Sadie tossed her basket on the table and bounced into the nearest chair. "Did I, and will they?" she taunted gaily. "Well, I guess I did and they will, Elizabeth Page!"

"O, do tell me, Sadie—quick!" Elizabeth begged, and she listened with absorbed attention to the story of Sadie's experiences, and could hardly believe that Mr. Burchell had really agreed to sell for her.

"I bet Miss Laura had been talking to him," Sadie ended, "for he asked me if I knew her and then said right away he'd take your cakes every Wednesday and Saturday. Now what you got to say?"

"N-n-nothing," cried Elizabeth, "only—if I can really, really sell them, I'll be most too happy to live!"

All that day Elizabeth went around with a song in her heart. The first consignment of cakes sold promptly, and then orders began to come in. It meant extra work for her, but if only she could keep on selling she would not mind that. And as the weeks slipped away, every Saturday she added to the little store of bills in her bureau drawer. Even when she had paid for her materials and Mr. Burchell's commission, and for a girl who helped her with the Saturday work, there was so much left that she counted it and recounted it with almost incredulous joy. All this her very own—she who never before had had even one dollar of her own! O, it was a lovely world after all, Elizabeth told herself joyfully.

But after a while she noticed a change in Sadie. She was still interested in the cake-making, but now it seemed a cold critical interest, lacking the warm sympathy and delight in it which she had shown at first. Elizabeth longed to ask what was wrong but she had not the courage, so she only questioned with her eyes. Maybe by-and-by Sadie would tell her. If not—with a long sigh Elizabeth would leave it there, wistfully hoping. So April came and Elizabeth was eighteen years old, though still she looked two years younger. She did not suppose that any one but herself would remember her birthday—no one ever had through all the years. Sadie's glance seemed sharper and colder than usual that morning, and Elizabeth sorrowfully wondered why. The postman came just as Sadie was starting for school. He handed her an envelope addressed to Elizabeth, and she carried it to the kitchen.

"For me?" Elizabeth cried, hastily taking her hands from the dish-water. She drew from the envelope a birthday card in water-colour with Laura's initials in one corner.

"O, isn't it lovely!" she cried. "I never had a birthday—anything—before. Isn't it beautiful, Sadie?"

"Uh-huh," was all Sadie's response, but her lack of enthusiasm could not spoil Elizabeth's pleasure in the gift. Somebody remembered—Miss Laura remembered and made that just for her, and joy sang in her heart all day. And in the evening Olga came bringing a little silver pin. Elizabeth looked at it with incredulous delight.

"For me!" she said again. "O Olga, did you really make this for me?"

Olga laughed. "Why not?"

"I—I can't find anything to say—I want to say so much," Elizabeth cried, her lips quivering.

Olga leaned over and kissed her. "I just enjoyed making it—for you," she said.

She was almost startled at the radiance in Elizabeth's eyes then. "It has been the loveliest day of all my life!" she whispered. "I——"

They were in Elizabeth's little room, and now hurried footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Sadie pushed open the door.

"That yours?" she demanded, her sharp eyes on the pin.

Elizabeth held it towards her with a happy smile. "Olga made it for me. Isn't it lovely?"

Sadie did not answer, but plumped herself down on the narrow cot. When Olga had gone, Sadie still sat there, her black eyes cold and unfriendly. "Don't see why you lugged Olga up here," she began.

"She asked me to."

"Humph!" Sadie grunted.

"Sadie," Elizabeth said, gently, "what is the matter? Have I done anything you don't like?"

"I didn't say so."

"No, but you've been different to me lately, and I don't know why. You were so nice a few weeks ago—you don't know how glad it made me. I hoped we were going to be real sisters, but now," she drew a long sorrowful breath, "it is as it used to be."

Sadie, swinging one foot, gnawed at a fingernail. Finally, "I helped you start the cake-making," she reminded.

"I know—I never forget it," Elizabeth said warmly.

"You've made a lot of money——"

"It seems a lot to me—forty-seven dollars—just think of it! I haven't spent any except for materials."

"And you'll make more."

"Yes, but Mr. Burchell says cakes don't sell after it gets hot. He won't want any after May."

"That's four or five weeks longer. You'll have enough to get you heaps of fine clothes," Sadie flung out enviously, with one of her needle-sharp glances.

"O—clothes!" returned Elizabeth slightingly. "I suppose I must have a few—shoes, and a plain hat and a blue serge skirt, and some blouses—they won't cost much."

"Then what are you going to do with all that money?" Sadie blurted out the question impatiently.

Elizabeth smiled into the frowning face—a beautiful happy smile—as she answered gently, "I'll tell you, Sadie. I've been longing to tell you only—only you've held me off so lately. I'm going to send two girls to Camp Nepahwin for three weeks in August. I'm one of the girls and—you are the other."

For once in her life Sadie Page was genuinely astonished and genuinely ashamed. For a long moment she sat quite still, the colour slowly mounting in her face until it flamed. Then, all the sharpness gone from her voice, she stammered, "I—I—Elizabeth, I never thought of such a thing as you paying for me. I—think you're real good!" and she was gone.

Elizabeth looked after her with a smile, all the shadows gone from her blue eyes.

One hot evening a week later, Elizabeth and Sadie met Lizette at Olga's door. She silently led the way to her own room.

"Olga's sick," she said, dropping wearily down on the bed.

"What's the matter?" Sadie demanded before Elizabeth could speak.

"It's a fever. The doctor can't tell yet whether it's typhoid or malarial, but she's very sick. The doctor has sent a nurse to take care of her."

"I wish I could help take care of her," Elizabeth said earnestly.

"Well, you can't!" Sadie snapped out. "And, anyhow, she doesn't need you if she has a nurse."

"But the nurse must sleep sometimes—I could help then. O Lizette, ask Olga to let me," Elizabeth pleaded.

"She won't." Lizette shook her head. "Much as ever she'll let me do anything. I get the meals for the nurse—Olga takes only milk. The nurse says she can do with only four hours' sleep, and I can see to Olga that little time."

"No," Elizabeth said decidedly, "no, Lizette, you have your work at the shop and the cooking. You mustn't do more than that. I can come after supper—at eight o'clock—and stay till twelve——"

"You couldn't go home all alone at midnight—you know you couldn't," Sadie interrupted.

"I needn't to. I could sleep in a chair till morning."

"As to that, you could sleep on the nurse's cot, I guess," Lizette admitted. "Well, if Olga will let you—I'll ask her."

But as she started up Elizabeth gently pushed her back. "No, don't ask her. I'll just come to-morrow night, anyway."

"Let it go so, then," Lizette answered. "Maybe it will be best, for I'm pretty well tired out myself with the heat, and worrying over Olga, and all. I knew she was overworking but I couldn't help it."

On the way home Elizabeth was silent until Sadie broke out gloomily, "I s'pose if she don't get better you won't go to the camp, 'Lizabeth."

"O, no, I couldn't go away and leave her sick—of course, I couldn't."

"Huh!" growled Sadie. "You don't think about me, only just about Olga, and she isn't your sister."

At another time Elizabeth would have smiled at this belated claim of relationship, but now she said only, "Olga has been so good to me, Sadie—I never can forget it—and now when I have a chance to do a little for her, I'm so glad to do it! I couldn't enjoy the camp if I left her here sick, but it won't make any difference to you. You can go just the same."

Sadie's face cleared at that. "We-ell," she agreed, "I might just as well go. I couldn't do anything much for Olga if I stayed; and maybe, anyhow, she'll get well before the tenth. I'm most sure she will."

"O, I hope so," Elizabeth sighed, but she was not thinking of the camp.

Anxious weeks followed, for Olga was very sick. Day after day the fever held her in restless misery, and when at last it yielded to the treatment, it left her weak and worn—the shadow of her former self.

Then one morning Miss Laura came, and carried her and the nurse off to the yacht, and there followed quiet, restful, beautiful days for Olga—such days as she had never dreamed of. Judge Haven and Jim, and Jo Barton were on the yacht, but she saw little of any one except Miss Laura and the nurse, and day by day strength came back to her body as the joy of life flooded her soul.

One night sitting on deck in the moonlight, she said suddenly, "Miss Laura, I'm glad of this sickness."

"Why?"

"Because I've learned a big lesson. I've learned why Camp Fire Girls must 'Hold on to health.' I didn't know before, else I would not have been so careless—so wicked. I see now that it was all my own fault. I should not have been sick if I had taken care of myself—if I had held on to my health as you tried so hard to make me do."

"Yes, dear, you had to have a hard lesson because you had always had such splendid health that you didn't know what it would mean to lose it."

"Yes," Olga agreed, "I didn't believe that I could get sick—I was so strong. And down in my heart I really half believed that people need not be sick—that it was mostly imagination. I shall not be so uncharitable after this."

"Girls need not be sick many times when they are," Laura said, "if they would be more careful and reasonable."

"I know. I won't go with wet feet any more," Olga promised, "and I won't work fourteen hours a day and go without eating, as I've been doing this summer. You see, Miss Laura, when I got the order for all that silver work, I knew that if I could fill it satisfactorily, it would mean many other orders. And I did—I finished the last piece the day I was taken sick. But now the money I got for it will go to the doctor and the nurse, and I've lost all this time and other work. And that isn't all. My sickness made it harder for Lizette and Elizabeth. I can't forgive myself for that. They were so good to me, and so were all the Camp Fire Girls! Every single one of them came to see me, some of them many times, and they brought so many things, and all wanted to stay and help—O, they are the dearest girls!"

Laura's eyes searched the eyes of the other in the moonlight.

"Olga, are you happy?" she asked softly.

Olga caught her breath and for a moment was silent. When she spoke there was wonder and a great joy in her voice. "O, I am—I am!" she said. "And—and I believe I have been for a long time, but I never realised it till this minute. I didn't want to be happy—I didn't mean to be—after mother died. I shut my heart tight and wouldn't see anything pleasant or happy in all my world. It was so when I went to the camp last year. I went just to please Miss Grandis because she had gotten me into the Arts and Crafts work, and though I wanted to refuse, I couldn't, when she asked me to go. But I'm so glad now that I went—so glad! Just think if I had not gone, and had never known you and Elizabeth, and Lizette, and the others! Miss Laura, I can't ever be half glad enough for all that the Camp Fire has done for me."

"You will pay it all back—to others, Olga," Laura said gently, her eyes shining. "When I made you my Torch Bearer, you did not realise the importance of holding on to health, nor the duty as well as privilege of being happy. Now you do."

"O, I do—I do!" the girl cried earnestly.

"So now my Torch Bearer is ready to lead others."

"I'll be glad to do it now. I want to 'pass on' all that you and the girls have done for me. It will take a lifetime to do it, though. And—I'm not half good enough for a Torch Bearer, Miss Laura."

"If you thought you were good enough I shouldn't want you to be one," Laura answered.



XVI

CAMP FIRE GIRLS AND THE FLAG

Miss Laura's girls had been at the camp a few days when Sadie Page one morning raced breathlessly up to a group of them, crying out, "There's a big white yacht coming—I saw it from the Lookout. Do you s'pose it's Judge Haven's?"

"Won't it be splendid if it is—if it's bringing Miss Laura and Olga!" Frances Chapin cried. "Could you see the name, Sadie?"

"No, it was too far off."

"Let's borrow Miss Anne's glass," cried two or three voices, and Frances ran off in search of Anne Wentworth. When she returned with the glass, they all rushed over to the Lookout. The yacht was just dropping anchor as they turned the glass upon it and Frances cried out,

"O, it is—it is! I can read the name easily. Here, look!" she surrendered the glass to Elsie.

"It is the Sea Gull," Elsie confirmed her, "and they are lowering a boat already."

"O, tell us if Miss Laura gets into it, and Olga," cried Lizette.

"Two men—sailors, I suppose, two girls, and two boys," Elsie announced.

"Then it's Miss Laura and Olga and Jim and Jo Barton," Frances cried joyfully.



"Let's hurry down to the landing to meet them," Mary Hastings proposed, and instantly the whole group turned and raced back to camp to leave the glass, with the joyous announcement, "Miss Laura's coming, and Olga. We're going to the landing to meet them." And waiting for no response they sped through the pines to the landing-steps, Elsie snatching up a flag as she passed her own tent.

"Let's all go," one of the other girls cried, but Miss Anne said,

"No, let Miss Laura's girls have the first greeting—they all love her so! But we might go to the Lookout and wave her a welcome from there."

"What shall we wave?" some one asked, and another cried, "O, towels, handkerchiefs—anything. But hurry!" and they did, reaching the Lookout breathless and laughing, to see the yacht resting like a great bird on the blue water, and the small boat already nearing the point.

"Get your breath, girls, then—the wohelo cheer," said Miss Anne.

Two score young voices followed her lead, and as they chanted, the white banners fluttered in the breeze. Instantly there came a response from the boat in fluttering handkerchiefs and waving caps, while the girls below on the landing echoed back the wohelo greeting.

But when the boat rounded the point the voices of those on the landing wavered into silence. They were too glad to sing as they saw Laura and Olga coming back to them—they could only wait in silence. Lizette's lips were quivering nervously and Elizabeth's blue eyes were full of happy tears. Even Sadie for once was silent, but she waved her handkerchief frantically to the two boys who were gaily swinging their caps. When the boat reached the landing, however, and the girls crowded about Laura and Olga, tongues were loosened, and everybody talked.

"How well Olga looks!" Mary cried.

"Doesn't she? I'm so proud of her for gaining so fast!" Laura laughed.

"I couldn't help gaining with all she has done for me," Olga said with a grateful glance.

"And you've come to stay? Do say you have, Miss Laura," the girls begged.

"Of course, we're going to stay—we've been homesick for the camp," Laura answered.

"That's splendid. We've missed you so!" they cried.

"The camp's fine. I'm having the time of my life!" Sadie declared, and added, "Elizabeth, you haven't said one word."

"She doesn't need to," Olga put in quickly, her hand on Elizabeth's shoulder.

They were climbing the steps now, and at the camp they were greeted with another song of welcome from the Guardians and the rest of the girls, and then Laura put Olga into the most comfortable hammock to rest and, leaving Elizabeth beside her, carried the others off for a talk.

That night the supper was a festival. The girls had gathered masses of purple asters with which they had filled every available dish to decorate the tables, the mantelpiece, and even the tents where the newcomers were to sleep. Miss Anne had brought to camp a big box of tiny tapers, and these stuck in yellow apples made a glow of light along the tables.

Nobody appreciated all this more than Jim. With his hands in his pockets he stood looking about admiringly, and finally expressed his opinion thus: "Gee, but it's pretty! Camp Fire Girls beat the Scouts some ways, if they ain't so patriotic."

Instantly there was an outburst of reproach and denial from Miss Laura's girls.

"O, come, Jim, that's not fair!"

"We're just as patriotic as the Scouts!"

"Boy Scouts can't hold a candle to Camp Fire Girls any way!"

"We'll put you out if you go back on Camp Fire Girls, Jim."

Jim, flushed and a little bewildered at the storm he had raised, instinctively sidled towards Laura, while Jo, close behind him, chuckled, "Started a hornets' nest that time, ol' feller."

Laura, her arm about the boy's shoulders, quickly interposed. "We'll let Jim explain another time. I know he thinks Camp Fire Girls are the nicest girls there are, don't you, Jim?"

"Sure!" Jim assented hastily, and peace was restored—for the time.

But the girls did not forget nor allow Jim to. The next night after supper they swooped down on him.

"Now tell us, Jim," Lena Barton began, "why you think Boy Scoots are more patriotic than we are."

"'Tisn't Boy Scoots—you know it isn't," Jim countered, flushing.

"O, excuse me." Lena bowed politely. "I only had one letter wrong, and, anyhow, they do scoot, don't they? Well, Boy Scouts then, if you like that better."

"They love the flag better'n you do—lots better!" Jim declared with conviction.

"Prove it! Prove it!" cried half a dozen voices.

"Er—er——" Jim choked and stammered, searching desperately for words. "You've got an awful nice Camp Fire room at Miss Laura's, but you haven't even a little teeny flag in it, and Scouts always have a flag in their rooms—don't they, Jo?" he ended in triumph.

"You bet they do!" Jo stoutly supported his friend.

"Ho! That doesn't prove anything. Besides, we'll have a flag when we go back," Lena asserted promptly.

"Well, anyhow, girls an' women can't fight for the flag, so of course, they can't be so patriotic," Jim declared.

"Can't, eh? How about the women that go to nurse the wounded men?" said Mary.

"And the women that send their husbands and sons to fight?" added Elsie.

"And how about——" began another girl, but Laura's hand falling lightly on her lips, cut short the question, and then Laura dropped down on the grass pulling Jim down beside her. Holding his hand in both hers, and softly patting it, she said, "Sit down, girls, and we'll talk this matter over. Jim's hardly big enough or old enough to face you all at once. But, honestly, don't you think there is some truth in what he says? As Camp Fire Girls, do we think as much about patriotism as the Scouts do? Elsie, you have a Scout brother, what do you think about it?"

Elsie laughed but flushed a little too as she answered, "I hate to admit it, but I don't think we do."

"Time we did then. We can't have any Boy Scouts getting ahead of us," Lena declared emphatically.

Jim, gathering courage from Miss Laura's championship, looked up with a mischievous smile. "Bet you can't tell about the stars and stripes in the flag," he said.

"Can you? How many can?" Miss Laura looked about the group. "Elsie, Frances—and Mary—I see you can, and nobody else is sure. How does it happen?" There was a twinkle now in her eyes. "Is there any special reason for you three being better posted than the others?"

The three girls exchanged smiling glances, and Elsie admitted reluctantly, "I think there is—a Boy Scout reason—isn't there, Mary?" and as Mary Hastings nodded, Elsie went on, "You know my brother Jack is the most loyal of Scouts, and before he was old enough to be one, he had learned all the things that a boy has to know to join—and to describe the flag is one of those things. He discovered one day that I didn't know how many stars there are on it and how they are arranged, and he was so dreadfully distressed and mortified at my ignorance that I had to take a flag lesson from him on the spot—and it was a thorough one."

"Uh huh!" Jim triumphed under his breath, but the girls heard and there was a shout of laughter. Over the boy's head Laura's laughing eyes swept the group.

"Jim," she said, "will you ask Miss Anne to lend us her flag for a few minutes?"

"Won't ours do? Jo'n' I've got one," Jim cried instantly, and as Miss Laura nodded, he scampered off.

"I think Jim has won, girls," she said, and then the laughter dying out of her eyes, added gravely, "Really I quite agree with him. I think we—I mean our own Camp Fire—have not given as much thought to patriotism as we ought. There have been so many things for us to talk about and work for! But we'll learn the flag to-day, and when we go home, it may be well for us to arrange a sort of 'course' in patriotism for the coming year. Of all girls in America, those who live in Washington ought to be the most interested in their own country. We will all be more patriotic—better Americans—a year from now."

Jim came running back with a small silk flag. He held it up proudly for the inspection of the girls, and it was safe to say that they would all remember that brief object lesson. It was Lena whose eyes lingered longest on the boy's eager face as he looked at the flag.

"He does—he really loves it," she said wonderingly to Elsie standing beside her. "He's right. We girls don't care for it that way—honest we don't."

"Maybe not just for the flag," Elsie admitted, "but we care just as much as boys do for our country. Don't you think we do, Miss Laura?"

"I'm not sure, Elsie. You see many boys look forward to a soldier's life, and most of them feel that they may some time have to fight for their flag—their country—and so perhaps they think more about it than girls do. And patriotism is made prominent among the Scouts."

"They always salute the flag wherever they see it," Mary said.

"Must keep 'em busy in Washington," Lena observed.

"It does. Jim is forever saluting it when he is out with me," Laura replied, "but he never seems to tire of it, and I like to see him do it."

"The girls salute it in the schools—you know we have Flag Day every year," Frances added.

"Yes, and it is a good thing. There is no danger of any of us caring too much for our country or the flag that represents it. When I catch sight of our flag in a foreign land I always want to kiss it."

"Can't we have one in our Camp Fire room when we go back?" Lena asked.

"We surely will. I'm really quite ashamed of myself for not having one long ago. We owe something—do we not?—to a going-to-be Boy Scout for reminding us?" Laura said.

They admitted that they did. "But, anyhow," Frances Chapin added, "even if they do think more about the flag, I won't admit that Scouts love their country any more than we Camp Fire Girls do. We are quite as patriotic as any Boy Scouts."

"And that's right!" Lena flung out as the group separated.



XVII

SONIA

"O dear, I did hope it wouldn't be awfully hot when we got back, but it is," Lizette Stone sighed on the day they returned from camp. "Just think of the breeze on the Lookout this very minute!"

Olga glanced over her shoulder with a smile as she threw open her door. "Let's pretend it's cool here too," she said. "I'm so thankful to be well and strong again that I'm determined to be satisfied with things as they are. The camp was lovely and Miss Laura and the girls were dear, but this is home, and my work is waiting for me, and I'm able to do it. And you have your lovely work too, Lizette, and your home corner across the hall."

Lizette looked at her half wondering, half envious, as she slowly pulled out her hatpins. "I never knew a fever to change a girl as that one changed you, Olga Priest," she said.

"Is the change for the better?"

"Yes, it is, but——"

"But what?" Olga questioned, half laughing, yet a little curious too.



"Well—all is, I can't keep up with you," Lizette dropped unconsciously into one of her country phrasings. "I can't help getting into the doleful dumps sometimes, and I can't—I just can't be happy and contented with the mercury at ninety-three. I guess it's easier for some folks to stand the heat than it is for others."

"I think it is," Olga admitted. "Give me your hat. Now take that fan and sit there by the window till I come back. I'm not so tired as you are, and I must get something for our supper."

While she was gone Lizette sat thinking of the Camp with its shady woods and blue water and wishing herself back there. She had had three weeks there, but a hateful little imp was whispering in her ear that some of the girls were staying four or five weeks, and it wasn't fair—it wasn't fair! Of course it was better to earn her living doing embroidery than in Goldstein's store, but still, some girls didn't have to earn their living at all, and——

The door opened and Olga came breezily in, her hands full of bundles. "I really ought to have taken a basket," she said. "There's the nicest little home bakery opened just around the corner—I got bread there."

"I'm not a bit hungry," Lizette said listlessly, then started up, crying out, "Well, I am ashamed of myself! I meant to have the table set when you came back, and I forgot all about it."

"Never mind—I'll have it ready in a minute. Sit still, Lizette."

But Lizette insisted upon helping, and her face brightened as Olga set forth fresh bread, nut cakes, ice cold milk, and a dish of sliced peaches.

"Weren't you mistaken?" Olga asked with a laugh. "Aren't you a little bit hungry?"

"Yes, I am. How good that bread looks—and the peaches."

"After all it is rather nice to be back here at our own little table, isn't it?" Olga asked as they lingered over the meal.

Lizette looked at her curiously. "Olga Priest, what makes you so happy to-night?" she demanded. "I never saw you so before."

"Maybe not quite so happy, but wasn't I happy all the time at camp? Wasn't I, Lizette?"

"Yes—yes, you were, only I didn't notice it so much there with all the girls, and something always going on. You never were so here before. Sometimes you wouldn't smile for days at a time."

"I know. I hadn't realised then that I could be happy if I'd let myself be—and that I had no right not to."

"No right not to," Lizette echoed with a puzzled frown. "I don't see that. I should think anybody might have the privilege of being blue if she likes."

"No." Olga shook her head with decision. "No, not when she has health, and work that she likes, and friends. A girl has no right to be unhappy under those conditions—and I've found it out at last. I'm going to keep my Camp Fire promises now as I never have done."

After a little silence she went on, "I've such beautiful plans for our Camp Fire this year! One of them is to learn all we can about our country. We can't have Jim," laughter flashed into her eyes as she thought of him, "thinking us less patriotic than his beloved Scouts. And we can see and learn so much right here in Washington! I'm ashamed to think how little I know about this beautiful city where I've lived all my life. I mean to 'know my Washington' thoroughly before I'm a year older."

Lizette did not seem much interested in patriotism, but she laughed over the remembrance of the indignation of the girls at Jim's remark about their lack of it. "He did look so plucky, facing us all that day, didn't he!" she said. "And he was scared too at the rumpus he had raised; but all the same he didn't back down."

"No, Jim wouldn't back down if he thought he was right no matter how scared he might be inside."

"Well," Lizette yawned, "I'm so sleepy I can hardly hold my eyes open. Let's wash the dishes and then I'm going straight to bed."

She came in to breakfast the next morning in a different mood.

"Didn't we have a glorious rain in the night!" she cried gaily. "And it left a lovely cool breeze behind it. Last night I felt like a wet rag, but this morning I'm a different creature. It is good to be 'home' again, Olga, and I don't mind going back to the shop."

"That's good!" Olga's eyes were shining as they had shone the night before.

The two set off together after breakfast, and wished each other good luck as they parted at the door of Miss Bayly's shop. Lizette came back at night jubilant. "I got my good luck, Olga," she cried. "I'm to have eight a week now. Isn't that fine?"

"Indeed it is—congratulations, Lizette. And I had my good luck too—better than I dared hope for—two splendid orders. Now we can both settle down to work and get a nice start before the next Camp Fire meeting. I'm going to try to keep half a day a week free for our 'learning Washington' trips."

"Personally conducted?" Lizette laughed.

"Personally conducted. Your company is solicited, Miss Stone, whenever your other engagements will permit."

Over the tea-table they talked of work and Camp Fire plans, and then Lizette went off to her own "corner" and Olga took up a book. She had been reading for an hour when her quick ears caught the sound of hesitating steps outside her door—steps that seemed to linger uncertainly. Thinking that some stranger might have wandered in from the street, she rose and quietly slipped her bolt. As she did so there came a knock at the door. She stood still, listening intently. No one ever came to her door except the landlady or the Camp Fire Girls, and none of them would knock in this hesitating fashion. She was not in the least timid, and when the knock was repeated she opened the door. She found herself facing a woman, young, in a soiled and wrinkled dress and shabby hat, and carrying a baby in her arms.

"Olga—it is Olga?" the woman exclaimed half doubtfully.

Olga did not answer. She stood staring into the woman's face and suddenly her own whitened and her eyes widened with dismay.

"You?" she said under her breath. "You!"

"Yes, I—Sonia. Aren't you going to let me in?"

For an instant Olga hesitated, then she stood aside, but in that moment all the happy hopefulness seemed to melt out of her heart. It was as if a black shadow of disaster had entered the quiet room at the heels of the draggled woman and her child.

"This is a warm welcome, I must say, to your own sister," Sonia said in a querulous tone, as she dropped into the easiest chair and laid the child across her knees. It made no sound, but lay as it was placed, its eyes half closed and its tiny face pinched and colourless.

"I—I can't realise that it is really—you," Olga said. "Where did you come from, and how did you find me?"

"I came from—many places. As to finding you—that was easy. You are not so far from the old neighbourhood where I left you."

"Yes—you left me," Olga echoed slowly, her face dark with the old sombre gloom. "You left me, a child of thirteen, with no money, and mother—dying!"

"I suppose it was rather hard on you, but you were always a plucky one, and I knew well enough you would pull through somehow. As to mother, of course I didn't know—she'd been ailing so long," Sonia defended herself, "and Dick wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. I had to go with him."

Olga was silent, but in her heart a fierce battle was raging. She knew her sister—knew her selfish disregard of the rights or wishes of others, and she realised that much might depend on what was said now.

"Well?" Sonia questioned, breaking the silence abruptly.

Olga drew a long weary breath. "I—I can't think, Sonia," she said. "You have taken me so by surprise. I don't know what to say."

"I suppose you're not going to turn us into the street to-night—the baby and me?"

"Of course not," Olga answered, and added, "Is the baby sick?"

Sonia's eyes rested for a moment on the small pallid face, but there was no softening in them when she looked up again. "She's never been well. The first one died—the boy. This one cried day and night for weeks after she came. Dick couldn't stand it, and no wonder. That's the reason he cleared out—one reason."

"His own child!" cried Olga indignantly, and as she looked at the pitiful white face her heart warmed towards the little creature, She held out her hands. "Let me take her."

Sonia promptly transferred the baby to her sister's arms, and rising, crossed to the small sleeping-room.

"You're pretty well fixed here, with two rooms," she remarked.

"It's hardly more than one—the bedroom is so small."

"What do you do for a living?" Sonia demanded.

Olga told her.

"Hm. Any money in it?"

"I make a living, but I had a long sickness last summer and it took all I had and more to pay the bills."

"O well," replied Sonia carelessly, "you'll earn more. You look well enough now." She stretched her arms and yawned. "I'm dead tired. How about sleeping? That single bed won't hold the three of us."

"You can sleep there—I'll sleep on the floor to-night. There's no other way," Olga answered.

"All right then. I'll get to bed in a hurry," and taking the child from her sister, Sonia undressed it as carelessly as if it had been a doll. The baby half opened its heavy eyes and whimpered a little, but did not really awaken.

When Sonia and the child were in bed, Olga went across to Lizette's room. Lizette's welcoming smile vanished at sight of the stern set face, and she drew Olga quickly in and shut the door.

"O, what is it? What has happened, Olga?" she cried anxiously.

"My sister has come with her baby. I don't know how long she will stay." Olga spoke in a dull lifeless voice. "I came to tell you, so that you could get your breakfast somewhere else. You wouldn't enjoy having it with me—now."

"O Olga, I'm so sorry—so sorry!" Lizette cried, her hands on her friend's shoulders, her voice full of warm sympathy.

"I know, Lizette," Olga answered, a quivering smile stirring for an instant the old hard line of her set lips. Then she turned away, forgetting to say good-night. When the door closed behind her, Lizette's eyes were full of tears.

"O, it's a shame—a shame!" she said aloud. "To think how happy she was only last night, and now—now she looks as she did a year ago before Elizabeth went to the camp. O, I wonder why that sister had to come back!"

Lizette lay awake long that night, her heart full of sympathy for her friend, and Olga, lying on her hard bed on the floor, did not sleep at all. She went out early to the market, and coming back, prepared breakfast, but when she called her sister, Sonia answered drowsily:

"I'm too tired to get up, Olga. Bring me some coffee and toast here, will you?"

Olga carried her a tray, and Sonia ate and drank and then turned over and went to sleep again, and Olga, having washed the dishes, went off to the school. All day she worked steadily, forcing back the thoughts that crowded continually into her mind; but when she turned homewards the dark thoughts swooped down upon her like a flock of ravens, blotting out all her happy hopes and joyous plans, for she knew—only too well she knew—what she had to expect if Sonia remained.

"Well, you've come at last!" was her sister's greeting. "I hope you've brought something nice for supper. I'm nearly starved. And you didn't leave half enough milk for the baby."

"I left plenty for your dinner," Olga answered, "and I thought you could get more milk for the baby if you wanted it."

"Get more! How could I get it without money? And you didn't leave me a penny," Sonia complained.

Olga brought out a bottle of malted milk. "That will do for to-night, won't it?" she said, trying to speak cheerfully.

"I don't know anything about this stuff." Sonia was reading the label with a scowl. "You'll have to fix it; and do hurry, for she's been fretting for an hour."

Without a word, Olga prepared the food and handed it to her sister; then she set about getting supper; but when it was ready she felt suddenly too tired to eat. Sonia ate heartily, however, remarking with a glance at Olga's empty plate, "I suppose you got a good dinner down town."

"I haven't eaten a mouthful since breakfast," Olga told her wearily.

"O well," Sonia returned, "some folks don't need much food, but I do. If I don't have three solid meals a day I'm not fit for anything." Then looking at the baby lying on a pillow in a chair beside her, she added, "Really she seems to like that malted stuff. You'd better bring back another bottle to-morrow. There isn't much left in this one."

"Isn't that my dress you have on?" Olga asked suddenly.

"Yes, I had to have something fresh—mine was so mussed and dirty," Sonia replied lightly. "Lucky for me we're about the same size."

"But not lucky for me," was Olga's thought.

For a week things went on so—Sonia occasionally offering to wash the dishes, but leaving her sister to do everything else. Then one night Olga found her best suit in a heap on the closet floor. Picking it up she spoke sharply. "Sonia, have you been wearing this suit of mine?"

"Well, what if I have? You needn't look so savage about it!" Sonia retorted. "I have to have something decent to wear on the street, don't I?"

"Not if you have nothing decent of your own," Olga flashed back. "Sonia, you have no right to wear my things so—without asking!"

With a provoking smile Sonia responded, "I knew better than to ask. I knew you'd make a fuss about it. If you don't want me to wear your clothes why don't you give me money to buy something decent for myself? Then I wouldn't need to borrow."

Olga's thoughts were in such an angry whirl that for a moment she dared not trust herself to speak. She shook out the suit and hung it up, then she went slowly across the room and sat down facing her sister.

"Sonia," she began, "we can't go on in this way—I cannot endure it. Now let us have a plain understanding. You came here of your own choice—not on my invitation. What are your plans? Do you mean to stay on here indefinitely?"

"Why, of course. Where else should I stay?"

"Then," said Olga decidedly, "you must help pay our expenses. You are well and strong. Why should you expect me to support you?"

"Why? Because you have a trade and I have not, for one reason. And besides, there's the baby—I can't leave her to go out to work." There was a note of triumph in Sonia's voice.

"You could get work to do at home—sewing, embroidery, knitting—or something."

"'Or something!'" There was fretful impatience now in Sonia's tone. "I hate sewing—any kind of sewing. You know I always did."

"Then what will you do?"

Sonia sat looking down in sulky silence at the baby.

Olga went on, "If there is no work you can do at home, you must find something outside. You can go into a store as you did before you were married."

"And I guess," Sonia broke out angrily, "if you'd ever stood behind a counter from eight in the morning to six at night, you'd know how nice that is! You earn enough. I think it's real mean and stingy of you to grudge a share of it to this poor sick baby—and me. I do so!"

"I don't grudge anything to the baby, Sonia, though I do think it is your business to provide for her, not mine. But I say again it is not right for me to have to support you, and I am not willing to do it. It is best to speak plainly once for all."

"Well, I should say you were speaking plainly," Sonia flung out with an unpleasant smile. She rocked with a quick motion, her brows drawn into a frown. "How can I go into a store, even if I could get a place? I couldn't take the baby with me," she muttered.

"I could bring my work home—most of it—and you could leave the baby with me."

"Ah ha! I knew it. I knew you could do your work here if you wanted to," Sonia triumphed, pointing to the bench in the corner. "You just don't want to stay here with me." Olga made no denial and her sister went on in a complaining tone, "Anyhow I'd like to know how I'm going to get a place anywhere when I've no decent clothes. You know it makes all the difference how one is dressed."

"That is true," Olga admitted, "but, Sonia, I cannot buy you a suit. I haven't the money."

"You could borrow it."

Olga's face flushed. "I've never borrowed a cent in my life or bought anything on credit, except—mother's coffin," she said passionately. "And I did night work till I paid for that. I cannot run in debt. I will not!"

Sonia shrugged her shoulders. "Well then, if you want me to get a place, you'll just have to let me wear that suit of yours that you are so choice of."

Olga was silent. It was true that Sonia's chance of securing employment would be small if she sought it in the shabby clothes which she had. But Olga needed that suit. The money which would have bought a new one had paid her doctor's bill. Still—the important thing was to get Sonia to work. "I suppose," she said slowly, "I shall have to let you wear it, but, Sonia, you must realise how it is, and do your best to find a place soon. Will you do that?"

"Why, of course," returned Sonia with the light laugh that always irritated her sister. "You don't suppose I like being dependent on you, do you?"

"I don't think you'd mind, if I would give you money whenever you want it."

Again Sonia laughed. "But that's not imaginable, you know," she answered airily. "It's like drawing eyeteeth to get a dollar out of you. You're a perfect miser, Olga Priest."

Olga let that pass. "I had intended to keep my suit in Lizette's closet after this, but I will leave it here if you will promise to begin to-morrow to look for work. Will you promise?"

"You certainly are the limit!" Sonia cried impatiently. "I believe you grudge me every mouthful I eat, and the baby her milk too—poor little soul!" She caught up the baby and kissed it.

"Will you promise, Sonia?" Olga repeated.

Sonia dropped the baby on her lap again. "Of course I promise. I told you so before. Now for pity's sake give me a little peace!" she exclaimed.



XVIII

THE TORCH UPLIFTED

So the next day Olga brought home her work, and Sonia, wearing not only her sister's best suit but her hat, shoes, and gloves as well, set off down town. She departed with a distinctly holiday air, tossing from the doorway a kiss to the baby and a good-bye to Olga. But Olga cherished small hope of her success. She felt no confidence in her sister's sincerity, and did not believe that she really wanted to find work.

For once the baby was awake—usually she seemed half asleep, lying where she was put, and only stirring occasionally with weak whimpering cries. But this morning the blue eyes were open, and Olga stopped beside the chair in which the baby was lying and looked down at the small face, so pathetically grave and quiet.

"You poor little mortal," she said, "I wonder what life holds for you—if you live. I almost hope you won't, for it doesn't seem as if there's much chance for you."

The solemn blue eyes stared up at her as if the baby too were wondering what chance there was for her. Olga laid her face for a moment against one little white cheek; then pulling out her bench she set to work.

At twelve o'clock Sonia came back. "O dear!" she exclaimed with a swift glance around the room, "I hoped you'd have dinner ready, Olga. I'm tired to death."

Without a word Olga put aside her work and went to the gas stove. Sonia pulled off her shoes—Olga's shoes—and took off Olga's hat, and rocked until the meal was ready.

"What luck did you have?" Olga inquired when they were at the table.

"Not a bit. I tell you, Olga, you're a mighty lucky girl to have that work to do." She nodded towards the bench.

Olga ignored that. "Where did you try?" she asked.

"Well, I tried at Woodward & Lothrop's." Sonia's tone was distinctly sulky. "They hadn't any vacancy—or anyhow they said so."

"They always have a long waiting-list, I know. Did you leave your name?"

"No, I didn't. What was the use with scores ahead of me?"

"And where else did you try?"

"I didn't try anywhere else!" Sonia said with a defiant lift of her chin. "You needn't think, Olga, that you can drive me like a slave just because I am staying with you. I'm going to take my time about this business, and don't you forget it!"

Olga waited until she could speak quietly; then she said, "Sonia, there is one thing you've got to understand. I must have peace. I cannot do my work if there is to be discord and friction all the time between you and me."

"It's your own fault," Sonia retorted. "I'm peaceful enough if I'm let alone. I let you alone."

"But, Sonia, don't you see that we can't go on this way?" Olga pleaded. "Don't you feel that you ought to pay half our expenses if you stay with me?"

"No, I don't. Why should I pay half?" Sonia demanded. "Your rent is no higher because I am here."

"No, but I have to sleep on the floor, and it is not very restful as you would find if you tried it once."

"Well, why don't you buy a cot then? You could get one for two dollars."

"I need the two dollars for other things," Olga answered wearily. "Do you mean, Sonia, that you are not going to look for a place anywhere else?"

"O, I'll look—but I won't be hurried about it," Sonia declared moodily.

"Well," Olga spoke with deliberation, "if that is your attitude, there is but one thing for me to do, and that is to go away from here."

"Olga! You couldn't be that mean!" Sonia sat up straight and stared with startled eyes at the grave face opposite her.

"Think, Sonia," said Olga in a low voice, though her heart was beating furiously, "how it would seem to you if I should refuse to work and expect you to support me."

"That's different," Sonia muttered sullenly.

"How is it different?"

"Because you've got your work—I haven't any."

"But you might have if you would."

"Much you know about it! Did you ever try to find a place in a store?"

"When I was thirteen and you left mother and me"—Olga's voice was very low now, but it thrilled with bitter memories—"I walked the streets for three long days hunting for work, and I found it at last in a laundry where I stood from seven in the morning till six at night, with only fifteen minutes at noon. And I stayed there while mother lived, going back to her to care for her through those long dreadful nights of misery. That is what I know about hard work, Sonia!"

It was Sonia's turn now to be silent. There was something in Olga's white face and blazing eyes that stilled even her flippant tongue. For a moment her thoughts drifted back, and perhaps for the first time she fully realised what her going then had meant to the little sister upon whose shoulders she had left the heavy burden. But she banished these unpleasant memories with a shrug. "O well, all that's past and gone—no use in raking it up again," she declared.

"No, no use," Olga admitted. "But, Sonia, I want you to realise that I mean just what I say. You have come here of your own accord. If you stay you must share our expenses. If you will not, I surely shall go away, and leave you to pay all yourself."

Seeing that her sister was determined, Sonia suddenly melted into weak tears. "You are so hard, Olga!" she sobbed. "I don't believe you have any heart at all."

"Maybe not," was the grim response. "I've thought sometimes it was broken—or frozen—five years ago."

"You keep harking back to that!" Sonia moaned. "I'm not the first girl that has gone away with the man she loved. You have no sympathy—you make no allowances. And I didn't realise how sick mother was. If I had——"

"If you had," Olga interrupted, "you would have done exactly the same. But let that pass. Are you going to give me the promise that I ask?"

"What do you want me to promise?" Sonia evaded.

"I want you to promise that you will go out every week day and look for work—that you will keep trying until you do find it. Will you?"

"It seems I can't help myself." Sonia's voice was still sulky.

"Will you? I must have your promise," Olga insisted, and finally Sonia flung out an angry,

"Yes!"

Thereafter Olga worked at home and her sister went out morning or afternoon—sometimes both; but she found no position.

"They all want younger girls—chits of sixteen or seventeen," she complained, "or else those who have had large experience. They won't give me a chance."

Olga crowded down her doubts. Perhaps it was all true—perhaps Sonia really had honestly tried, but the doubts would return, for she felt that her sister was quite content to let things remain as they were as long as Olga made no further protest. But others were not content with things as they were. Elizabeth was not, nor Lizette. Laura met Lizette on the street one day and learned all that the girl could tell her of Olga's trouble.

"She's so changed!" Lizette said, her eyes filling. "When we came home she was so happy, and so full of plans for Camp Fire work, and now—now she takes no interest in it at all. She won't talk about it, or hardly listen when I talk."

"I must see her," Laura said. "I'll take you home now," and when they reached the house, Lizette ran eagerly up the stairs to give Miss Laura's message.

"I've come to invite you to another tea party—with Jim and me," Laura said when Olga appeared. "You will come—to-morrow night?"

"Thank you, but I can't," the girl answered gravely.

"Why can't you, Olga? I want you very much," Laura urged.

"My sister is with me now. I cannot leave her."

"But just this once—please, Olga."

Laura's eyes—warm, loving, compelling—looked into Olga's, dark, sombre, and miserable; and suddenly with a little gasping sob the girl yielded because she knew if she stood there another minute she would break down.

"I'll—come," she promised, and without another word turned and hurried back into the house.

Laura was half afraid that she would not keep her promise, but at six o'clock she appeared. Jim fell upon her with a gleeful welcome, and she tried to answer gaily, but the effort with which she did it was evident, and earlier than usual Laura took the boy off to bed.

"Something is troubling Olga," she whispered as she tucked him in, "and I'm going to try to find a way to help her."

"You will," he said confidently. "You're the best ever for helping folks," and he pulled her face down to give one of his rare kisses.

Laura, going back to the other room, drew the girl down beside her. "Now, child," she said, her voice full of tenderest persuasion, "let us talk over your problems and find the way out."

For a moment the old proud reserve held the girl, but it melted under the tender sympathy in the eyes looking into hers. She drew a long breath. "It seems somehow wrong to talk about it even to you," she said. "Sonia is my sister."

"I know, dear, but sisters are not always—sisters," Laura replied, "and you are very much alone in the world. I am more truly your sister—am I not, Olga—your elder sister who loves you and wants to help?"

"O yes, yes!" the girl cried. "But I've felt I must not tell any one—even you—and I've crowded it all down in my heart until——"

"Until you are worn out with the strain of it all," Laura said as Olga paused. "Now tell me the whole just as if I were your sister in very fact."

And Olga told it all, from Sonia's unexpected arrival that September night to the present—of the failure of her efforts to get her sister to do some kind of work, and of Sonia's constant demands for money and clothes.

"Do you think she has really tried to get a place in a store, Olga?"

"I don't know. She says she has, but I can't feel that she really wants to do anything, or that she will ever find a place as long as I let her stay on with me. Of course I could support her, though it would not be easy, for she is hard on clothes. She doesn't take care of them and she wears them out much faster than I do. She has almost worn out my best shoes already, and my gloves, as well as my hat and suit, and she uses my handkerchiefs and—and everything, just as if they were her own. I can't earn enough to clothe her and keep myself decent." She glanced down at the old serge skirt she wore. "Miss Laura, tell me—what shall I do? Would it be right for me to leave her? The continual fret and worry of it all are wearing me out."

"I know it, dear—that is why I felt you must come and talk it all over with me."

Olga went on, "It isn't only a matter of money—and clothes, but I have nothing left. If I go out evenings—even across to Lizette's room—she wants to go too, or else she goes off somewhere as soon as I am out of sight, and leaves the baby shut up all alone. That's why I can't go anywhere—not even to the Camp Fire meetings. And, O Miss Laura, I was so happy when I came back from camp—I had so many lovely plans for Camp Fire work! I did mean to be a good Torch Bearer—I did!"

"I know you did."

"And now it's all spoilt. I can't do a single bit of Camp Fire work," she ended sadly.

"Olga," Laura's arm was around the girl's shoulders, her voice very low and tender, "you say that now you cannot do a single bit of Camp Fire work?"

Olga looked up in surprise. "How can I—when I can't be with the girls at all, nor attend the meetings?"

"Do you know what I think is the best Camp Fire service the girls have done? It is the work in their own homes. Mrs. Bicknell says that Eva is getting to be a real comfort to her. She helps with the housework and the younger children as she never used to do, and her influence is making the younger ones so much easier to manage."

"But, Miss Laura, I don't see how that is Camp Fire work," Olga said.

"Don't you?" Very softly Laura repeated, "'Love is the joy of service so deep that self is forgotten.' And isn't the home the place above all others where Camp Fire Girls should render service?"

"I—never—thought of it—that way," Olga said very slowly.

"But isn't it so?" Laura persisted. "Think now."

"Yes—of course it is so. Miss Laura, it will—it will make it easier to think of it as Camp Fire service, for I did so hate to be out of it all—all the Camp Fire work, I mean. I'll try to think of it that way after this. And—and I guess there isn't any way out. I suppose I ought not to long so for a way out, if I am going to be a faithful Torch Bearer." She made a brave attempt to smile.

"There is a way out—I am sure of it, but we may not find it just at once. Meantime you have a great opportunity, Olga. Don't you see? It is easy to be happy as you were in August at the camp, when you were growing stronger every day, and had just begun to realise what Camp Fire might mean to you in your service for and with the girls, and their love for you. Once you had opened your heart, you could not help being happy. But now it is different. Now you must be happy not because of, but in spite of, circumstances. And so if you keep the law of the Camp Fire to give service—a service that it is very hard for you to give—and to be happy in spite of the trying things in your life—don't you see how much more your happiness will mean—how much deeper and stronger and finer it will be?"

"Yes, I see."

"And the girls will see too, Olga. You know how quick they are. You could not deceive them if you tried—Lena, Sadie, Louise Johnson—they will all be watching you—weighing you; and if they see that, in spite of the hard things, you are really and truly happy—that you have really found the 'joy in service so deep that self is forgotten'—don't you see how much stronger your influence over them will be—how immensely stronger?"

Slowly, thoughtfully, Olga nodded, her eyes on the glowing embers in the fireplace.

"So all these things that are making your life now so hard, are your great opportunity, dear," the low voice went on. "If in spite of all, you can hold high the torch of love and happiness, every girl in our Camp Fire will gladly follow her Torch Bearer."

Olga looked up, and now her eyes were shining. "You are the real Torch Bearer, Miss Laura!" she cried. "You have shown me the light to-night when I didn't think there was any."

"I've shown you how to keep your torch burning—that is all. Now you must hold it high to light the way for others; for you know, dear, there are others in our Camp Fire who are stumbling in dark and stony pathways, and we—you and I—must help them too, to find the lighted way."

"O, I'll try, Miss Laura, I will," Olga promised, and in her voice now there was determination as well as humility.



XIX

CLEAR SHINING AFTER DARKNESS

Sonia was an adept in thinking up remarks that carried a taunt or a sting, and she had one ready to greet her sister that night on her return; but as she looked up, she saw in Olga's face something that held back the provoking words trembling on her tongue. Instead she said, half enviously, "You look as if you'd had a fine time. What you been doing?"

"Nothing but having a firelight talk with Miss Laura. That always does me good."

"Hm!" returned Sonia. She wondered what kind of a talk it could have been to drive away the sullen gloom that had darkened her sister's face for days, and bring that strange shining look into her eyes. Sonia shrugged her shoulders. At least, Olga wouldn't hound her about finding work—not while she had that look in her eyes—and, with a mind at ease, Sonia went off to bed.

She went out the next morning, but came back in the middle of the afternoon in a gay mood. "I didn't find any place," she announced, "but I had a good dinner for once. I met—an old friend."

Something in her voice and her heightened colour awakened an indefinite suspicion in Olga's mind. "Who was it? Any one I know?" she asked.

Sonia made no reply. She had gone into the bedroom to put away her hat and jacket. When she came back she spoke of something else, but all that evening there was a curious air of repressed excitement about her.

"Oh, I forgot—the postman gave me a letter for you. It's in my bag," she exclaimed later, and bringing it from the other room, tossed it carelessly into her sister's lap.

Olga read it and handed it back. "It concerns you. O, I do hope you'll get the place," she said.

The note was from Miss Laura to say that the manager of one of the large department stores had promised to employ Sonia if she applied at once.

"Isn't that fine!" Olga cried.

"O—perhaps," Sonia returned with a chilling lack of enthusiasm.

"O Sonia, don't act so about it," Olga pleaded. "You know you must get something to do. You will go to-morrow and see the manager, won't you—after Miss Laura has taken so much trouble for you?"

"For me!" There was a sneer in Sonia's voice. "Much she cares for me. She did it for you—you know she did. You needn't pretend anything else."

"I don't pretend—anything," Olga said, the brightness dying out of her face.

In the morning she watched her sister with intense anxiety, but she dared not urge her further, and Sonia seemed possessed by some imp of perversity to do everything in her power to prolong Olga's suspense. She stayed in bed till the last minute, dawdled over her breakfast, insisted upon giving the baby her bath—a task which she usually left to her sister—and when at last she was ready to go out it was nearly noon.

"You'll have to give me money to get something to eat down town, Olga," she said then. "It will be noon by the time I get to that store, and I can't talk business on an empty stomach. I'd be sure to make a bad impression if I did. Half a dollar will do."

With a sigh Olga handed her the money. Sonia took it with a mocking little laugh, and was gone at last.

"O, I wonder—I wonder if she will really try to get the place," Olga said to herself as the door closed. She set to work then, but her restless anxiety affected her nerves and the work did not go well. The baby too fretted and required more attention than usual. As the day wore on Olga began to worry about the baby—her small face was so pinched, and the blue shadows under her eyes were more noticeable than usual; so it was with an exclamation of relief that, opening the door in response to a knock in the late afternoon, she saw the nurse who had taken care of her in the summer.

"O, I'm so glad it's you, Miss Kennan!" she cried. "Do come in and tell me what ails this baby."

"A baby! Whose is it?" the nurse asked; but as she looked at the child, she forgot her question. "The poor little soul!" she exclaimed. Then with a quick sharp glance at the girl, "What have you been giving it?"

"Giving it?" Olga echoed. "Why, nothing except her food."

"What kind of food—milk?"

"Milk, and this." Olga brought a bottle of the malted food.

"That's all right. Let me see some of the milk," the nurse ordered.

She looked at the milk, smelt it, tasted it. "That seems all right too," she declared. "And you've put nothing—no medicine of any sort—in her food?"

"Why, of course not."

"Do you prepare her food always?"

"Not always. Her mother—my sister—fixes it some times."

"Ah!" said the nurse.

"What do you mean, Miss Kennan? What is the matter with the baby?"

"She's been doped," answered the nurse shortly. "Soothing syrup or something probably, to keep her quiet. Sleeps a lot, doesn't she?"

"Yes. She never seems really awake. O Miss Kennan, I never knew——"

"I see. Well, you'll have to know now. Find out what has been given her, and fix all her food after this, yourself. Can you?"

"I don't know. I'll try to."

"If you don't, she won't need food much longer," said the nurse.

"O, how can any one be so wicked!" cried Olga.

"It isn't wickedness—it's ignorance mostly—laziness sometimes, when a mother doesn't want to be troubled with the care of a baby. Probably this one had an overdose this morning."

Olga stood silently thinking. Yes, Sonia had given the baby her bottle that morning, and always gave it to her at night. She went into the bedroom and searched the closet and the bed. Sonia usually made the bed. Under the pillow Olga found a bottle which she handed without a word, to the nurse. Miss Kennan nodded.

"That's it," she said briefly.

Opening the window Olga flung the bottle passionately into the street.

"Can't you do anything to—to counteract it?" she questioned, her face as white as the child's.

"I'll bring you something," the nurse said, "and now you must stop worrying. You can't take proper care of this baby if you are in a white heat—she'll feel the mental atmosphere. I wish I could take her home with me to-night."

"You can. I wish you would. I'd feel safer about her," said Olga.

"And her mother?" the nurse questioned with a searching look.

"I won't tell her where you live. You can bring the baby back in the morning if she's better—if not, keep her till she is. I'll pay you—when I can."

"This isn't a pay-case," the nurse said in her crisp way, "it's a case of life-saving. Then I'll take her away now, before—anybody—comes to interfere."

An hour later Sonia came home. In her absorption over the baby, Olga had quite forgotten about Laura's note, and she asked no questions. That puzzled Sonia.

"What's happened?" she demanded abruptly. "You look as if you'd seen a ghost."

"I feel as if I had," Olga answered gravely.

"What do you mean, Olga?"

"The baby is sick."

"The baby?" Sonia cast a swift glance about, then hurried to the bedroom. "Where is she? What have you done with her?" she cried.

"Sonia, a nurse came here this afternoon, and she said some one had been poisoning the baby with soothing syrup."

"Poisoning her!" Sonia echoed under her breath.

"She had had an overdose," said Olga. "O Sonia, how could you give her that dangerous stuff?"

"How'd I know it was dangerous? An old nurse told me it was harmless," Sonia defended herself, but the colour had faded out of her face and her eyes were full of terror.

Olga told her what the nurse had said. "I asked her to take the baby home with her to-night. I knew that she would take better care of her than we could," she ended.

Sonia was too frightened to object. "I didn't know. Of course I wouldn't have given her the stuff if I had known," she said again and again, and finally to turn her thoughts to something else, Olga asked about the place.

"Yes, they took me. I am to begin Monday," Sonia answered briefly.

Neither of them slept much that night, and immediately after breakfast Olga hurried over to Miss Kennan's. The nurse met her with a smile.

"She's better—she'll pull through—and she's a darling of a baby, Olga," she said. "But you'll have to watch her closely for a while. That deadly stuff has weakened her so!"

"O, I will, I will!" Olga promised. A great love for the little creature filled her heart, as she stooped to kiss her.

For a month after this, things went better. Sonia was at the store from eight to six, and Olga in her quiet rooms, worked steadily except when the baby claimed her attention. The baby wanted more and more attention as the days went by. She no longer lay limp and half unconscious, but awoke from sleep, laughing and crowing, to stretch and roll and kick like any healthy baby. She took many precious moments of Olga's time, but Olga did not grudge them. In that one day of fear and dread, the baby had established herself once for all in the girl's heart. If things could only go on as they were—if Sonia would earn her own clothes even, and be content to stay on and leave the baby to her care, Olga felt that she could be quite happy. But she had her misgivings in regard to Sonia. There was about her at times an air of mystery and of suppressed excitement that puzzled her sister. She spent many evenings out—with friends, she said, but she never told who the friends were. Still Olga was happy. Her work, her baby (she thought of it always now as hers), and the Camp Fire friends—these filled her days, and she put aside resolutely her misgivings in regard to her sister, worked doubly hard to pay the extra bills, and endured without complaint the discomfort of her crowded rooms where Sonia claimed and kept the most and best of everything. There was a cheery old lady in the room below—an old lady who dearly loved to get hold of a baby, and with her Olga left her little niece on Camp Fire nights, and when she went to market or to the school. The girls began to drop in again evenings, now that Sonia was so seldom there, and Olga welcomed them with shining eyes. The baby soon had all the girls at her feet. They called her "The Camp Fire Baby" and would have adopted her forthwith, but Olga would not agree to that.

"You can play with her and love her as much as you like, but she's my very own," she told them.

But with her delight in the child was always mingled a haunting fear that Sonia would some day snatch her up and disappear with her as suddenly as she had come.

It was in December that the blow fell. Sonia had not come back to supper, and Olga left the baby with old Mrs. Morris, and set off with Lizette for the Camp Fire meeting. It was a delightful meeting, and Olga enjoyed every minute of it, and the walk home with Elizabeth afterwards, while Sadie followed with Lizette.

"Come down soon and see my baby—and me," she said, as Elizabeth and Sadie turned off at their own corner, and she went on with Lizette.

Before she could knock at Mrs. Morris's door, it was opened by the old lady. "I've been watching for you——" she began, and instantly Olga read the truth in her troubled face.

"My—baby——" she gasped.

"She's gone, dearie—her mother took her away," the old lady said, her arms about the girl. "I tried to make her wait till you came, but she wouldn't."

"Gone—for good, you mean?" It was Lizette who questioned.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Morris, "she said so. She said you'd find a note upstairs. Here's your key. I'm so sorry for you, child—O, so sorry!"

Olga made no reply—she could not find words then. She went slowly up the stairs, Lizette following. Lighting the gas, she flashed a swift glance about the room. The note lay on her workbench. She snatched it up and read:

"I'm going with Dick—he came back a month ago. He says he's turned over a new leaf, and he's got a job in New York. I've always wanted to live in New York. Good-bye, Olga—be good to yourself. Baby sends bye-bye to auntie.

"Sonia."

She handed the note to Lizette, who read it with a scowl. "Well, of all the——" she began, but a glance from Olga stopped her. "Isn't there anything I can do?" she begged, her eyes full of tears.

"Nothing, thank you. I'll—I'll brace up as—as soon as I can, Lizette. Good-night," Olga said gently, and Lizette went away, her honest heart aching with sympathy for her friend, and Olga was alone in the place that seemed so appallingly empty because a little child had gone out of it.

But the next morning when Lizette came in Olga met her with a smile.

"I'm all right," she said. "I miss my baby every minute, but, Lizette, I mean to be happy in spite of it, and I know you'll help me. Breakfast is ready—you won't leave me to eat it alone?" Her brave smile brought a lump into Lizette's throat.

So they dropped back into their old pleasant companionship, and the girls came more often than before evenings, and Olga threw herself whole-heartedly into Camp Fire work, seeking opportunities for service. And the days slipped away and it was Christmas Eve again. Olga had spent the evening in the Camp Fire room helping to put up greens and trim the tree. She had a smile and a helping hand for every one, and Laura, watching her, said to herself, "She is holding her torch high—the dear child."

But it had not been easy—holding the torch high. On the way home the reaction came, and Olga was silent. In the merry crowd, however, only Elizabeth and Lizette noticed her silence, for Laura had sent them all home in the car, and the swift flight through the snowy streets was exciting and exhilarating. The others called gay greetings and farewells as they rolled away, leaving Olga and Lizette on the steps in the moonlight.

At Lizette's door Olga said good-night and went across to her own room. Closing the door behind her she dropped into a chair by the window, and suddenly she realised that she was very tired and O, so lonely! She longed for the pressure of a little head on her arm—for tiny fingers curling about hers—she wanted her baby.

"O, why couldn't I keep her? Sonia doesn't care for her—she doesn't! And I do. I want my baby!" she cried into the night.

But again after a little she caught back her courage. "I'm ashamed—ashamed!" she said aloud. "I'm not playing fair. I've got to be happy if I can't have my baby, and I will. But, O, if I were only sure that she is cared for!"

At that moment there came a low rap on her door. Going to it, she called, "Who is it? Who is there?" but she did not open the door.

There was no reply, only the sound of soft retreating footsteps.

"Somebody going by," she said, turning away, but as she did so she thought she heard a little whimpering cry outside. Instantly she flung the door open, and there in a basket lay her baby.

"It—it can't be!" Olga cried out, incredulous. Then she caught up the baby and hugged her till the little thing whimpered again, half afraid. "O, it is—it is!" Olga cried. "You blessed darling—if I could only keep you forever!" Still holding the child close, she snatched up the basket, shut the door, and lit the gas. In the basket she found a note from her sister.

"I'm sending back the baby [it read]; I only took her to scare you—just to pay you off for nagging me so about work. You can have her now for keeps. Dick doesn't care for children and they are an awful bother, and you've spoiled this one anyhow, fussing so over her. I reckon you and I aren't exactly congenial, and I shan't trouble you any more unless Dick goes back on me again, and I don't think he will.

"Sonia."

Through the still night air came the sound of bells—Christmas bells ringing in the Great Day. To Olga they seemed to call softly:

"'Love is the joy of service so deep that self is forgotten.'"



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THE END