Bridget was learning her lesson of patience. Still less did they realize how much they themselves were gaining from the quiet half- hour in the corner of the great hospital. The little self- sacrifice, the interest in this girl so far removed from their usual world, their girlish desire to gain her liking, and the womanly tact which was needed to win her from her rough shyness, all these had their influence on their young maidenhood, an influence which lasted far on through their lives.

And by degrees their interest widened. At first they had shrunk from the suffering around them, dreading and almost fearing to look on its outward signs. But as they became more accustomed to the place and its associations, they no longer hurried along the corridors, with their eyes fixed on the ground; but glanced in, now and again, through some open door, to see the long lines of little beds and the white-capped nurses moving quietly about the room, or sewing cosily by the sunny window. Winter was not half over before the girls used to turn aside, now to spend a few moments among the forlorn midgets in the children's ward, then to pass slowly along through the accident ward, giving a pleasant word or two in exchange for the smiles that never failed to greet their coming. Each one of them had her own particular circle of friends whom she gravely discussed with the doctor, learning much of the history and needs of these fellow-beings, for whom, until lately, they had thought and cared so little. Molly and Jessie devoted themselves to the little girls, Polly lavished all her attentions on three or four small boys, while the others preferred the older patients. But all this was only incidental, and the girls considered Bridget as their especial property, the younger ones regarding her as a superior sort of toy, to take the place of the dolls which they had cast aside.

However, Katharine, who was older and more mature than the others, had come to understand Bridget and to be friends with her, before any of the others. At first she could feel nothing but repugnance for this uncultivated, unwholesome-looking girl, a repugnance which she struggled hard to conceal; but, little by little, as she talked to her, she was won by her quiet endurance and courage. At length, one day, Katharine coaxed the girl's story from her, how she was left an orphan with younger children to care for; how she had fallen and hurt her back; how she had strained it with overwork, when it was still weak; how she had struggled to keep on, until the doctor had brought her where she was; and how she must hurry to get well, in order to earn money to pay the neighbors for caring for the little children. It was a homely tale and simply told; but when it was ended, Katharine was surprised to find her eyes full of tears, as she bent over and touched her lips to the girl's forehead. "I am glad you told me this, Bridget," she said. "Now we can talk about it together, and it will make us better friends."

And Bridget answered gratefully, as she looked up into the clear eyes above her own,—"Thank you, miss. It's nice to have a body know all about it. Somehow it helps along."

Three weeks later, as Katharine went into the room and dropped two or three scarlet carnations on the girl's idle hand, she was saluted with exciting news.

"A letter from home, to-day, Miss, and somebody has sent money enough to pay the children's board for ever and ever so long; and they don't know at all who it is. Isn't it wonderful!"

Not so wonderful, perhaps, as it appeared to the simple girl. No one but Katharine and her parents ever saw the letter that went hurrying westward to remind her father that Christmas was coming, and to tell him in what way she would prefer to take her present. The secret was kept, and no thanks were ever spoken; but Katharine cared for none. It was enough to watch the girl's happy content, now that her one anxiety was removed. Mrs. Hapgood, alone, had a suspicion, when Molly told her of the affair; but she wisely asked no questions, and in silence rejoiced over the broader sympathy her niece was daily gaining.

"How queer it is, the way things are divided up!" Katharine said to Molly, one day when they were out driving.

It was a clear, cold December day, and Cob trotted briskly over the frozen ground, as if he too, as well as the girls themselves, were enjoying the air and motion.

"What is divided up?" asked Molly vaguely, rousing herself from a half-formed plan for Alan's Christmas present.

"Oh, everything,—at least, everything isn't divided," returned Katharine a little incoherently. "Some of us have so much more fun out of things than other people do. There's us; and then there's Bridget and that little pet of Polly's, Dicky what's-his-name. You know the one I mean. And then, just in our set, there's ever so much difference. Jessie and I have everything we want, and Jean has to pinch and scrimp; Jean is as strong as a bear, and Alan can't do anything at all, without being laid up to pay for it; Polly wails for a family of young brothers, and Jean has more of them to take care of than the old woman that lived in a shoe. Now what's the reason things are so mixed up, I'd like to know."

"I can't see why myself," said Molly, tucking in the robe about herself and her cousin. "Maybe, if we knew all about it, they aren't as mixed up as they seem."

"Yes, they are," Katharine insisted. "If they weren't, some people wouldn't have everything, and some go without, as they do. I don't suppose there is much of anything in the world I couldn't do, if I wanted to, and tried hard enough for it; but everybody isn't so."

"I have sort of an idea," answered Molly profoundly, "that most everybody can get what she wants, if she is willing to work and wait long enough. It's only a question of what you want."

CHAPTER X.

POLLY'S POEM.

"Molly, don't you want to come and take a walk with me?" asked Polly, appearing in the door one Saturday morning.

Molly sprang up and tossed her book down on the table.

"Yes, indeed I do. It's too pleasant to stay in the house such a day as this. I'll go and call the others."

"But I don't want the others, at least, not this morning," said Polly mysteriously. "I want you all to myself, for I've something to tell you, to show you.". Polly blushed and stammered a little.

"What is it, Poll?" asked Molly curiously.

"Oh, nothing much; at least, I'll tell you by and by. Go and get your hat, and come on."

"The Bridget Society" as Alan disrespectfully called it, had been in operation for about two weeks now; but though it had proved an absorbing subject to the girls, yet it took very little of their time, and left them nearly as free as ever for their usual occupations. Their common interest in the one work, however, had bound the six girls even more closely together than before, until they depended on one another's help and sympathy, in any and every question that arose.

It was a clear, bracing day, so cold that the white frost was still glittering on the grass-blades in the more sheltered corners, so clear that the bare, rough ledges of the western mountain looked so near that one could toss a stone up to the pile of broken rocks which marked the line of their bases; while far across the river valley, the sun lay warm upon the roofs and towers of the town nestling on the hillside, and touched with a golden light the tall, slender spire of the little church. The girls walked briskly away through the town and out towards the river, a mile away. Polly appeared to be unusually excited, whether by the crisp air or by her new winter coat, Molly was at a loss to decide. It was a fine day, surely; but the more Molly studied the long dark-blue coat trimmed with chinchilla, and the saucy little blue cap edged with the same soft fur, and cocked on the back of Polly's curls, she came to the conclusion that Polly's spirits were affected by her becoming suit. That being the case, it was plainly her duty to remove Polly's worldly pride.

"Do try to walk like a civilized being, Polly!" she exclaimed, as her friend suddenly pounced into the midst of a flock of hens that were pluming themselves in a sunny fence-corner. "People will think you're crazy, if you act so."

"Well, what if they do?" said Polly, laughing. "I don't care what they think, I wanted to astonish those hens. Shoo!" And she charged upon them again, brandishing a dry stick which she had picked up by the roadside.

In spite of herself Molly laughed as she clutched her friend firmly by the elbow and dragged her onward, out of temptation's way.

"You'll have the jailer and the fire department out after you," she said, as she guided Polly's erring footsteps back into the concrete path of virtue. "Do come along! Besides, you had something to tell me."

Polly's face grew suddenly grave, and the hot blood rushed to her cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was trembling with suppressed excitement.

"Wait till we get out on the bridge, Molly," she begged. "We'll be all alone there."

So it wasn't the new coat, after all. Molly's brow cleared.

"How queer you are, Polly!" she said. "I can't stand it to wait, I am so wild to know. Come on, let's have a race to the bridge, then."

"But you just said I mustn't run," protested Polly, hanging back.

"Not after hens, when the owner is looking on," answered Molly; "but it's our own affair, if we want to run a race. Come on."

She threw the last word back over her shoulder as she went darting away, followed by Polly who soon passed her, laughing and breathless. In the middle of the long, white bridge she stopped and looked about her, struck by the beauty of the familiar scene around, the soft hills at the north, the shining, river as it wound along through the russet meadow grass, and cut its way between the southern mountains, over which slowly flitted the clouds above. A few belated crows rose and sank down again over the deserted corn-fields, while, from the red house on the river bank, the great black dog barked an answer to their hoarse cries. No other living thing was in sight as Molly joined her friend, and they stood leaning against the iron rail, with their backs turned to the cutting wind that came down upon them from the northern hills.

"Now, Polly." And Molly paused expectantly.

From rosy red, Polly's face grew very white, and her breath came short and hurried. She hesitated for an instant, then plunged her mittened hand into her coat pocket, and pulled out a dingy sheet of paper whose folds, worn till they were transparent, showed the marks of long service. With trembling hands, she smoothed it out, tearing it a little, in her excitement. Then she turned to Molly.

"Now, Molly Hapgood," she said solemnly; "will you promise never to tell, if I tell you something that there doesn't anybody else know, that I've never even shown to mamma?"

"Go on, Polly!" urged her friend impatiently, trying to steal a glance at the worn-out sheet, which was covered with Polly's irregular, childish writing. But Polly edged cautiously away.

"Now remember," she said again; "you're the only single soul in the world that knows this, Molly; and I am telling you my secret because I know you love me. I've—" there was a catch in her breath—"I've written a poem!"

"Really!" And Molly's eyes grew round with astonishment and respectful awe.

"Yes," Polly went on more calmly, now the great secret was out; "I knew I could, and it was just as easy as could be."

"How did you ever know how?" inquired Molly, with a vague idea that she had never before appreciated this gifted friend.

"I didn't know how, at first," answered Polly, kindly exposing her methods of work to her friend's gaze. "I just knew that there ought to be some rhymes, and then I must say something or other to fill up the lines. One Sunday in church I read lots of hymns,— Aunt Jane wasn't there, you know,—and then I went to work."

"Are you going to have it printed?" asked Molly.

"Not yet," said Polly. "I thought at first I would send it to the News, but I've a better plan. I'm going to copy it all out, and write my name on it and my age and how I came to write it, and put it away. After I'm dead and famous, somebody will find it, and it will be printed. Then people will make a fuss over it and call me a child prodigy and all sorts of nice things."

"But what's the use?" queried Molly. "When you're all nicely dead and buried, it can't do you any good."

"But just think how proud my children and grandchildren will be!" exclaimed Polly enthusiastically.

"Maybe you won't have any," suggested Molly sceptically. "People that write are generally old maids, unless they are men."

Polly's face fell. Here was a flaw in her plans.

"Well, go on," said Molly. "Aren't you going to read it?"

Polly looked at the paper in her hand, cleared her throat nervously, drew a long breath, and cleared her throat again.

"What's the matter?" asked Molly unsympathetically. She had never written a poem, and had no idea of the mingled fear and pride that were waging war in Polly's mind. She spoke as the calm critic who waits to sit in judgment.

"I'm just going to begin now," said Polly faintly. Then, nerving herself to the task, she read aloud,—

"The children went chestnutting once, Out in the woods to stay all day, There's Maude and Sue and James and Kate, All there, for there's no school to-day."

Polly stopped to catch breath.

"Where'd you get your names?" inquired Molly critically.

Polly looked up with a startled air.

"Why, out of my head, of course."

"Oh, did you?" Molly's tone was not reassuring. "Go on," she added.

"Maybe you'll like the next verse better," faltered Polly.

"The good, kind mothers pack the lunch Of bread and butter, meat and cake, So off they start at ten o'clock, For it is hot when it is late."

This time, Polly found her friend looking at her, with a scornful curl to her lips.

"I thought you said it was a poem," she said, with cutting emphasis; "but it sounds just exactly like a bill of fare."

This was too much for Polly. Her temper flashed up like a fire among dead twigs.

"Molly Hapgood, you're as mean as mean can be, to make fun of me! I've a good mind never to speak to you again as long as I live."

As usual, the more Polly became excited, the more Molly grew cool and collected.

"Don't be a goose, Polly," she said provokingly. "You're no more able to write a poem than Job is."

"What do you mean?" demanded Polly, facing her friend with gleaming eyes and frowning brow.

"What do I mean!" echoed Molly mercilessly, "I mean just this: your old poem isn't any poem at all. It doesn't rhyme more than half way, and there's no more poetry about it than there is about one of your freckles. Poetry is all about spring and clouds and butterflies, or else death or—" Molly paused for an idea. Not finding it, she hastily concluded, "Besides, I've heard something just like that before."

Polly choked down her rising sobs.

"Very well," she said, through her clenched teeth. "This is all I want of you, Molly Hapgood."

Deliberately she pulled off her mittens and put them into her pocket; then, with shaking hands and with her face drawn as if in pain, but with her eyes steadily fixed on Molly's face, she slowly tore the paper into long, narrow strips, gathered the strips together and tore them into tiny squares, and defiantly threw them away over the side of the bridge into the swift blue stream below. But even before the first floating square had touched the surface of the water, the reaction had set in, and Polly could have cried for the loss of her first and only poem. For a moment, she gazed after the white bits drifting away from her; then, biting her lip to steady it and struggling to keep back the tears, she turned on her heel, without a word, and walked away towards home, leaving Molly to follow or not, as she chose.

The tears came fast now, as she hurried on, avoiding the main streets as best she could. No one was in sight when she reached the house, so she could run up the stairs unnoticed, and throw herself down across the foot of the bed for a long, hearty cry. She had hoped so much from Molly's sympathy! But, after all, now the opportunity had come, the tears were not so ready as they had been, and she did not feel quite so much as if the world had abused her, as she did when she was standing on the bridge, watching the white dots on the river below. At least, no great harm was done, for she remembered the whole poem and could easily write it out again. As this thought came to her, she sprang up once more, seized a pencil and a bit of paper and rewrote the words which had caused her so much joy and so much pain. She was still sitting with her forehead resting on her clasped hands, reading the verses over and over and dreaming of the future day when fame should come to her, when she heard her mother's voice outside.

"Polly! Polly! are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here," answered Polly, moving across the room to open the door, with a secret hope that her mother would see that she had been crying, and ask the reason of her tears.

But Mrs. Adams was too intent on the matter in hand to give more than a passing glance at her daughter.

"Polly, Aunt Jane wants you to run down to Mrs. Hapgood's and ask her if she can't take in some ministers next week, over the convention. She would like her to take four, if she can."

"Oh dear!" grumbled Polly. "I do wish Aunt Jane would go on her own old errands, and not keep me running all over town for her."

"Polly dear," Mrs. Adams's tone was very gentle; "Polly, aren't you forgetting yourself a little?"

"No, I'm not," returned Polly rebelliously. "I hate Aunt Jane."

"Polly!"

This time there was no mistaking her mother's meaning. After an instant, she added,—

"I wish you to go at once, my daughter, and to go pleasantly. Aunt Jane is a good, kind aunt to you." Polly raised her eyebrows, but dared not speak; "and I am sorry you are so ungrateful as not to be willing to do this little errand for her."

Polly turned away and obediently started on her errand, but as she went down the stairs, her mother heard her murmuring to herself words that were not altogether complimentary to Aunt Jane and the coming ministers.

It was one of the days when everything went wrong, Polly said to herself as she went out of the gate and down the silent street. Molly had laughed at her, Aunt Jane had abused her, and, worst of all, her mother had spoken to her more seriously than she had done for a long time. That was the way it generally was with geniuses, she thought, and reflected with a vindictive joy that some day or other they would all be sorry for it. At this point she was interrupted by hearing her name called in boyish tones,—

"Polly! Polly! I say, wait for a fellow; can't you?"

Turning, she saw Alan running after her, with his overcoat waving in the breeze and his soft felt hat pulled low on his forehead.

"Where going?" he inquired briefly, as he overtook her and fell into step by her side.

"To your house," she answered as briefly, not yet able to return to her usual sunny manner.

"That's good," returned Alan cheerfully; then, as he surveyed her, he added, "What's up, Polly? You don't seem to be particularly festive this morning. Have you and Molly been having another pow- wow?"

"A little one," confessed Polly.

"That's too bad," said Alan, with a paternal air of consolation. "If Molly's been teasing you, I'll give her fits when she comes back from Florence's. She's there now."

"Oh, I suppose it was both of us," responded Polly, cheered by his understanding of the situation.

"I presume 'twas," said Alan candidly. "Molly is an awful tease; she gets after me once in a while, so I know. You're snappish, Poll; but you don't keep fussing at a fellow and hitting him when he's down."

They walked on in silence for a few steps. Then Alan remarked, as he looked at her critically,—

"That's a gay little cap, Polly, and suits you first rate. New, isn't it?"

Polly nodded smilingly. Alan's sympathy had smoothed out all the wrinkles in her temper, and she was once more her own merry self, so by the time she went in at the Hapgood house, she was laughing and talking as brightly as if she and Molly had never taken their walk to the bridge.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Jessie, as she glanced down from the window of their room. "Here come Alan and Polly Adams. What a nuisance!"

The two sisters, left to themselves for the morning, had been having a private feast of lemonade and crackers in their own room, where they had been alternately reading and nibbling, for the past hour.

"Why is it a nuisance?" inquired Katharine, getting up to look out of the window, over her sister who was curled up in one of the deep window-seats, regardless of the delicate frost ferns that were thinly scattered over the panes.

"Just see here," replied Jessie, as she stretched out her arm for the pitcher and tilted it expressively, exposing to view a few bare, dry slices of lemon in the bottom. "They'll be sure to come up here, and it's rather shabby not to give them any."

"I'd make some more," said Katharine, pensively surveying the ruins of the feast; "but I put our very last lemon into this, and I can't. Maybe they won't care for any, it's so cold," she added, with an air of relief.

"I'll tell you, put in some more water, and mix it up pretty well," said Jessie hastily, as she heard Alan calling from below. "It was almost too strong before, so it won't be so bad, and we really ought to treat, I think."

Katharine laughed silently, as she obeyed her sister's instructions, while Jessie surveyed the operation with dancing eyes.

"Let's see," she said gravely, as she poured out a few drops into a glass.

With frowning solemnity she tasted it, then set down the glass with an air of decision.

"It's real good truly, Kit. I'll get out some more crackers, and then you call them up. Boys are never very fussy, when it's something to eat; and Polly will like the fun." And as she opened the box and took out a fresh plateful of their dainty crackers, Katharine invited up her guests who came willingly enough, never dreaming of the straits to which their friends' hospitality had put them.

"Whose autograph album is this?" exclaimed Polly, pouncing on a flaming red and gold volume that lay on the table.

"It belongs to one of the girls up at school," answered Jessie. "Just see here, and here, and here," she continued, turning over the leaves and pointing to several well-known names. "You see, she lives in Boston and her father knows all these people, so she could get them."

"How splendid!" And Polly bent over to gaze more closely on the signature of a writer clear to all childish hearts. "I'd give almost anything for that," she sighed.

"Which is that?" asked Katharine, leaning over to glance at the page. "Yes, I wouldn't much mind having that one. But, after all, autograph albums are a bore. I used to care for them, years ago, but they are all just alike. I had one friend who wrote the same verse in every album she took, only she changed the name in it. Have some more lemonade, Polly." And she waved the pitcher which was nearly empty for the second time.

"No, thank you," answered Polly gratefully; "but it's been ever so good. I haven't had any since last summer, so this tasted better than usual, and I always like it."

"I am so glad," responded Katharine heartily, though with a sly glance at her sister.

"But I don't think autographs are stupid," said Jessie, returning to the subject of the book in her hand. "I wish I had all these. Why, sometimes they are sold and bring perfectly enormous prices."

"I know that," said Katharine; "but they make ever so much fun of the people that ask for them."

"I don't care if they do," said Jessie; "I'm going to have one, pretty soon, that will make you all envy me."

"Whose?" asked Alan.

"That's telling," responded Jessie mysteriously.

"How are you going to get it?" inquired Polly.

"I've asked for it," replied Jessie, with a knowing smile.

"Is it somebody I know?" asked her sister.

"No, not exactly; but it's somebody that everyone in this whole world knows about."

"Jessie Shepard, what crazy thing have you been doing?" demanded Katharine.

"I shan't tell." And Jessie shut her lips defiantly.

"Oh, come on, Jessie, tell us," urged Alan, while Katharine added,—

"If you don't tell me, Jessie, I shall speak to auntie. I know you have done something you are ashamed of."

Jessie laughed good-naturedly.

"Don't be silly and make such a fuss over nothing, Kit. I only wanted to tease you a little; I'd just as soon tell as not. I'll give you each a guess, and then, if you don't get it, I'll tell you. That's fair, isn't it? Who'll you guess, Kit?"

"Oliver Wendell Holmes," said Katharine promptly.

Jessie smiled disdainfully.

"Wrong. What should I want of him?"

"I should think anybody would want him," returned Katharine. "He's the greatest person I could think of; and besides, you've just been studying about him."

"Well, he isn't the one," said Jessie. "Go on, Alan."

"The President of these United States," suggested Alan pompously.

"Never!" responded Jessie fervently. "I'm a Democrat, you know, so I don't want him. But you're in the right track. Polly, who is it?"

"General Grant," said Polly.

"He died ever so long ago, Polly," corrected Alan.

"Oh, yes, so he did. Well, let's see. The Mayor of Omaha?"

"No! No! No!" said Jessie. "I didn't say it was a man, any way. It's a woman; she's an English-man and she's a queen."

"Jessie!" And Katharine dropped into a chair, too much horrified to say more.

"You don't mean to say," queried Polly, "that you've been and gone and asked Queen Victoria to send you her autograph?"

Jessie nodded triumphantly.

"Well, she won't," returned Polly, with deliberate emphasis, while Alan laughed, and laughed again at the absurd idea.

Then Jessie showed her trump card.

"Yes, she will," she said, with a firmness born of conviction; "she will too, for I put in a two-cent stamp for her to answer with. There!"

CHAPTER XI

JEAN'S CHRISTMAS EVE.

Christmas mystery was in the air. For weeks the girls had been busy over all sorts of gay trifles which were whisked out of sight, now and then, to avoid some particular pair of curious eyes that were not intended to see them until the proper moment came.

"What's the use of making such a time about it?" inquired Alan, in some disgust one day.

He had rushed breathlessly into the room to announce the first skating of the season, and was greeted with four protesting voices, as the girls tried to cover up the stripes of the afghan they were making for his own especial use.

"Making such a time about it, you heathen!" retorted Polly, diving after a ball of golden-yellow wool; "you know perfectly well that all the fun of Christmas is in surprising people. I'd rather have a paper of pins, and have the fun of being astonished over it, than get the most elegant present in creation and know all about it beforehand."

"That's all very fine, Poll; but I haven't been able to come near you girls for a month, without your all howling at me," objected Alan. "Now, of course I know you aren't doing all this for me, but you won't let me see anything. I'll start up some secrets, too; see if I don't!"

"Poor boy, does he want to see?" said Katharine protectingly. "Well, I'll show you one thing, Alan, if you'll promise not to tease any more."

"Depends on what 'tis," returned Alan grudgingly. "One is better than nothing, so go ahead."

Katharine gathered up her work under the light shawl which lay across her shoulders, and went away out of the room. Presently she came back again, with a pile of something soft and red in her arms.

"There now!" she said, shaking out the folds with conscious pride. "This is our grandest secret of all. It's a dressing-gown for Bridget, and we girls have cut and made it ourselves, every stitch. It's well made, too; you can look, if you know enough to judge."

"We!" echoed Polly. "Katharine has done 'most all of the work."

Alan eyed it critically.

"I say, that's something worth having," he remarked. "I wish I was Miss O'Finnigan; I know that color would be becoming to me, and it's so soft and warm." And before the girls could guess his intention, he had slipped on the long, loose garment, and was parading up and down the room in it, with all the airs of a young peacock.

"Tell me some more," he implored them; "tell me what you were doing when I came in."

"Never!" said Jessie sternly. "You know more now than you deserve. You'll have to wait for the rest."

"A whole week?" groaned Alan. "I never can stand it. Never you mind, though; I know one thing you don't, and I was going to tell you, and now I shan't. It's something awfully nice, too, and it's about Christmas."

"Tell me, Alan," said Katharine. "You know I showed you this, so it's only fair you should let me be the one to hear your secret."

"All right, Kit; I'll tell you for the sake of making the rest jealous." And Alan glared defiantly at the other girls, as he bent over and whispered a few words in Katharine's ear.

"Really, Alan? What fun!"

"Isn't it?" And they exchanged significant smiles.

"Where's Jean, these days?" inquired Alan, a few minutes later, as he settled himself on the sofa, with his shoes on the pillow. "I haven't seen her for a coon's age."

"Poor Jean!" said Polly. "She's having a hard time. Ever since her father had that fall, two weeks ago, Mrs. Dwight has been busy with taking care of him, and Jean has had to do all the work, and see to those four boys, besides."

"That's hard luck," said Alan sympathetically.

"I did feel so sorry for her, the other day," said Jessie, moving into the sofa corner to let Alan rest his yellow head in her lap. "I asked her what she was going to do Christmas, and she said, 'Nothing at all.' She laughed; she always does that, but she looked as sober as could be, and it did sound so forlorn."

There was a silence throughout the group for a moment.

"I say!" exclaimed Alan so suddenly that Jessie, who was bending over to part his hair into little squares, started violently.

"Well?" inquired Molly, who was tranquilly rocking back and forth by the window.

"I say, girls, let's give her a Christmas surprise." "Good, Alan!" And Jessie sprang up in an excited fashion that nearly dislocated the boy's neck. "This is the best plan yet. It's ever so much more fun than Bridget; and Jean is working so hard now, that she needs a little good time to make up for it. What shall we do?"

"Oh, have some kind of a lark Christmas eve," answered Alan. "We can't do it Christmas day because—Well, I may as well tell the rest of you—mamma has just asked Polly and all the other Adamses to come here for dinner and the evening, so we can have our fun, all of us together."

"Oh-h-h!" remarked Polly rapturously.

"So you see," the boy went on; "whatever we do must come in on the night before; but I think we could manage it. Let's call mamma in, to take counsel."

"Would Florence help us along, I wonder," said Jessie thoughtfully.

"Yes, I know she will," Katharine responded quickly; "I'll answer for her. We'll have to work, girls, to get this done, with all our other plans; but I am sure we can do it."

"Oh, dear! I've got to finish up my scrapbook for my hospital boys," sighed Polly; "and the corners peel up faster than I can stick them down."

"I'll do it for you, Polly," Alan offered. "I can't sew, but I can stick beautifully."

"That's so," said Molly, in an undertone to Polly. "He upset the mucilage bottle into the dictionary, the other day, and now we have to take a knife and pry, if we want to look up anything from I to Q."

"Oh, Polly, I almost forgot to tell you," said Alan suddenly. "I was coming up past your house, just now, and saw Mr. Baxter going in at the gate. You'd better hurry home, and tell him something more about Job."

Polly laughed at the memory.

"He has called once since then," she said. "I don't see what has started his doing that, and he comes to see Aunt Jane, of all people. This time I was telling about, he went on in the queerest way about his children, as if he didn't care anything for them. I wish you could have heard him. He said that they had very peculiar dispositions, and his wife never did know how to bring them up. But go call your mother, there's a dear boy. I do want to plan about Jean."

For the next hour there was held a council into which Mrs. Hapgood entered with spirit, restraining the girls' ardor, offering all manner of assistance, and making many a useful suggestion for the success of their frolic, which was to be extended to include something for the little brothers, as well as for Jean. There was no time to be lost, for there was only a week before Christmas, and there was much to be done. At dinner time the girls separated, with many vows of secrecy.

Christmas fell on Thursday that year. It had been cloudy all the early part of the week, and on Wednesday morning Jean had opened her eyes in the cold, gray dawn, to see the air filled with whirling snowflakes that went dancing and skurrying this way and that before the noisy wind. Such a tempting morning to pull the blankets over one's shoulders and nestle down for another nap! But there was no such luxury for Jean; she scarcely had time to realize that this was the dawn of the Christmas eve. A careless step on a slippery roof, a cutting wind which had numbed him too much to let him save himself, these had given her father a bad fall so that work was out of the question for a long time to come. Her mother was busy caring for her husband and doing a little sewing at odd moments, so the main charge of the house and of the children had fallen on Jean's strong young shoulders, which were bearing the load with a merry willingness that is so much more helpful than mere patient endurance. And really, if it had not been for Christmas, Jean would not have minded it so much. But it was hard to think of the fun the other girls were having over their mysterious plans; and though she had no time to join them, in fancy she pictured their merry afternoons together, while Alan dodged about them, pretending to pry and peep into the carefully covered work-baskets. Harder still it was to imagine the disappointment of her own young brothers, when Christmas morning should reveal the empty little stockings that Santa Claus had forgotten to fill.

"No, Jean," Mrs. Dwight had said sadly; "we can't have any Christmas this year. I'm sorry to disappoint you and the children; but with the uncertainty about father's going to work again, I feel that it would be really wrong for us to use our money for presents, when before winter is over, we may have to borrow some for food or clothes."

And Jean saw the right of it. Still, she cried herself to sleep that night, not so much for herself, as for the boys who had talked of the children's fur-clad saint for a month past. But by the next morning, Jean's inspiration had come. As soon as her work was done, she shut herself into her room and ransacked her few small stores. At least the boys should not be disappointed she thought, as she selected this treasure and that from the meagre number which she had hoarded with such care. A little planning and contriving changed them to fit the present need, and Jean had put them away until Christmas eve with the happy certainty that, at any rate, the toes of the stockings would bulge a little, even if the legs hung empty and lean.

But now it was the morning of Christmas eve, and breakfast was waiting until Jean should get it ready, so she sprang up and hastily dressed herself. Then, with her cheeks glowing from the shock of the icy water, and her fingers aching with cold, she ran across the hall to rouse the boys. But they were sitting up in bed, calling back and forth to each other through the open door between their rooms, in all the joyous excitement of the approaching Christmas tide; so Jean only stopped to caution them not to disturb their father, and hurried away down-stairs, to start the fire for their morning meal. The house was so cold, in the dim light, for the fire had burned low and the wind seemed to blow in through all the cracks and corners. But Jean never minded that; she was thinking with a quiet satisfaction of the little box up-stairs, and as she knelt on the bare floor to shake down the ashes in the kitchen stove, she was humming contentedly to herself,—

"'And pray a gladsome Christmas On all good Christian men; Carol, brothers, carol, Christmas day again!'"

Her mother's step interrupted her.

"Good morning, mammy!" she exclaimed, jumping up. "Why in the world didn't you stay in bed till the house was a little warmer?"

"It's no colder for me than it is for you," her mother answered. "Your nose is blue and your ears are red. Are the boys getting up?"

"Oh, yes; they must be nearly dressed," answered Jean. "They started as soon as I did."

Breakfast was all ready to put on the table, and still the boys had not come down. Jean had heard them running about their rooms; but now, for some time, all had been silent. Suddenly there was a shout.

"Jean! Jean! Jean!"

"Well," answered Jean, going to the foot of the back stairs, with the toasting-fork in one hand and a slice of bread in the other.

"I can't find but one stocking. You come and look for it for me."

"I'm busy, Erne," she called. "Ask Willie to help you."

"He won't. He's gone back to bed, 'cause it's cold," responded the childish voice.

Jean glanced at her mother in despair. Then she put down her toast and went up to the boy's room. Mrs. Dwight could hear her coaxing, laughing, and merrily scolding the boys, as she found the missing garments, routed Willie out from his warm nest in the middle of the bed, and triumphantly marshalled the four children downstairs to their seats at the breakfast table.

It was the beginning of a long, hard day, and Jean was forced, again and again, to hold herself in check while she bethought herself of the true Christmas spirit: good will to men. The boys had not the least intention of being naughty; but the storm kept them shut up in the house, and they were overflowing with fun and mischief, which was somewhat increased by the vague holiday feeling that is in the very air around us at Christmas time. Jean did her part well, restraining their boisterous shouts, making peace in their small quarrels, proposing new entertainments when the old ones had been worn threadbare, and, in the afternoon, calling them all into a corner of the dining-room and telling them marvellous old-time stories, to keep them quiet while their father took his nap in the next room. Not much of a Christmas eve, perhaps, compared with the stir and bustle of preparation at the Hapgoods', or with the elaborate gifts which Mr. and Mrs. Lang had bought for their only child; but after all, blessed be drudgery! and the hard work and stern self-denial were doing much to round Jean's character into the perfect womanhood, for which all our girls were striving.

Slowly the day wore away; an endless one it appeared to Jean who, with tired hands and weary head, longed for the hour when the little ones should be tucked away for the night, and she could give her nerves and her patience a little rest. It came soon after supper, for the boys were more than ready to go to bed, hoping in this way to encourage an early visit from Santa Claus and so have the first choice of gifts from his overflowing pack. There was a little sadness in Jean's smile, as she watched them eagerly fastening their long stockings around the kitchen chimney, with many a sleepy dispute about the best place and to whom it should be given. Then they clattered up the stairs and pulled off their clothes, tossing them in a promiscuous pile on the floor, to be sorted out again by Jean while they lay huddled under the blankets. The last good night was said, the last "Merry Christmas" exchanged in anticipation of the morrow, and Jean went away and left them.

She crossed into her own room, took up the little box, and went down-stairs again and out into the kitchen. How poor and mean her gifts looked, after all, and how lonely in the toes of the long, thin stockings! She could have cried, as she stood there looking at them; but what was the use of crying? Tears wouldn't bring Willie the air-rifle for which he sighed, nor Ernest the fine new sled and knife that he had so innocently mentioned in his prayers. No, crying wouldn't help the matter any; so she smiled instead, as she went back to the sitting-room; but it was a wan, lifeless smile, after all.

For a few moments she stood at the window, looking out into the night and listening to the sleepy murmurs from the room above. It would be good sleighing for Santa Claus, she thought, and then smiled at the childishness of the idea. The storm had died away at sunset, and the soft, light snow lay white on the ground, and piled high on the evergreen hedge at the side of the house. In the cold, still air, the stars glittered like little, pricking points of steel, throwing a faint light over the town below; while, far down in the quiet western sky, lay the tiny silver thread of the baby moon, as if anxious to linger above the horizon for a peep into the happy Christmas world, when the midnight bells should ring in the glad news, centuries old, yet ever coming to us with all the fresh joy of that first eastern Christmas dawn.

Jean's eyes wandered from the snow below to the sky above, then dropped again to the distant lights that were shining out from the upper rooms of the Hapgood house. Even the attic was ablaze, for Mrs. Hapgood still kept to the old-fashioned custom of illuminating the house on Christmas eve. How Jean wished she could peep in to see what they were all doing! She had missed her friends and their frolics during these past weeks, missed them more than any one knew but her pillow, to which alone she confided her troubles.

Then she turned away from the window and threw herself down on the scratchy old haircloth sofa, with her arms folded under her head, to stare at the ceiling and think it all over. She had kept her temper that day, at least; for so much she could be thankful. But now she would have given worlds to run away out of the house and down the street, to spend the evening with Polly or Molly, or even Florence. Mrs. Dwight was busy with her husband, so Jean was quite alone and could be as forlorn as she pleased.

Suddenly she sprang up and listened intently. There was the rhythmic beat of footsteps on the sidewalk which Willie had cleared, and a chorus of blithe young voices rang out on the quiet air.

"'Hark! Hark! Upon the frosty air of night A joyful anthem swells! A song of gladness and delight, The bells ring out with all their might, And echo o'er the fields, with snow all bright, The merry Christmas bells!'"

"It's a carol!" And Jean strained her ears to listen, while the steps and the voices came nearer, and still nearer.

"'Hark! Hark! About the gray old belfry tower Their gladsome notes resound, And carol through the moonlight hour,

O'er snowy sward and glist'ning bower, The glory of the Lord, whose saving power On earth to-night was found.'"

They were very near now, nearer than Jean realized, for, as the last line died away, the front door swung open and the singers appeared on the threshold, with rosy cheeks and shining eyes, exclaiming in a jovial chorus,—

"Merry Christmas, Jean!"

And Jean stood in amazement, while Alan and Polly set down the great basket that they carried, and the six friends pulled off their coats and hats and prepared to spend a long evening.

What need to linger over the unpacking of the great basket, to listen to the fun as the simple presents and absurd jokes came to light, one after another, while Jean now wiped away a tear or two over Katharine's dainty gift, now laughed convulsively over some ridiculous prank of Alan's plotting? And all the time, the chorus went on, now explaining, now joking, but always bringing to Jean the welcome assurance that her friends did not forget her even in her absence.

It was a successful evening, they all said again and again, as they gathered at the door in the starlight; and Jean stood looking after them with happy eyes as they marched off through the snow, gaily singing the dear old carol,—

"'God rest ye, merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay, For Jesus Christ, the Saviour, Was born upon this day.'"

That night when the Christ child came silently over the mountains and down into the sleeping town, he lingered beside their pillows, to whisper to Jean words of encouragement for the coming days of toil, to paint bright visions of the well-filled stockings which the boys were to find in the morning, and to bring to five girls and one young lad his thanks for their helping to do his work here upon the earth. And if the morning brought the merry Christmas to them all, to none it came more truly than to Jean as she watched the children's rapture over their lumpy, shapeless stockings, while she turned, again and again, to look over and caress her own generous share of gifts which the Christmas eve had brought her.

CHAPTER XII.

HALF A DOZEN COOKS.

Christmas had come and gone, and the new year was well started in its course. The time was passing rapidly for the seven young people, who were making the very most of the cold, bracing winter weather. There were coasting frolics and skating parties, long walks and longer sleigh-rides, and even one grand snowball fight which was brought to an untimely end by a carelessly aimed ball that flew straight from Jessie's hand to the back of Aunt Jane's stately neck, just as that good woman was starting for the jail with a large package of tracts clasped in her black-gloved hands. The calls on Bridget still continued and the long-talked-of play was slowly approaching completion. Jean had worked on it at intervals during her father's illness, and it was now so nearly done that the girls had thought it was advisable to begin rehearsing on the first part of it at once.

And best of all the good times were the long, cosey evenings, when they gathered around the open fire, either at the Hapgood house, or else in Mrs. Adams's parlor, to talk over the events of the day or tell stories, while they roasted apples and popped corn over the coals, regardless of the fact that much better results and much fewer burns would have come from the same labors performed over the kitchen stove.

They were all settled at Polly's one snowy evening, Mrs. Adams sewing by the lamp, Polly, Jessie, and Alan curled up on the rug, and the others in low chairs, when Aunt Jane came into the room, looking like a funereal sort of spook in her long, shiny black waterproof.

"What now, Jane?" inquired her sister, glancing up from her work.

"Mothers' Meeting," responded Aunt Jane, disdainfully eying the home-like group before her.

"Oh, Jane, I wouldn't take that long walk on such a stormy night," urged Mrs. Adams.

"If these children can come here for mere pleasure, it certainly is not too stormy for me to go out on an errand of duty," answered Aunt Jane, with dignity. "And, Isabel, I really think it is your duty, too, as a mother, to go to these meetings. They are very helpful and improving, and would be a great source of comfort to you in training Polly."

"Perhaps they might be, if I went," replied her sister gently; "but you can never make me believe, Jane, that I ought to go away and leave Polly alone, one night in every week."

"Don't go, Mrs. Adams," implored Alan, in an undertone.

"I haven't the least idea of it, Alan," she answered, as the door closed behind Aunt Jane. "People don't all think alike about these things, and your mother and I both believe that we can do more good by staying at home, and trying to know and understand our own boys and girls, than by leaving them while we tell somebody else how to bring up her children that we have never seen." And Mrs. Adams gave a little nod of conviction, as Katharine moved her chair back to the table, saying heartily,—

"I quite agree with you, auntie."

"Perhaps if you'd always been to the meetings, Jerusalem, I'd have been more of a success," remarked Polly pensively, as she settled herself more comfortably with her head in Jean's lap.

"No use wasting one's time on poor material," said Alan philosophically, while he shielded his face from the blaze with the shovel.

"Molly, do you remember what a time we had one night, trying to make this fire burn?" inquired Polly, thoughtlessly betraying the secret of their experiences.

"Don't I, though!" answered Molly fervently.

"When was that?" asked Florence.

"Last fall, when mamma went to New York," answered Polly. "We wouldn't tell you then, but I don't care now, do you, Molly?"

"You'd better let me tell it," put in Alan. "You girls won't half do it justice. Now listen." And he told the tale of their housekeeping experiences, suppressing nothing, but, on the contrary, making such additions as his fertile brain and an utter disregard of the facts could suggest.

By the time his story was done, Polly and Molly were blushing and protesting, while the other girls were lying back in their seats, exhausted with laughing.

"Is that all?" asked Katharine, as her cousin ceased speaking.

"All! I should think it was, and more too," said Molly. "He made up half of that, and the other half he exaggerated so that it couldn't recognize itself, if it tried."

"How many of you girls would do any better?" added Polly.

"I can't cook the first solitary thing," admitted Florence; "but I had a cousin that used to make bread when she was ten years old."

"Much good that does you," remarked Alan disrespectfully. "My grandmother was a splendid cook, but I never found that it helped Molly any."

"I can cook," said Jean, with manifest pride; "I know how to do meat and lots of things; but I don't suppose I should, if I hadn't had to."

"I always wanted to get into the kitchen, when I was a little girl," said Florence. "We had one girl that used to let me roll out pie-crust and stir up muffins; but mamma caught me one day, with a new gown all covered with flour and bits of dough, and after that there was no kitchen for me."

"Ask Alan how he boiled some meat once," said Molly.

Alan hung his head in confusion.

"I'll tell you, if he won't," went on his sister mercilessly. "Two years ago we had some company just before Thanksgiving, and mamma wanted to boil some meat for mince pies. We hadn't any girl, so when we went to ride, she told Alan, to watch it and put in more water when it needed it, so it shouldn't burn. He went off to play ball and forgot it, and—"Molly made an impressive pause.

"Go on, Molly," urged Polly, delighted that the tables were turned, and Alan's failings to be brought to light.

"Well," resumed Molly, ignoring her brother's threatening glances; "as soon as we turned the corner, coming home, we noticed a most awful smell. It grew worse, the nearer we came to the house; and then we saw the kitchen door wide open, and the smoke just pouring out in streams." Molly's metaphors were becoming mixed, but the girls never minded that, as she continued, "Mamma was dreadfully frightened, for she thought the house was on fire. We rushed in, and there was the meat frizzling away on the stove, and Alan so excited that he was just hopping up and down and crying, and letting it burn away, because he didn't dare take it off. It was more than a week before the smoke was out of the house."

A gentle snore from Alan greeted the end of the story. He had rolled over on his face, and was apparently sound asleep.

"There!" said Polly, with an accent of relief. "I'm glad we aren't the only know-nothings in the world, Molly."

"The question is, how are we going to know something," said Katharine thoughtfully.

"Let's turn our reading club into a cooking club," suggested Jessie; "that is, if Mrs. Adams is willing."

"Yes, and poison ourselves, or else die of indigestion," interrupted Alan, waking abruptly to make this remark.

"Oh, you go to sleep again!" said Polly, rolling a hassock at him.

But Alan appropriated the weapon, and at once put it to use as a pillow, while his sister said reflectively,—

"I wish we could do something of the kind. I don't know as we can; but I should so like to know how to do enough cooking so that Polly and I won't starve to death, next time we keep house."

While they were talking, Mrs. Adams had been hastily thinking over the possibility of giving the girls a few lessons in plain cooking. Such a plan would take some of her time, and involve much trouble and waste, besides, as Alan had suggested, imperilling the digestions of the family. But, on the other hand, Mrs. Adams had always felt that any woman, no matter how many servants she might keep, should have enough experience as a cook to direct the servants intelligently, and to be able to provide food for her family, if the hour of need should ever come. It was high time that Polly should be gaining a little of this experience, so why not extend her lessons to include all the girls? It would probably be the only chance that Florence and the Shepards would ever have. She resolved to try the experiment, for a time at least.

"What's the use of it, anyway?" Florence was saying. "A servant always does the cooking."

"Yes," Mrs. Adams answered, suddenly breaking in on the conversation once more; "but perhaps you won't always be able to keep a servant, perhaps you'll have a poor one. I knew of one unfortunate young wife who knew so little about cooking that, before she could teach her servant, she used to have to study her cook-book and recite the rules to her husband, to be sure she had learned them. Now I don't want any of my girls to be in such an absurd position, so I'm going to give you a few lessons, just to try and see if they are a success. Come next Saturday morning, and bring your gingham aprons."

"Yes," added a voice from the next room, where the doctor had just settled down to his evening paper; "and I'll promise to give two prizes, one to the first girl that will bring me a perfect loaf of bread of her own making, the other to the first one who invites me to a dinner which she herself has cooked."

"That's not fair, papa," remonstrated Polly.

"Jean knows all about it now, and can take both prizes."

"She doesn't know the first thing about bread," returned Jean, "and she never knew till to-night that elastic starch was good for puddings."

The following Saturday morning proved to be the first of a long series of similar meetings. The girls entered into the subject enthusiastically, delighted with the new interest which bade fair to rival Bridget in their estimation; and week after week they gathered in Mrs. Adams's great kitchen to mix and to stir, to bake and to brew. Mistakes were numerous and failures frequent; but Mrs. Adams was an admirable teacher, praising the girls when she could, encouraging them when her conscience forbade her to praise, and they toiled on, regardless of burns, and not even deterred by the prospect of the dish-washing, which always ended their morning's work. Alan was not permitted to cook, but he acted alternately in the capacities of errand-boy and taster-in-chief, and his hearty boy appetite carried him through the operation, unharmed. Polly's experiments were, perhaps, the most original and striking of any that were made. On one occasion, she neglected to sweeten her muffins till they were in the oven and began to bake. The rule called for sugar, and most cooks would have regarded the attempt as a failure; not so with Polly. Slyly opening the oven door, she added a generous teaspoonful of sugar to every separate muffin, greatly to the surprise of the others, when they broke them open, to find a solid lump mysteriously arranged in the top of every one. The teasing she had to endure when the truth was known, was only equalled by that which fell to her lot a week later when, as if to make amends for past extravagance, she forgot to put any sugar at all in her sponge cake. Even Alan's appetite failed to compass the result of this venture.

Slowly the plan extended until, as spring came on, Mrs. Adams used to take her flock on marketing expeditions, letting each in turn select the dinner at her will. These Saturday mornings were regarded by the girls as the crowning frolic of the week, for the simple domestic lessons which they were learning were made so gay and attractive that it was not until long years had passed and they were in charge of homes of their own, that most of them realized all that Mrs. Adams had done for them.

At length, during the latter part of April and the first week in May, the spirit of hospitality appeared to have run riot among the young cooks, for Dr. Adams was invited to a series of six grand dinner parties, each one more elaborate than the last. Jean, as the veteran cook of the club, opened the course, and it was good to see her air of importance as she presided over the long table, in the chair of state from which her mother was for the once deposed. It was all delicious, the doctor declared, and he filled Jean with satisfaction by asking to be helped a third time to her macaroni and cheese, and praised the roast until the other girls exchanged envious glances.

Florence's dinner followed, and was a surprise to them all, for this dainty, helpless girl, who had been brought up to know nothing of the practical side of life, had developed a real genius for cookery; and during the past two months she had spent many a happy hour in the kitchen, helping the cook to concoct her elaborate dishes with a skill which won the praise of even that accomplished tyrant, and Florence was making rapid progress towards being able to take charge of the house and servants which had been promised to her on Hallowe'en.

Polly's turn came last of all, and she had determined to retire from the contest covered with glory in all their eyes. She had chosen the first Saturday in May for her party, and she had gained her mother's somewhat reluctant consent to extend her invitations to include Mrs. Dwight, Mrs. Lang, and Mrs. Hapgood, as well as the other girls and Alan, who had been the usual guests.

It proved to be one of the warm, heavy days which come in the early part of May, a day that is delightful to those who can be absolutely idle, but which is singularly oppressive to the unfortunate majority who have duties to which they must attend. Though the dinner hour was not until six o'clock, Polly was up betimes, and went rushing about the house and slamming doors, with a profound disregard of Aunt Jane's morning nap.

By eleven o'clock the house was in festal array, and the most delicate of lemon puddings was cooling on the ice. Nothing more could be done for hours; but Polly resisted all her mother's efforts to induce her to rest, and roamed excitedly up and down the rooms, now and again pausing to flick a few grains of dust from the mantel, or to rearrange one of the graceful bunches of flowers that decorated the house.

"Now, Polly," said Aunt Jane, at length, with an encouraging trust in human nature; "you'll be utterly tired out to-morrow, and you know that always makes you cross. I really think you'd better go and lie down, or else sit down quietly and read."

But Polly scorned the suggestion. She was longing for the hour to come when she could retire to the kitchen. At length it came and, leaving her new spring gown spread on the bed, to be hastily put on at the last minute, she went running down the stairs. In the hall she paused, horror-stricken, as she heard a familiar voice from the next room, saying to her mother,—

"I always have heard say that his brother hadn't enough principle to save even the little tail of his soul, but nobody ever thought the worse of Solomon Baxter for all that. Folks can't help their relations; it's their friends that tells the story."

Miss Deborah Bean had come to dinner.

With a sinking heart, Polly went on to the kitchen and sat down on one edge of the table, to collect her ideas. If anything did go wrong, she knew, from past experiences, that Miss Bean would not hesitate to mention the fact. But nothing should go wrong; and as Polly gave the roast of beef a vigorous push ovenward, she resolved to do or die. When she went to bed that night, she felt that she had very nearly done both, the doing and the dying.

In the first place, the fire obstinately refused to burn, and in working over that, Polly entirely forgot her vegetables until some time after they should have been put on to cook; so the dinner was delayed for a long half-hour, while Polly was haunted by spectral visions of her guests falling from their chairs, in the faintness of slow starvation. At length all was ready, and leaving the girl to take up the tomato soup which Polly regarded as her one infallible dish, she ran up-stairs to dress herself and appear before her expectant guests, with a flushed face and ruffled curls.

If she had any misgivings as she marshalled her friends to the table and pointed Miss Bean to an extra seat beside Florence, she certainly concealed them with a tact worthy of an older housekeeper. The truth was, Polly felt no uncertainty as to the beginning and the end of her feast. The soup had never failed her, the pudding she knew to be good; so she could bear with the tough and stringy roast and the hard, lumpy potatoes with a fair grace. There was a hush of interested expectancy, as Polly dipped the ladle into the creamy, foamy soup. Then, when she poured it out into the plate, the conversation hastily started up again, but not so soon as to cover a sudden giggle from Alan, which he would have given worlds to recall when he saw Polly's tragic expression, as she surveyed the thin, watery compound and the white lumps floating in it.

The mothers present accepted their shares in silence and were heroically preparing to eat them, when Miss Bean was heard to speak.

"No, thank you," she said, as she waved her plate away; "I don't care for any; it don't look very good. I reckon it wheyed a little mite, didn't it?" she asked, turning to Mrs. Adams inquiringly.

But the doctor mercifully led her off into a tide of reminiscence, and his daughter was spared for the time being. The dinner went on from bad to worse, but the guests were most polite, and tried their best to keep up a brisk conversation, while they nibbled at the underdone potatoes and picked at the overdone asparagus. Miss Bean alone was unconscious of the true state of affairs, for Mrs. Adams had thought it unnecessary to inform her of the cause for the party, and she commented with a perfect unconcern, ending with the final verdict,—

"Well, Mis' Adams, though I do say it that shouldn't, I do think your cook has fallen off considerable since I was here before. No wonder Polly looks kind o' peaked."

The sudden buzz of conversation rose again, as if to cover Polly's confusion, while Alan gave her hand a sympathetic pinch under the tablecloth. However, Polly was supported through these trials by the thought of her final triumph when the pudding should appear. At last the meat was removed, and the clearing of the table was only interrupted by a quick cry of "Scat!" from Mary, as she was taking the last plates from the room.

"Now," thought Polly, straightening up and raising her eyes defiantly, "now I'll show them that there's one thing I can do well, anyway."

Alas for Polly! Some one else had thought her pudding a success. It came in, borne by Mary, who set it down, disclosing a round hole in it, near one end of the dish, and bent to whisper in Polly's ear.

"What?" gasped Polly, as the bright color rushed into her cheeks, and then faded again.

Mary repeated her whisper, more loudly this time, and the company plainly heard the one word cat.

It was too true. The Adams cat was an animal of refined tastes and, preferring pudding to her ordinary diet of bread and milk, she had watched her chance when Mary's back was turned, and mounting to the table, she had helped herself to the dainty dish, which was for the moment unguarded.

Tears stood in Polly's eyes, and another minute would have brought them down in a shower, had not the doctor burst out laughing, as he exclaimed,—

"It's too bad, and I am sorry for you, Polly; but I don't believe we any of us ever enjoyed a dinner more than we have this one."

And Mrs. Hapgood added hastily,—

"Yes, and we mothers have all been through it ourselves so many times, too."



All this was like Hebrew to Miss Bean, who was at a loss to see why they should all be administering comfort to Polly. But there could be no doubt that something was wrong, so she inquired, with an air of stony censure,—

"What is the matter, for the land sakes? If Polly can't eat what's set before her, she can go without."

That settled the question of Polly's tears, and she began to laugh hysterically, while the others joined in until the dining-room rang with their mirth.

"Well," said the doctor, as he pushed back his chair, half an hour later; "if Florence takes the prize for the best cooking, Polly ought to have the one for the best entertainment."

The guests went away early, and Polly ran upstairs to take off her best gown and slip on a comfortable dark blue wrapper. When she returned to the parlor, her mother was sitting in front of the fire, in a wide sleepy-hollow chair. She turned her head, as Polly entered the room.

"Come, dear," she said; "there's room for two here."

And Polly came.

The motherly arm around her shoulders felt very comforting to her just then; and, like a little, tired child, she cried it all out, all the weariness and mortification and sense of failure. But while the tears were still falling, she began to laugh once more.

"Oh, Jerusalem Adams!" she said; "did you ever see anything so funny as Miss Bean was about my soup?"

Her mother smiled, but before she had time to reply, Polly went on tragically,—

"But wasn't it all dreadful, mamma? Seems to me I never can look any of them in the face again, Mrs. Lang and all. And just when I thought I was going to be so smart and show off all I knew!"

If Aunt Jane had been there, she would doubtless have reminded Polly that pride must have a fall, and that this was a just reward for trying to outdo her friends. Mrs. Adams did no such thing, however. She only drew the curly head over against her shoulder and stroked it gently, as she said, with a half-laughing tenderness,—

"My poor little Polly! You tried to do more than you had strength for. But, after all, it's as true a side of life as Florence's successful dinner was; and every housekeeper must go through just such experiences, again and again. You are no more likely to fail the next time, because your dinner to-day wasn't a good one. It is only one of the unlucky days that we all must have."

"You, mamma?" And Polly raised her head in wonder.

"Yes, I've had my fair share of just such times." And Mrs. Adams laughed quietly, as she thought of similar chapters in her own housekeeping. Then she added, "But I was proud to see my little girl bear it so well, without breaking down or getting vexed at Miss Bean. That's worth a dozen elegant dinners, Polly. But now it's high time my cook was in bed and asleep, without a dream of soups or puddings or disagreeable guests who come uninvited. Some day you and I will have another dinner, and astonish the natives."

A few moments later, she followed Polly upstairs to tuck the blankets around her and cuddle her, and kiss away the few tears that lay on her cheeks. Then she went back to the parlor, where she and her husband laughed heartily and long over Polly's grand dinner party.



CHAPTER XIII.

ALAN AND POLLY HAVE A DRESS REHEARSAL.

It was still in the early days of the cooking club, and February's snows lay soft over the mountain sides, the smooth, open places throwing into bold relief the long rows of trees, which looked blue and hazy against their dazzling background. The town was snow-covered, too, and the frozen river, and wherever one went, the air was full of the gay jingle-jangle of countless sleighbells, while the streets were thronged with a motley collection of equipages, from the luxuriously upholstered double sleigh with its swaying robes and floating plumes, down to the shapeless home-made "pung" with its ragged, unlined buffalo skin snugly tucked in about the shawled and veiled grandma, who smilingly awaited her good man while he purchased the week's supply of groceries.

Such cold, clear days, such glorious sleighing were not to be resisted; and on this particular Saturday afternoon, Katharine had driven around with Cob, to take Mrs. Adams out for an hour or two, before time for her usual call on Bridget. The day had long passed when Job could be driven on the snow. Mrs. Adams had made one or two attempts in previous winters, but the poor old animal had toddled along so gingerly, slipping and sliding in every direction, that she had resigned herself to the inevitable, and put the old horse into winter quarters, much as she did her fan, or her lace bonnet. Such a course had its disadvantages, too, for the long time of standing in his stall stiffened up Job's venerable joints to such an extent that it took him a large share of the summer to regain the free use of his members. However, Katharine had been very generous with Cob, and Mrs. Adams had had a fair share of the sleighing. That day, though she was in the midst of writing a letter when Katharine came, the gay little sleigh and the lively mustang proved too attractive, and she had thrown aside her pen and put on her fur coat without a moment's hesitation.

Polly had gone down to the hospital that afternoon. Her cooking in the morning had been so successful that she had begged to be allowed to take a taste of it to Bridget; so, with a little basket in one hand and a carefully arranged posy in the other, she had gone away down the street, soon after lunch. Once there, she had lingered, chatting with Bridget, who was in an unusually dismal frame of mind, owing to a letter which, had come that morning, telling her that the youngest child she had left had suddenly developed a fractious turn of mind, and that her temporary guardian was "kilt entirely wid the care of her." Naturally enough, this news was preying upon Bridget, and when Polly went in, she found her resolving to leave the hospital and all the good it was doing her, and go home to see to the unmanageable infant. For this reason, Polly had stayed for some time, soothing Bridget's anxiety and trying to distract her mind from her worries by telling her all the funny stories she could remember or invent. By degrees Bridget's face brightened, and, charmed with her success, Polly talked on and on till the clock in the church tower near by chimed three. Then she rose in haste, surprised to find it so late.

"I don't care if 'tis three," she said to herself, as she went along the corridor; "I'll just look in on the babies now I'm here. I haven't been near them, for an age."

As she turned in at the door of the children's ward, what was her astonishment to find Alan sitting there, quite at his ease, surrounded by half a dozen small boys who were in a high state of glee over this new playfellow.

"What! You here?" And Polly's face grew expressionless with her amazement.

"I seem to be, don't I?" responded Alan, a little shamefaced at being caught, while he carefully set down the four-year-old urchin on his knee and rose to join her, regardless of the protestations of his small hosts.

"You see," he went on, as they walked away down the corridor together; "I thought it would be a good scheme to have a full dress rehearsal of our scenes in the play, so I went to your house, bag and baggage. They told me that you weren't at home, that you'd gone on an errand to Bridget, so I followed on after you. I waited round outside for a good while; but it was so cold that I nearly froze, so I rang the bell and asked if you were here. You were such a forever-lasting time that I'd begun to think you had gone out by some other door."

"No danger of that," returned Policy, as he paused. "I'm a snob and only take the front door. But go on; what did you do then?" "I asked if you were here," the boy resumed; "and the woman said you were, and took me up into that room, for she said I could see you go past the door when you came out. I don't see what possessed her to put me in there, and I hadn't any idea of taking any notice of those babies, but somehow or other they got round me."

There was an apologetic tone to Alan's voice as he spoke the last words, which made Polly say heartily,—

"I am so glad they did, Alan. They don't often get hold of a boy in there, and they'll remember it ever and ever so long. It won't hurt you any, just for once, and it delighted them."

"I hope it did," said Alan, frankly adding, "I did feel no end silly, though, when you came out and caught me at it, playing child's nurse."

"I wonder why it is," returned Polly reflectively, as they went down the steps, "that a man always acts ashamed of doing what a woman is expected to do, day in and day out. I don't see why we shouldn't take turns and mix things up."

They walked along in silence for a little way. Alan's chin and ears were buried in his wide coatcollar, but the part of his face that showed was very sober.

"I say, Polly," lie said suddenly; "you don't know how kind of squirmy it made me feel, in there to-day, with all those little fellows, the one with the brace on his ankle, and the one with his eye tied up where they'd taken out a piece, and all the rest of them. I couldn't stand it to just sit there and stare at them, as if they were a show; that was too mean, when I couldn't do anything to help them out. What's the use of it all, any way?"

"I'm sure I don't know," answered Polly, as she tucked her mittened hand confidingly down into his, as it lay in the side pocket of his over-coat. "I felt just the same way when I began to go, last fall; but now I'm used to it, and don't mind so much."