The Girl Warriors

A BOOK FOR GIRLS

By ADENE WILLIAMS

David C. Cook Publishing Company
ELGIN, ILL.; OR
36 WASHINGTON STREET, CHICAGO.

Copyright, 1901.
By David C. Cook Publishing Company.

The Girl Warriors.

A BOOK FOR GIRLS.

By ADENE WILLIAMS.

CHAPTER I.
THE BURTONS.

Winnifred Burton sat all alone in the pleasant sitting-room, curled up in an easy-chair so large that her little figure was almost lost in its great depths. The fire in the open grate burned brightly, sending out little tongues of flame which made dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling, and flashed ever and anon on the bright hair and face and dress of the little girl sitting so quiet before it.

It was a dismal day near the close of January. Snow had been falling steadily all day, and the window-sill was already piled so high with it that by and by it would have to be brushed away in order to close the shutters. But Winnifred was so absorbed in the book she was reading that she knew nothing of all this. The book was a new edition of "The Giant Killer; or, The Battle That All Must Fight." She was just reading how the brave but tempted Fides lay in the dreadful Pit of Despair; of how he had fallen back, bruised and bleeding, time after time, in his endeavors to cut and climb his way out, before he found the little cord of love which was strong enough to draw him out with scarcely an effort of his own.

Twilight was fast closing in around the little reader, and all the letters on the page were beginning to dance up and down. Impatiently shaking herself, Winnifred slipped down from her chair, gave the fire a little poke, and settled herself on the floor in front of it, holding the book so that she could see to read by the flickering light. But she had scarcely begun to do so, when the door opened. She gave a little jump, and turned quite red in the face.

But it was only her little brother Ralph, who said: "'Innie, mamma says if 'oo have 'oor lessons done, 'ou'se to come out and set the table for supper."

Her lessons done! Winnie glanced at the pile of books lying on the table by the window. Yes, there they all were—her geography, history, grammar, arithmetic. When now would she have time to learn those lessons? And she felt that she had been dishonest, too, because her mother would perhaps have had something else for her to do, if she had not supposed she was studying hard. However, there was no help for it now, and with a rueful face she left the room.

Mrs. Burton was in the kitchen, so that Winnie escaped being questioned, but just now she was taking herself to task, for she had a very guilty conscience, and was wondering when she was going to begin fighting her giants. She knew only too well what one of them was, and she knew also that if she could not find time to learn those lessons, another punishment beside the stings of her conscience would await her on the morrow.

But presently her father and older brother came home; little Ralph ran to get their slippers, while they took off their wet boots; supper was put on the table, and they all sat down to the cheerful meal.

Mr. and Mrs. Burton had few rules for their household, but they had one which was imperative: nothing but cheerful faces and cheerful conversation was allowed at the table. Business or household worries were kept for private conference, and the little griefs of the children were not allowed to be mentioned.

Winnie soon forgot her anxiety in listening to the things that her father and brother Jack were saying, and, as the talk was about politics, and the tariff, and the state of the market, other little girls may not be so interested as Winnie tried to make herself believe that she was. So this will be a good time to describe them all, as they sit at the table.

All of their acquaintances spoke of the Burtons as a very happy family, and this opinion was undoubtedly correct, the reason for which will appear later.

Mr. Burton is a tall, handsome, young-looking man, with brown eyes having a merry twinkle in them; his eyebrows and moustache are dark and heavy, and his firm mouth and chin show character and decision.

Mrs. Burton looks as young as her husband, and Winnie is always taken by strangers to be her younger sister, which is a source of great delight and comfort to the girl, as she is very proud of her dainty and stylish mother. Mrs. Burton has soft brown hair, always prettily dressed; her eyes are a deep, soft blue, shaded by long, curling lashes, and with straight, delicate eyebrows above. Although she does much of the household work, she manages, in some mysterious manner, to keep her hands soft and white. Winnie sometimes steals up behind her mother and puts her own little brown hands beside one of the soft white ones with a little sigh—for she would like her own to be soft and white, too—but more often with a merry laugh.

Eighteen-year-old Jack, except that he gives promise of attaining his father's noble inches, is much like his mother. He had been intended for one of the professions, but all of his talents and inclinations having pointed to business, his father finally yielded the point of having him go through college, and, upon his graduation from high-school the year previous, took him into his own real estate office.

Winnie has eyes and hair like her father, but, in spite of her twelve years, is so small and slight that she looks like a child of nine or ten.

Four-year-old Ralph is the pet and beauty of the family. His hair curls in loose rings all over his head. His hazel eyes have such large, dilating pupils, and such a way of shining when anything is given him, that his young aunts and uncles, together with Winnie and Jack, are always giving him something for the pleasure of seeing his wondering look.

"Well, my dear," said Mr. Burton to his wife, as they rose from the table, "anything on the carpet for to-night?"

"Yes, if you don't think the weather too bad, I'd like to call on Mrs. Brown after Ralph is put to bed."

"Winnie, I should like you to accompany Jack in one of his new violin studies, while we are gone; but you must not forget that half past nine is your bed-time."

"Now for the new music," Jack said.—See page 6.

Poor Winnie! She dearly liked playing Jack's accompaniments, but the unlearned lessons rose up before her, and she said, "Oh, mamma, I can't to-night; I haven't done my lessons!"

"Well, Winnie, this has happened three or four times within the last week. If several study bells in school and two hours in the afternoon are not sufficient for you to keep up with your classes, I'd rather you'd go back a year. I want you to be educated thoroughly, but I can't have you 'crammed,' and you're too young to do studying at night."

"Mamma, that is time enough for me to do all my school work; but, like the Little Women, I have something to ' 'fess,' and if you'll let me study this time, I think that after this I'll get through in the daytime."

"Very well; but remember, if this is of frequent occurrence, I'll have to consult Mr. Bowen and see if you are overworked."

Jack and Mr. Burton had heard none of this conversation, having gone into the sitting-room for a game of chess, and Mrs. Burton and Winnie had remained in the dining-room.

Mrs. Burton went into the kitchen to give her orders for breakfast to Norah, and Winnie returned to the sitting-room with a strong determination to work so hard that she would make up for her self-indulgence of the afternoon. But little Ralph came running up to her with: "Now, 'Innie, tell me a story."

"Oh, Ralphie, Winnie can't to-night; see, she has to learn something out of all these books;" and she pointed to the big pile of them that lay on the table.

"Well, den, me'll wead the newspaper;" and he sat down on a hassock with a paper in his hand, and looked so cunning that Winnie had to go and give him a little hug before she could get to work.

She began with her greatest bugbear, United States History; not, however, without having cast one longing look at "The Giant Killer," as it stood temptingly on the edge of the book case. But, saying to herself, "I'm bound to do it"—a phrase which had seemed to help her over difficulties so many times that she almost felt as if it were the phrase, and not the exertions which always followed the use of it, that was helpful to her—she applied herself with such concentration that, during the twenty minutes her mother remained out of the room, she learned quite thoroughly the three pages describing the Battle of Monmouth. In the meantime, Ralph had been put to bed, and Mrs. Burton had come in, cloaked and bonneted. As soon as their father and mother had gone, Jack said, "Now, Win, for the new music."

"Oh, Jack, look here! There are two pages of descriptive geography, ten map questions, and a short account of the exports and imports of India to be learned, and I've six long problems in percentage to work."

"Whew! Then my cake's dough! But how is it that you have all this to do to-night? I thought we were to spend our evenings in helping and entertaining each other; that was what I understood mother to say when she changed your hour for bed from half past eight to half past nine. Ah! Win, I know what it is; you've been at your old tricks, you little bookworm!"

"Don't tease, Jack. I'm sorry enough for it now, and I'll be ready to help you to-morrow night."

"To-morrow! Always to-morrow! But to-morrow our debating club meets, and that settles that. I'll have to play without accompaniment, that's all."

Winnie heaved a sigh. It was a disappointment to her, too, but she resolutely forbore to say more about the matter. It took her, however, until nearly nine o'clock to learn her geography lesson, and when her bed-time came, she had but four of the problems solved. She would much have liked to remain up an hour longer, but of direct disobedience Mrs. Burton's children were seldom guilty, so Winnie gathered up her books, ready to take to school in the morning, and went to her room.

CHAPTER II.
GOOD RESOLUTIONS.

Winnie was having a confused dream of a little dwarf, armed with a long column of figures, which he waved threateningly in the air; but as she advanced to seize them, thinking to use them for her lessons during the day, the dwarf commenced to grow, and, as she stood amazed and horror-struck, he attained the height of ten feet or so, and was still growing when she heard the tinkling of a bell, and a voice said: "Wizard, avaunt!" At this the giant disappeared, and the whole column of figures fell on the floor in a confused heap. She stooped to pick them up, when the bell rang again, this time louder, and she grasped—her brother Ralph, who was ringing the breakfast bell violently in her ears.

A little vexed, she was going to send him away and turn over for another nap, when suddenly she remembered her good resolutions of the evening before, and, to Ralph's surprise, sprang up at once.

Having dressed herself, she turned the bedclothes back to air, and, with the exception of making her bed, which was done by Norah later in the day, put everything in her dainty pink room in nice order. Then she sat down to select her verse, it being the custom of the family for each to recite some passage from the Bible, about which they afterward had a little talk. She chose part of the second verse of the sixth chapter of 2d Corinthians: "Now is the accepted time; now is the day of salvation."

When the bell rang for the family to gather, Winnie was ready to go down at once, without hurry or confusion, or being haunted by the thought that she was but half dressed. If she received no other reward, her mother's approving smile as her daughter entered, made her feel quite happy.

Mr. Burton and Jack were not yet down, but came in almost directly. Her father read for that morning a part of the 107th Psalm, that most beautiful psalm of praise and thanksgiving. Then they all recited their verses. The mother had chosen hers from the chapter just read: "For he satisfieth the longing soul, and filleth the hungry soul with goodness." Jack had chosen: "Judge not, that ye be not judged." Ralph said, "Suffer little children," which was his great standby. Mr. Burton had a few words to say about all of them, but about Winnie's in particular; he spoke about its spiritual and religions meaning, and went on to say that it could be applied to all the affairs of life. He spoke of the folly as well as the sin of procrastination, that great destroyer of so many good deeds, which become utterly useless if done too late. He said that duties are like bricks used in building a house; if the foundation stones were left out, it would be impossible to make any use of those remaining. After the talk was finished, the family gathered around the piano, and sang a morning hymn.

Winnie was in very good spirits that morning; an approving conscience is a great help to cheerfulness and good temper. She cut Ralph's steak for him, and pleased him very much by begging for one of his dollars, as she called the tiny cakes which Norah fried for her pet. She amused the others, also, by giving, in the phraseology of a school-girl of to-day, a graphic account of the way she imagined the redoubtable Captain Molly acted at the Battle of Monmouth.

Everything seemed to go well with her, and at half past eight she had her books in her arms, ready to take a leisurely stroll to school, although the unfinished problems still troubled her.

When she entered her room, three or four of the girls rushed up to her with: "Come on into the dressing-room, Win; we're going to have a meeting of the B. S. S."

"Oh, I can't, girls!" said Winnie, it must be confessed very faintly, "I've two more problems to work, and I'll just have time to do them before the bell rings, and during the first study bell."

"Oh, bother the problems!" said Miriam Douglass, striking an attitude. "Let them go! What are problems, compared with the important business of the B. S. S.?"

But Winnie, collecting all her mental strength, and remembering her "I'm bound to" of the night before, resolutely drew back, saying, "I can't, girls; for I've a giant to kill."

The girls looked at her in amaze.

"A giant to kill! You look as if you'd kill a dozen, single-handed, you midge!" laughed tall Miriam, for Winnie was the youngest and smallest girl in the class. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I can't stop to tell you now," said Winnie, "for if I do, I'll lose the first blow; but I'll tell you about it at recess."

"All right, since you're determined," said Fannie Allen; "and I say, girls, let's postpone our meeting till then."

"Agreed!" said the others; and each one, as they separated, went to her own seat and busied herself at some study, so quickly does a little leaven leaven the whole.

When recess came, Winnie explained to the three girls, and Miriam Douglass laughed at her and teased her not a little; but somehow no one minded Miriam's teasing, she was so bright and good-natured with it all.

"I suppose," said Miriam, munching her last piece of butterscotch—for be it known that the mysterious initials, about which the other girls of the class were "dancing crazy with curiosity," as Miriam said, signified "Butter Scotch Society"—"you'll be wanting us to give up the B. S. S. with all its sweet delights, and go about the world with drawn swords, and 'front like Jove, to threaten or command,' neither giving nor receiving quarter. I can see myself now, as I exclaim, 'Base spirit, beware, lest with this trusty sword I hew thee in pieces!'" And she flourished her ruler with such spirit that the girls all applauded. Just then, however, the bell rang for the close of recess, and they were obliged to go to their recitations.

Thanks to Winnie's determination, and her vigorous use of the study bells, she received a perfect mark in all her lessons for the day, but she went home in the afternoon tired and jaded from the hard work.

She found her mother in the sitting-room, sewing, and said, as she threw down her books, "Now, mamma, I want to make my confession, and also to thank you for allowing me to work last night. I know you have often spoken to me about my bad habit of putting everything off till the last minute, and it is almost always because I get hold of a story book and cannot lay it down. Yesterday it was 'The Giant Killer,' and I was so interested in Fides' battle with Giant Hate, that I forgot I was neglecting my own faults to watch him conquer his. But now I'm going to begin killing my own giants, and I'll commence with my worst, procrastination; for indeed, as Miss Brownlow is always telling us, it is the thief of time. And I want you to watch me and help me. As to-morrow will be Saturday, I want to get every one of my lessons for Monday, so that I can use the Monday study bells for Tuesday's lessons; then I can always get through in the afternoon."

"I think that will be a very good plan, Winnie; you will then feel at ease each day about the work for the succeeding one, and an absence of worry will keep your mental faculties in good condition, so that you can do much more work with less strain of mind or body. And it will leave your evenings for reading or such other recreation as may occur from time to time, for you know I do not believe in all work and no play. I want to run down to Shillito's now to do a little shopping, and I hope you will be able, while I am gone, to resist your favorite temptation, for I really believe that many of our temptations are favorites."

As soon as Mrs. Burton, taking Ralph with her, had gone, Winnie settled herself resolutely to work at her problems. She had just become quite interested in finding out the "population of a certain village," which increased a certain per cent, the first year, etc., when the bell rang, and answering the call, she found Miriam Douglass. Here was a dilemma. But she said:

"Miriam, I'm just at work on my problems for Monday. Come right in, and we'll work them together."

"Oh, Winnie, we'll have all day to-morrow to get our lessons. Do let's have a good time to-day."

"I promised mamma that I would do all my lessons before Monday, but, of course, Miriam, if you don't wish to, I'll stop. I do think, though, that we'll enjoy ourselves just as well if we do this work."

"All right, Winnie, go ahead," said Miriam laughing. "I guess my brain can stand it if yours can."

The two girls applied themselves so well, Miriam being particularly bright in arithmetic, that by the time Mrs. Burton returned, they not only had the whole set of problems solved, but neatly copied and ready to "hand in."

Mrs. Burton herself helped them with their analysis in grammar, and that being Miriam's great stumbling block, she was delighted with the assistance. She accepted Mrs. Burton's invitation to stay to supper, after which, Mr. Burton and Jack both being out, Winnie's mother proposed that the girls should take turns reading aloud to her from the book Winnie had been telling them about.

Both girls had been well taught, and it was a pleasure to listen to their fresh, well modulated voices. Miriam, though far less imaginative than Winnifred, enjoyed the book very much, and said, half in fun:

"Why can't we turn our B. S. S. into a club to fight our giants? We might then be a help instead of a drawback to each other, as I know we are now, for we're always upsetting each other's attempts to do right."

"I think that is a very good idea," said Mrs. Burton. "Union and organization are such powers in this world, that I do not see why they should not help four little girls to do right. You might have social meetings occasionally to report progress, and you could have a good time beside. Talk it over on Monday with Gretta and Fannie, and if you want help, come to me."

"Oh, Mrs. Burton, you always do think of the nicest things! That's just what we will do, and we'll report a week from to-night. But now it is time for me to go."

As Miriam lived only a square away, Mrs. Burton and Winnie walked over with her, and on their return Winnie went to bed happy and contented.

CHAPTER III.
STUMBLING BLOCKS.

On the following Monday at recess, Miriam called a meeting of the B. S. S., and she and Winnie told the other two girls what they were thinking of doing. But it was very hard work to make Gretta Berger understand.

"Giants!" said she, "what do we care for giants? We're no longer little children, that we should believe in such things."

"But don't you believe that we have faults that we ought to try to conquer?" said Winnie.

"Faults! You'd think I had a million, if you'd hear my mother lecture me; and my sister Josephine seems to think I never did do anything right. I never suit either of them. I'm scolded from Monday morning till Saturday night, and I don't want all my play-time taken up in the same way."

"Oh, Gretta, who is going to scold you? I'm sure we'll all have enough to do to watch over our own faults, without talking to you of yours."

"Didn't you say we were to help each other? How can we do that, if we don't say anything when one of us does wrong? No, let our teachers and parents and big sisters do that. I'm sure they seem to enjoy it well enough."

"Enjoy it! Well, I'm sure we can't blame them. I don't know how else they are to get even with you, when you never give in half your demerits for the day, and sit and sulk for half an hour if you're told to stop talking," said Miriam, with her usual heedlessness.

"Well. I'm not so lazy that I can't pin my collar on straight and clean my finger nails; and as for killing giants, I think we'd better be eating fruit and taffy than getting into a fuss by meddling with other folks' affairs!" And Gretta flounced off in high dudgeon.

Winnie's eyes filled with tears. All this was so unlike anything she had imagined, and now they had gotten into a quarrel the very first thing.

"Let her go, Winnie," said Fannie; "she's always getting into the sulks, and her father's nothing but a music teacher, anyhow. I never could see why you girls liked her so much. I'm sure I never did."

"No!" said Miriam sarcastically, "we can't all be the handsome daughter of a wealthy and celebrated lawyer, more's the pity!"

Winnie's heart sank lower. How she wished she had tried to do right herself, and let the other girls alone! Now Fannie would be angry, too.

But, to her surprise, Fannie laughed outright. "This is too absurd for anything, girls. Here we were just about to sweep the world before us, and now we've had our first quarrel for over a month. As for me, I know I'm proud and vain, and I do like my friends to be rich and distinguished. But papa says it isn't exactly well-bred to choose our friends on such a basis, and he calls my pride silly, and tells me not to be a—well, yes, he does—a snob. But I like to be proud. Perhaps, though, someone else beside myself knows something, and I'll be glad to join, and will try to like it when my toes are stepped on."

"Well," said Miriam, "I'm sure I beg your pardon, if I hurt the toes. But I think your good-nature got the best of it. As for Gretta, you all know she'll sulk just so long, anyhow, and when she gets tired of it, she'll be all right; and if she once gets this thing through her somewhat thick head, she'll want to join, too."

"My! but there's a lot of work before us! Do you know, girls, I actually lay awake for an hour last night, wondering what faults I had, and now, since this squabble, I've seen signs of half a dozen. It's taken all the starch out of me. Don't I look limp?" And Miriam hung her hands and arms so nervelessly and assumed such a vapid expression, that Fannie laughed outright, and Winnie smiled through her tears.

"Well, there's one bad habit that we all have," said she decidedly. "We're always saying, 'in a minute,' or 'by and by,' or 'to-morrow.' I don't believe we'll get angry with each other over that, for it isn't what my father would call 'a personal peculiarity.'" Winnie did like to use big words.

"All right, Winnie, we'll all begin together, and you shall be the captain of our first expedition against the foe."

Winnie went home somewhat comforted, but still quite unhappy about Gretta. She longed to tell her mother all that had happened, but Mrs. Burton was entertaining callers, and she was therefore obliged to restrain her impatience.

On Tuesdays there were fewer recitations for her class than on other days, and, having made good use of her study bells, she was quite through before five o'clock, and concluded to take Ralph out for a walk, so she called her mother to ask permission. Mrs. Burton was quite willing, and said she might also go to the library and change her book. Then she returned to her guests.

Winnie ran to ask Norah if she would help get Ralph ready. She found her in the wooden rocking-chair in the cheerful kitchen, reading the "Commercial Gazette," and "taking it easy," as she called it. Winnie made her request in a very peremptory manner. Norah looked at her a minute, and then said: "So you want me to dress Ralph, do you? Well, I guess that want will have to be your master, for I don't intend to break my back over the wash-tub all day, and, when I'm snatching a moment for rest, be at the beck and call of a sassy little girl." So saying, Norah returned to her newspaper, completely ignoring Winnie's presence.

Winnifred knew that it would be utterly useless to say anything more; besides, she had been reproved by her mother more than once for her way of speaking to Norah. But she was greatly disappointed, for now she would either have to take Ralph dressed as he was, or leave him at home. She finally concluded to do the former, so, hastily getting Ralph and herself into their coats, they were soon in the street car.

Ralph, as usual, had numberless questions to ask. When they reached Fountain Square, they got out, and Winnie, as she invariably did when down town, crossed to the Esplanade to look at the fountain, of which she never wearied. Ralph said he liked to see the little boys and girls sprinkling, and then he must have a drink from the little boy with a shell in his hand.

All this took up time, so that when they reached the public library it was quite late. The delivery room, as usual at that hour, was crowded, and, having handed in her card and list, Winnie sat down on one of the benches to wait till her number was called. This took so long that Ralph became restless and then sleepy, and when they were finally in the car on their way home, he soon closed his eyes. Winnie knew that she would have her hands full if he went to sleep, so she shook him, saying, "Ralphie, Ralphie, don't you know that you mustn't go to sleep?"

"Me isn't s'eepy!" said the little fellow, poking his chubby fingers into his eyes to keep them open; but, finding it quite hard work, after a minute's consideration he added, "But there's somefin in my eyes, 'ough."

"Oh, Ralph, that's the Sandman; you mustn't let him throw sand in your eyes in the street car!"

"No, me 'on't," said Ralph, making a desperate effort.

This little conversation seemed greatly to amuse an old gentleman opposite. He took Ralph on his knee and let him play with his watch, and kindly kept him awake until it was time for the children to get out.

When they reached home they found the family, with the addition of their grandma, Aunt Kitty and Uncle Fred, all at supper, laughing and talking in the happiest manner imaginable. Winnie was delighted. Aunt Kitty was the dearest to her of all her aunts. She was young and gay and good-natured, always ready to join in a frolic, or to help with one's lessons, or to take the children and the children's visitors to the "zoo" or the park or some other place equally delightful.

After supper they went into the sitting-room, and Winnie and Jack played their last duet, which Aunt Kitty complimented quite highly. She said to Mr. Burton, "Winnie does so nicely with her music that I hope you'll allow her to make more of it soon. If she goes to the high-school next year, she'll have more time to practice, won't she?"

"Yes, I think so," interrupted Uncle Fred. "She'll be putting on long dresses, and practicing the airs of a young lady before the glass. But she won't imitate you, Kitty; your ways will be too youthful for her by that time," and he gave Winnie's braid a pull. "Isn't it singular?" he continued meditatively. "Here Winnie will be growing older every year, and Kitty just the reverse. I don't think she'll have another birthday in ten years."

"Most assuredly not, if you'll tell me the way to avoid it. Winnie can have my birthdays and her own, too," laughed Aunt Kitty.

If there was one thing in the world that Winnie resented as an indignity, it was having her ears tweaked, and now she burst out:

"Grandma, do make Uncle Fred stop! I think he ought to have a good scolding."

"Why, he's my baby," said grandma; "you wouldn't have me scold my baby, would you?"

Winnie's expression at the novel idea of teasing Uncle Fred's being anybody's baby was one of such amazement that they all laughed, though Winnie herself hardly appreciated the joke.

"Never mind," said Uncle Fred, slipping a bag of chocolates into her hands as a peace-offering, "you know I must tease someone, and your Aunt Kitty is more invulnerable than Achilles himself, for I think that even her heel was dipped."

"Oh, I have a vulnerable point," laughed Aunt Kitty, though a close observer might have noticed a queer little sober look about her eyes and mouth, "and it is this"—putting one of Winnifred's creams into her mouth: "the absolute cruelty of giving someone else a paper of chocolates while I'm present. By the way, Winnie, let's go into the kitchen and make some taffy, while my mother instructs your mother how to bring up children in the way they should go; for that she knows how to do it, witness your Uncle Fred and myself as bright and shining examples."

But for once Winnie held back. At last she said: "Norah won't like it; she's cross to-day. She wouldn't help me get Ralph ready to go down town."

"Oh, Winnie, I'm afraid you've been at your old tricks. But come on; I'll manage Norah, and she has probably forgiven you before this."

This proved to be the case, and Norah, who was very fond of Aunt Kitty, was so good-natured, not even grumbling about the "muss," that Winnie felt as if she were having coals of fire heaped on her head; and, not to be outdone in generosity, contritely begged Norah's pardon for the way she had spoken to her in the afternoon.

CHAPTER IV.
A RAINY DAY.

"'One by one the sands are flowing,'—comma—

One by one the moments fall;'—semicolon—

'Some are coming,'—comma; 'some are going;'—semicolon—

'Do not strive to grasp them all,'—period."

dictated Miriam to a group of girls in the school-room, who were "cramming" for the February examination, and who had hurried back at dinner time for that purpose.

"What a queer jumble that makes!" said Winnie. "I believe I'd rather copy it from the book. Don't you think that last line's odd?—'Do not strive to grasp them all.' I thought that was just what we ought to do, isn't it?"

"I asked Miss Brownlow that question yesterday," said Ernestine Alroy, a tall, pale and thoughtful-looking girl, "and she said that Miss Procter didn't mean that we were to let any of them go, but that we are not to try to seize them all at once; that it would be like anything else—if our hands were too full, we'd be sure to drop something. She said we must take this 'Memory Gem' in connection with the motto on the board, 'Do the duty that lies nearest thee,' and that if we followed the advice in both of them, we'd be sure not to let any of our duties go undone."

"Ernestine, you always did like to preach," said Josie Thompson, making a wry face over the pickle she was eating. "I think it's quite bad enough to have to learn Memory Gems, with all the hideous punctuation, and expect to stand an examination—and they always pick out the one you know the least about—with five per cent. off for a comma left out or put in the wrong place, ten for a misspelled word, and so on until, by the time my 'Gems' are corrected, there's no per cent. left at all. I say all this is bad enough, without having to understand and explain them." And she stopped to take breath, quite exhausted by her long speech.

"Perhaps, if you troubled yourself a little more about the meaning, you'd get higher marks occasionally," said Miriam.

"Oh, who cares for marks anyhow? I'm getting sick of the eternal word 'Duty!' Miss Brownlow never misses an occasion to make use of it. Then we're always learning some selection with the same word in it, and now you girls have taken it up and there's no knowing if you will ever stop. As for me, I'm going to enjoy myself while I'm young. I guess I'll live just as long, if I don't worry myself to death."

The brighter girls laughed, and Miriam said, with quick mimicry, "I think you will live just as long, if you don't worry yourself to death. What a speech! Well, I think you're right; you'll live forever, if worry is the only thing that can kill."

"Well, laugh as much as you please; you can all plod along, if you want to. I'm going to have a good time."

"It is hard, though," said Winnie, plaintively; "it's much nicer to do the things we like to do than those we ought to do, especially when none of us want to do things that are very wrong."

"It's harder to catch up," said Ernestine, "than to keep straight on; and I think if we'd all pray for help not to neglect our duties, we'd find it easier."

None of the girls laughed at this, for Ernestine was so devoted to her ideas of religion, and so brave in the profession of them, that if she thought it was her duty, she would have knelt down right there and prayed aloud for them all.

"Well, this isn't learning the 'Gem,'" said Fannie Allen decisively; and then for a few moments nothing was heard but the scratching of pencils, as Miriam went on dictating:

"One by one thy duties wait thee,

Let thy whole strength go to each,

Let no future dreams elate thee,

Learn thou first what these can teach."

After the bell had rung for school to commence, the afternoon wore dismally away. A steady, drenching rain was pouring down as if it intended never to stop. Under the circumstances there could be no recess, which added to the general feeling of weariness, restlessness and disgust.

Each recitation was a recapitulation, which made the more studious or those with the better memories feel as if there were "nothing new under the sun," and gave to the triflers, or those to whom study was a continual climbing of the "Hill Difficulty," a confused impression of hearing something they had heard before, but failed to remember just when or where or how.

To add to the discomfort, there was much copying to be done from the blackboard, and, as it was dark and gloomy, there was a complaint of not being able to see, until the front seats were filled with a crowd of tired, discontented girls, with their young faces puckered up into all sorts of frowns and grimaces. Even the best-natured among the teachers were conscious of an utter failure to keep from showing irritation, and they were made to sigh for a royal road both to learning and to teaching. It was with a general sigh of relief that the bell announcing the hour of dismission was heard.

But the discomfort was not yet over. The halls and dressing-rooms were filled with an odor of wet wool and rubber; rain-cloaks and rubbers were confusedly mixed, and Miss Brownlow reminded the complainers, in a most irritating manner, of the number of times she had urged them all to mark their gossamers and overshoes, and positively forbade them to expect any interference from her if anything were lost. Then some of the girls ran down stairs, and all were ordered back; and, it being impossible to distinguish the culprits, the innocent suffered with the guilty, so that it was nearly five o'clock before they were finally allowed to descend the stairs, and they had been hearing the exasperating shouts of freedom from the boys under the windows for a full half hour.

Miriam and Winnie, walking home under the same umbrella, felt their desire to be good and the courage to strive for it, at the lowest ebb. Winnie said petulantly, "I wish there were no such thing as school! It's dig, dig, dig, and then it's cram, cram, cram, until, at last, you don't know whether you know anything or not! I'm just sick of it!"

"You'd feel more disagreeable if you'd lost the third pair of rubbers this winter, and had wet feet. I don't see why it is that it's always my rubbers that are gone, anyway. Mamma will say that I grow more heedless every day of my life; that I never will learn to take care of anything; and will wonder if I think papa is a millionaire. I wish now that I'd marked that last pair of rubbers."

"Oh, dear! It's so hard to do right, and not to feel hateful and cross. Everyone seems to get cross but Ernestine. But then, none of the rest are as good as she is. I don't believe she ever feels like doing wrong; and she always seems happy, too; not peevish or sulky like the rest of us. Do you suppose—"

But just then, too absorbed to notice where they were going, they ran against an old gentleman, and their umbrella was knocked out of their hands into the gutter, where, of course, it was soon all wet and muddy.

Too absorbed to notice where they were going.

Then the old gentleman sputtered and scolded, and said he wished little girls would look where they were going once in a while, and that they were nothing but "giggling nuisances" anyhow. Then Miriam dropped her books, and, as both she and Winnie stooped to pick them up, they knocked their heads together with such force that tears sprang to the eyes of both.

As a usual thing, such occurrences would have made them laugh, but they were far enough from being "giggling nuisances" on this occasion, and when they turned the corner and separated, it would not have been easy to find two muddier or crosser little girls, while both, I fear, had forgotten all about the giants they were intending to fight.

When Winnie reached home, she spoke to Ralph so crossly, when he ran up to her for a kiss, that his lips trembled and he turned to Mrs. Burton, saying, "Mamma, is me bad? 'Innie 'ouldn't tiss me!"

Winnie, at sight of his grieved face, began to feel ashamed of herself, but was still too cross to make any acknowledgments, and, without saying a word, went up to her room to change her muddy dress.

When she came down, Mrs. Burton looked at her searchingly, but asked no questions, and it was not until after supper that Winnie felt sufficiently herself to tell her mother about the disagreeable afternoon. Mrs. Burton only said: "Well, Winnie,—

'Into each life some rain must fall.

Some days be dark and dreary,'

but I hope my daughter isn't going to grow up into one of those unpleasant women who always make it disagreeable for other people when things do not turn out just as they would like to have them."

CHAPTER V.
THE FIRST MEETING.

As a consequence of the lost rubbers and wet feet, Miriam caught such a cold that she was not able to leave the house for the remainder of the week. Gretta Burger was still sulking, and Fannie Allen was, as she said, "reviewing odds and ends," so the meeting which was to have been held on Friday of that week was postponed.

But fickleness and inconstancy of purpose were not among the faults of Winnifred, and although she made many failures, and the words "by and by" and "in a minute" were frequently on her lips, she nevertheless made some progress in conquering her great fault.

Her greatest temptation, as is evident from what has already been seen of her, was to let everything else go and slip off into some nook and lose herself in what she called "a delicious read." And this habit was all the harder for her to break because she had commenced it when she was a very little girl, and it had then looked "so cunning" and studious that injudicious friends and acquaintances of the family, unable to distinguish between a love for study which costs hard work and self-denial, and a mere love for narrative which is easily gratified, had praised her when she was within hearing, and had told Mr. Burton how much they envied him the possession of so studious and intelligent a child. Not that all works of fiction are to be condemned, for they often have a good and lasting influence, and become a decided factor in the formation of a noble character. But like all things intended for recreation, they should be used only at the proper time. Winnie was fast finding out that the proper time was when her daily duties were over, and that was reducing her two or three snatched hours a day to fifteen or twenty minutes. She was also beginning to find out the close connection between various bad habits. She saw that procrastination led to carelessness, disobedience, and, in some natures, to untruthfulness and dishonesty.

But by the following Friday, the long-anticipated examination was over. Our four little friends had reason to be well satisfied with the result, so far as they were personally concerned. A mutual content had restored harmony between Gretta and the other three, and they had decided to hold their first meeting on that evening.

Winnie was very anxious to have Ernestine come, too; but, although she laughed at herself for her foolish pride, Fannie said: "Of course we know Ernestine is a nice girl, but we don't know anything about her family, and you know she never speaks of her father, although nobody ever heard that he is dead. They may be very common people, for all we know."

Winnie was greatly troubled about this, for she did not like "common people" very well herself. She had her own ideas about such things, and she called Althea Browne "common." Althea wore brass jewelry, and was always boasting about the fine things they had at home, and the grand parties her aunt in Virginia gave. She was always willing to accept fruits and sweetmeats from the other girls, but had been known, more than once, to sneak off by herself and munch candies and apples which she had brought. Winnie thought that if Ernestine's people were like Althea, she did not want to have anything to do with them.

As usual, she carried this perplexity to her mother, who said: "Let the matter rest for the present, dear. While Fannie feels as she does about it, it would not be pleasant for any of you to have her come, or for Ernestine herself, and dissension will not help you to become better. In the meantime I will consider the matter, and, if I conclude that it will be best for Ernestine to join you, I hope to be able to arrange it."

Mrs. Burton had invited the three girls to take supper with Winnie, and, as school had closed early, and they had no lessons to prepare for Monday, they had a nice, long afternoon together. Miriam read aloud the account of the combat of Fides with the Giant Sloth, and when she was through, said: "That is the giant Gretta pointed out to me; and a hard one he will be for me to overcome, I can tell you."

"What is my worst one?" asked Fannie, taking up the book which Miriam had laid down. As she glanced through the pages she said, with a slight blush, "Oh, yes; my father would tell me that I must conquer my pride, and he tries to have me see how disagreeable it makes me, by telling me that I will never be a perfect lady until I have done so. Here, Miriam, read this aloud, too; you make it so plain that I almost feel as if I were there."

Gretta said very little, but she had a self-satisfied air about her, as if it were as needless for anyone to be proud or untidy as for anyone to steal, and she felt herself far removed from faults such as these. And indeed she was neither indolent nor untidy. She rose at six—that magic hour in which Fides was to strike his first blow at Giant Sloth—and practiced two hours before school; she was neatness itself, both in person and in all her belongings. Besides, she was neither so conscientious as Winnie, so frank and outspoken as Fannie, nor so easily influenced, either for right or wrong, as Miriam. So her conscience lay dormant.

She was, however, conscious that she, too, had a habit of not doing things as soon as she ought, and to try to overcome that seemed to her almost like a lesson to be learned, so she was willing to try to learn it with the others.

After Miriam had finished the chapter, Winnie said, "Oh, girls, I must show you my autographs;" and, turning to Ralph, who sat by the window, gazing intently at a couple of puppies which were having a romp together, she said, "Ralphie, bring Winnie that book by the window."

Without moving a muscle of his chubby little body, or even turning his head, the child answered: "You just s'pect me to do evvyfing; I tan't do evvyfing."

"Oh, Ralph, my little partner in distress!" exclaimed Miriam, in her most dramatic way, snatching him up and kissing him in spite of his struggles. "You'll have to have a suit of armor, too. Who would have thought that one so young could be so lazy!"

The laugh was not yet over when Mrs. Burton came in, with her pleasant smile, saying, "Girls, I've a short story to tell you—that is, if you wish to hear it; and there'll just be time before supper."

Of course they were delighted, and, Fannie having coaxed Ralph to her lap, they all gathered around Mrs. Burton, making a pretty group in their unconsciously graceful attitudes, as they listened to the following narrative:

"Constance van Orten was born in New York, a descendant of one of the old Knickerbocker families, but of a branch which had preserved more of the family pride than its estates. Money, however, was not altogether lacking, and to many people their income would have seemed sumptuous; but to them, in comparison with their more wealthy friends and relatives, it seemed the merest pittance that necessity could demand.

"But this comparative lack of money never troubled little Constance, and fortune seemed to smile upon her. One might almost have believed that all the beneficent fairies had presided at her birth, so many graces of face and form and disposition were hers, and so many of the conditions necessary to human happiness seemed fulfilled in her lot.

"She was the youngest child and only daughter, and her four brothers found her so charming a plaything, and later so agreeable a companion, that they took pleasure in making her life a succession of pleasant surprises, and her every wish was gratified almost before expressed. Indeed, had she asked for the moon, it would have been a source of genuine grief to them that they could not get it for her.

"Pain seemed as far removed from her as anxiety or grief, for, although she had an odd faculty of catching all the diseases incident to childhood, they touched her so lightly that it was seldom necessary to call in a physician. If she received a cut or a wound of any kind, so pure was her blood and so perfect her physical condition that it healed as if by magic.

"Her willfulness was extreme, as might have been expected from the almost total lack of restraint under which she grew up; but so winning were her ways, and so ready her repentance for her little misdeeds, that for the most part she escaped punishment and even reproof.

"Almost without the power of application, she seemed to pick up external evidences of education and culture without effort. She talked fluently, sang charmingly, and, having almost marvelous tact, never failed to please.

"Being, as I have said, the only daughter, she entered society earlier than most girls, and, in spite of her comparative lack of means, soon became a reigning belle. During her first season she refused more than one wealthy suitor, and that, too, to the intense satisfaction of her parents and brothers, for she was a veritable sunbeam in the family, and they looked forward with dread to the thought of losing her.

"At last, however, there came, furnished with letters of introduction to one of Constance's uncles, a young and wealthy cotton planter from Louisiana. His seeming indifference to money and his prodigal use of it, his pleasant speech and manner, his languid Southern movements, so different from those of the brisk Northerners to whom they were accustomed, and, above all, the very fact of his being a stranger, made him most welcome to the girlish minds so fond of change and novelty. But it was with the greatest regret that the Van Ortens began to notice his marked attentions to Constance and the increasing pleasure she took in them. It was not only that a marriage with him would separate her from them all, but her father and brothers, constantly meeting the young stranger at clubs and places where there were no ladies present, and consequently where he was off his guard, found him capricious and changeable in his opinions and actions, extremely self-indulgent, selfishly indifferent to the comfort of others, and so fond of intoxicating liquor that, on more than one occasion, he had been directly and shamefully under its influence.

"But Constance would not, perhaps could not, see him in the light in which he was portrayed to her, and, in spite of all their warnings and her mother's pleadings, she consented to become his wife. Immediately after the marriage, they went to Louisiana, and for awhile all was to Constance as her most ardent fancy had painted it. Their home was in the beautiful Claiborne Parish, which has been named "the Eden of Louisiana." Her winning ways and delicate beauty endeared her to the new acquaintances she formed, and made her the idol of the slaves on the plantation. Here two sons were born, and the mother felt her happiness complete. But presently she found her husband less attentive to her. He absented himself on long journeys, for which he scarcely had a pretext, and when at home was either sullen or irritable.

"Then the Civil War broke out and he lost much of his property, and there were almost ceaseless and taunting allusions on his part to the "plebeian Yankees" and the ruin they had brought him. After the close of the war, however, he seemed to make an effort to do the best with what property remained. He became a little more considerate, and sometimes seemed to be almost what he had been in the early years of his married life, and when Constance became the mother of a little girl, she began to feel as if, after all, life might hold some good in store for her.

"But alas! her husband's good behavior did not last long. He began to drink constantly, and at last he left one morning, without saying a word, and never returned. Then the two promising boys died of that dreadful scourge, yellow fever, and Constance was almost heartbroken.

"During the war, communication with her New York relatives had been almost impossible, and since then, as is usual in interrupted correspondence, even among those who love each other best, it had assumed a desultory character; and now that Constance felt overwhelmingly disgraced by her husband's desertion, and knowing that all this sorrow had come upon her in consequence of her opposition to the wishes of her family, she was too proud to turn to them for help or comfort. But to remain where she was was likewise almost an impossibility, for the scenes of sorrow through which she had passed made the South a hated prison from which she felt that she must escape. Besides, her husband's creditors had seized upon everything that was left, and the once lovely, petted girl, destitute, bereaved, forsaken, raised what money she could from the sale of her laces and jewelry, and, taking passage in one of the Mississippi steamers, started for Louisville. There, however, she remained but a few days, and finally came to Cincinnati, hoping here to find some way to support herself and her little daughter, without being obliged to appeal to her brothers for help.

"But for a woman reared as she had been, what was there to do? Her slender means became still more slender, and it was only after having been subjected to absolute privation, that she managed to obtain a place in a store as saleswoman, and now she and her child are able to live respectably, if not always comfortably. Her one joy and source of happiness she finds in the companionship of her daughter Ernestine, a girl of character so fine and religious principles so high that they would be a credit to one of twice her years."

"Why, that sounds like a description of Ernestine Alroy!" said Fannie.

"And it is Ernestine of whom I am speaking, although I hope it is not necessary for me to suggest that she would not like her mother's history to be made public property. In fact, I must earnestly request you not to mention it even in your own homes," said Mrs. Burton. "It was only by a mere accident that I heard this narrative yesterday afternoon. But I hear Mr. Burton and Jack in the hall, and, as supper will be served in a very few minutes, I must leave you, with an apology for telling you a sad story, and one which I would not have ventured upon had it not been an 'o'er true tale.'"

"How dreadful!" said Fannie. "And to think, girls, that her mother was as happy and well reared—"

Just then, however, supper was announced, and Fannie's sentence remained unfinished.

After supper, Jack brought out his violin, and he and Gretta played some duets together, Gretta reading the piano part at sight, and so well that Winnie felt her own poor little talent cast quite in the shade.

Then Gretta played some pretty sonatinas with fine taste and expression, and gave so much pleasure to her listeners that Fannie began to think there might be worse things in the world than being a "music teacher's daughter."

After that, to the great delight of the girls, Mr. Burton sang, in his fine bass voice, and with the merry twinkle in his eyes in accord with his extravagant gestures, a comic song, ending with a little refrain in which all the Burtons, not even excepting Ralph, joined, the latter singing at the top of his voice, and clapping his hands for accompaniment.

They had hardly had time to feel weary of sitting still and listening, when Mrs. Burton had them all in the dining-room playing the good old game of "Puss in the Corner." Here, too, Mr. Burton distinguished himself by his pathetic appeals for a "corner." The game left them all breathless but happy, and they sat down for awhile to recover themselves and "cool off," while Jack went to get on his overcoat preparatory to seeing the girls home.

CHAPTER VI.
WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.

The school which Winnie and her friends attended was in the habit of selecting certain authors, whose birthday anniversaries they commemorated. This year, however, the principal had concluded to celebrate Washington's birthday by patriotic songs, declamations, and so on. In consequence the pupils were all in a state of great excitement, pleasurable to boyish and girlish hearts.

Lessons were shortened, classes dismissed early, rehearsals conducted morning, noon and night. From one end of the building to the other, "spouting" was heard, gestures were being made in the most frantic manner, the strains of "The Star Spangled Banner," "America," and "The Red, White and Blue" rose upon the air; and, as the crowds of boys and girls passed to and from school, their conversation contained allusions to "The Father of our Country," or the fine way in which Harry or Tom or Frank gave that declamation, or the sweetness of Mabel Gray's voice, or why Mr. Bowen hadn't selected Clarence instead of Bob, etc., etc., etc., until all the air around the school-house must have been as heavily charged with patriotism as the air around Lexington on the morning of that memorable battle which, too, was talked of, for there had been much "brushing up" of United States history.

The memorable day of the 21st of February arrived (there being no school on the 22d), and found the rooms finely decorated with flags and swords and battle relics, portraits of George and Martha Washington, and flowers and living plants, while the blackboards were entirely filled with ornamental scrolls containing patriotic mottoes.

Two o'clock had been set for the beginning of the programme, but long before that time visitors had begun to arrive and were shown to seats by the two gentlemanly boy-ushers in quite an impressive manner.

Among the visitors, our friends the Burtons, not excepting Ralph, were represented. Ralph sat snuggled up to his mother, his big eyes having their most pleased and wondering look. Mrs. Alroy, too, was there, dressed quietly but tastefully, and looking a perfect lady; having indeed so thoroughbred an air that even Fannie's somewhat haughty mamma who sat next her, could scarcely equal her.

Gretta Berger took her place at the piano, and soon the inspiring strains of a patriotic medley were heard, while the boys and girls from the various rooms marched into the hall and took their places with such a fine idea of time and military precision of movement that to see them was not the least pleasure of the afternoon.

The next thing on the programme was a sketch of George Washington's life, by Ernestine Alroy, read by her in a sweet, dignified way, in a well-modulated voice, and an expression which showed a thorough appreciation of the fine character and life she was describing. One of the boys followed with a recitation of Drake's "American Flag." Next a small choir of girls and boys (the girls dressed in the national colors and the boys wearing flag badges) sang the "Star Spangled Banner." Then Winnie went upon the stage, and recited the following, which is given in full, as it is one of those fugitive things which seem to have no home. It is entitled:

THE USED-TO-BE.

The mother gathered her children together,

She folded them close to her heart in glee,

For the red sun had brought them rainy weather,

And what they should do, they never could see.

And they cried in querulous tones, "Mamma,

Now think back, ever and ever so far,

And see if you ever had rainy days

That troubled the plans, and spoiled the plays,

And what you did in the Used-to-be."

The mother laughed with low, soft laughter;

She was remembering, they could see.

"I see, you rogues, what you are all after;

I'll tell you a tale that happened to me.

I and some wee little bits of girls,

With hair as yellow as shaving-curls,

When it rained for a day and a night and a day,

And we thought it hard to go on that way,

As we were as tired as tired could be.

"Up in the attic, in grandma's attic,

There's a chest of drawers—or there used to be;

Though we had many a charge emphatic,

Not to go near enough to see.

But one rainy day we opened them wide,

And strewed the contents on every side;

We dressed ourselves in the queer old caps,

The brass-buttoned coats, with long blue flaps.

And—but wait a minute; papa calls me."

They waited and waited and waited and waited,—

"Forty hours, it seems to me,"

Said weary Kitty, with eyes dilated.

"Let's do it ourselves; I can find the key."

They climbed the stairs,—as still as a mouse.

You might have heard them all over the house.

They dressed themselves in the queer old dresses,

The powdered wigs and hempen tresses,

Just as they did in the Used-to-be.

The warning stairs kept creaking and creaking,—

There was no time to turn and flee.

"What's all this!" (It was grandma speaking.)

"I shall take every one of you over my knee."

And I regret to say that she did,

All except Kitty, who ran and hid.

And when they went and told mamma,

She only said, with a soft "ha! ha!"

"Just what your grandmamma did to me."

The amusing little poem suited Winnie's childish face and figure, and her mother had read between the lines for her, so that the picture was plain to her mind. Winnie saw the pretty young mother playing the little joke on the children, and the affected wrath of the grandmother as she spanked each of the little ones—saw the picture so plainly herself that it was easy for her to make her good-natured audience see it, too, and her hearers laughed while they applauded.

Of course they had "The Red, White and Blue" sung by the whole school; and "America," which can never be old to any of us; and for further recitations. "Independence Bell," and "The Blue and the Gray"—for what patriotic celebration would be complete without these?

The finest declamation of the day, given by the pride of the class, so far as elocutionary ability was concerned, and with a drum accompaniment by a corps of boys well drilled for the occasion, was the following stirring

SONG OF THE DRUM.

Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!

Follow me, follow me, every true man!

Hark to the song of the rolling drum:

Come with me! Come with me! Come with me! Come!

Follow me! Follow me! Follow me now!

Come from the anvil, come from the plow.

Don't think of the danger which threatens your lives!

Leave home, leave friends, leave your children, your wives!

Hark to the sound of the rolling drum!

Come with me! Come with me! Come!

Follow me, follow me, every one,

To where the white camps shine in the sun.

Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!

Follow me, follow me, every true man!

From the crowded streets of the city, come!

Follow the drum, the drum, the drum!

From fields where the blithe birds chirp and sing,

From woods where your sturdy axes ring;

Leave the plow in the furrow to stand;

Grasp the musket firm in your hand:

There's a grander place in the world for you,

And nobler work for your hands to do.

Come with me! Come with me! Come with me! Come!

Follow the drum, the drum, the drum!

Come with me where the camps shine white;

Hark to my shrill tattoo at night,

To my loud reveille when morning breaks.

And the golden eye of the dawn awakes.

Come with me out to the trenches then.

Where are gathered scores of your fellow-men

Beginning to dig with pick and with spade,—

This is the way entrenchments are made.

There's a puff of smoke, and now comes a shell;

See yonder, there, where its fragments fell;

Nobody hurt! and above on the hill,

Our batteries, until this moment still,

Now blaze away with a deafening noise,

And a shout goes up from our gallant boys.

Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!

This is the life for every true man.

Come with me now to the picket! Come!

Follow the drum, the drum, the drum!

That's a sharpshooter's rifle we hear,

And that was the bullet that sang so near;

There's another rifle, that shrill, sharp sound;

And yonder's a wounded man on the ground,

With the blood flowing out in a crimson tide

From a gaping hole in his quivering side.

Don't sicken and pale at the sight you see,

For this is where only men should be.

Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!

Follow me, follow me, every true man!

Come with me over the battle field, come!

Follow the drum, the drum, the drum!

Through the smoke and heat and the storm of lead,

Adown this gulley piled deep with dead;

And along the edge of this shattered wood,

Where the trees are splintered and dashed with blood;

Then on through this field of trampled corn,

Where the once broad leaves into shreds are torn;

Into the shadow of this ravine,

Where the dead and wounded are everywhere seen.

Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!

Follow me, follow me, every true man!

Follow me on through the fiery breath

Of the vengeful cannon, scattering death.

On through the battle's sound and glare,

Follow me, follow me, everywhere!

And hear the cries and the awful groans,

The piercing shrieks and the feeble moans—

And the ringing shout which goes up to the sun,

When a work is stormed and a victory won.

Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!

This is the death for every true man.

Then Winnie recited.—See page 25.

But the crowning performance of the day, in the opinion of all the girls and boys, was a little drama, written expressly for the occasion, entitled, "Revolutionary Days." The characters represented were an elderly lady, two young girls, two little children, a negro servant girl, an elderly gentleman, a Tory, and two young men, Continental soldiers.

While the platform was being cleared and prepared, the girls and boys who took part were having what they called "fine fun" in the dressing-room, getting their hair powdered, caps and wigs adjusted, and so on.

When the curtain rose, Miriam was discovered, dressed as an elderly lady of the eighteenth century, sitting in an old-fashioned chair beside a spinning-wheel, and singing a song of Revolutionary days. As she ceased singing, two little children, borrowed from the primary class in the "Colony," came in, begging their grandmother to tell them something about George Washington. She tells them that she is busy, but they persist, and then tell her that they know some verses about him, and each recites, alternately, a verse of four lines, descriptive of Washington's childhood and school days, and, as seems inevitable, winding up with the story of the hatchet.

As they finish, a negro servant girl rushes in, in which burnt-cork heroine it would be utterly impossible to discover the maiden of the pickles and of the ardent desire to enjoy herself while young, had she not been seen in the dressing-room "making up" for the occasion. She informs Mrs. Grey that the cat or something has pulled all the yarn off the reel, and of its consequent fearful state of entanglement. Mrs. Grey rouses herself from her reverie, and asks the children if they know anything about it. Each accusingly points to the other, whereupon their grandmother looks at them sternly, when they say they "can't tell a lie," that they did it with—

They are interrupted by Mrs. Grey, who tells Dinah to take them away and put them to bed without their supper. They begin to howl, and reproachfully tell their grandmother that she ought to say, "Come to my arms, my precious children;" whereupon an audacious small boy in the audience—a visitor, it is needless to say—shouts, "Chestnut!" and Mrs. Grey's face hardens into a look of positive inflexibility, as if this were the last straw, and the children, howling and struggling, are carried away by Dinah.

Quiet being thus restored, Mrs. Grey paces up and down, indulging in a long soliloquy. She speaks of the long years of war, and the hope deferred which maketh the heart sick. She regretfully recalls the bonnie little island, with its green fields and blooming gardens, which had been forsaken for these scenes of hardship. Then, however, she remembers the days of oppression there, and bursts into a thanksgiving that they had at last found a spot where they could worship God in peace according to the dictates of their own conscience. Then she thinks of the Declaration of Independence, and tries to remember the resolution of Richard Henry Lee. Seeing the girls come in, she says that they will remember.

The two girls, Winnie and Fannie, attired in short-waisted dresses, big poke bonnets, and immense outside pockets, are asked by Mrs. Grey to recall the resolution which has for the moment slipped from her recollection. One of them (Fannie), in answer, declaims the resolution, and as she comments, in rather excited tones, "Glorious, mother, isn't it?" Mr. Cranston, the Tory gentleman, enters. This was one of the boys of the class, resplendent in hempen wig, frilled shirt front, and the veritable "brass-buttoned coat, with long blue flaps," knee breeches, and silver-buckled slippers. He tauntingly informs them that they will find it "too glorious, when the rebellion is crushed, and they are all sentenced to be executed as rebels."

Whereupon he and the colonial young ladies enter into a heated argument, with taunts on one side about the minute-men of Massachusetts and the battles of Lexington and Concord, and retaliations from the Tory about the battle of Long Island and the miseries at Valley Forge. They retort with the news of the treaty of alliance with France, and he replies by reminding them of the loss of their ports in the north.

He is interrupted by the entrance of the children, who tell the group that every one in the village is shouting "Hurrah!" that the bell in the church is ringing, and that the big flag is waving over the roof. While the patriots are exclaiming that "there must be good news," two young men enter, carrying guns. All spring up in surprise, and the children dance and caper about, with shouts of "Uncle Mark! Uncle John!"

Mark and John inform Mrs. Grey and their sisters of the surrender of Cornwallis. The Tory makes his way out as quietly as possible, with a very evident desire to do so unobserved, saying, "Cornwallis surrendered! Then this is no place for me!" The curtain falls, as Mrs. Grey exclaims, with clasped hands and upraised eyes, "The morning has dawned at last!"

There was the usual applause, and soon visitors and children—the entertained and the entertainers—were on their homeward way, and the "exhibition" had become a part of the past.

CHAPTER VII.
THE YOUNG WARRIOR MAIDS.

After the entertainment, things went on in their accustomed routine. Winnie, Miriam, Gretta and Fannie became more intimate than ever, and really tried, in spite of many discouragements, to conquer their bad habits.

For a couple of weeks the little band of "Giant Killers" had had no meetings, but on the second week after the Washington celebration, the four girls received a pretty invitation from Winnifred's Aunt Kitty to take tea with her on the following Friday, and to consider themselves invited to hold their next meeting at her home, bidding them tell their mothers that the hostess would see that they arrived home safe not later than half-past nine. Also, inclosed under cover to Winnie, was an invitation for Ernestine Alroy, to be delivered only in case the other three girls were willing. Upon Winnie's showing this, Fannie was the first to propose that not only should the invitation be delivered, but that Ernestine should be invited to join their society.

The family of Winnie's grandmother was a small one, Mrs. Benton often saying, with a sigh, that her children had all left her except Kitty and Fred. Whereupon Kitty would take hold of her mother's hand and assure her, in a serio-comic manner, that this daughter she would have ever beside her, "to warn, to comfort, to command." Mrs. Benton was not wealthy, but she had a comfortable income of her own, and as Fred received a very good salary in one of the large railroad offices, they always had means for the comforts of life and many of its luxuries. They lived in a suite of rooms in one of the finest apartment houses of the city.

The "Arlington" was a very large building, and as the girls were not accustomed to such immense houses, they had arranged with Winnie that they should all go together at five o'clock. Accordingly that hour found them all standing in the vestibule together, to the manifest amusement of the janitor when he answered Winnie's ring. As Mrs. Benton's apartment was only one flight up, they did not take the elevator, but Winnie ran lightly up the stairs, the others following more slowly. She knocked at the door at the right of the hall, which was immediately opened by Miss Benton, to whom Winnie introduced the other girls, who more or less timidly put their hands into the outstretched one of this pleasant young lady, but found their timidity vanish almost as if by magic when they felt her warm, cordial clasp as she drew them into the parlor.

And a very pretty parlor it was, with a quaint individuality of its own—"just like Kitty Benton herself," as her friends were wont to say. There were no two chairs alike, but they all agreed in one respect—that of being exceedingly comfortable, from the high-backed willow to the low chair upholstered in old gold and scarlet tapestry.

On the walls were five or six oil paintings—a couple of marines, and the others bright, summer landscapes. There was one, which Miss Benton had herself painted, entirely different from the others. A cloudy sky, with dim, gray mountains in the distance. In the foreground a single grave under a willow, but lying in such vivid sunlight, which came from a break in the clouds, that it had almost a jubilant look for so sad a subject, as most people would have deemed it. On a low shelf stood a beautifully engraved Madonna, and on a table near was a portfolio of fine etchings. About the room were bits of bric-a-brac of various kinds, among them a piece of genuine old Wedgwood. On the upright piano stood a tall vase of Easter lilies.

Miss Benton, having helped her young visitors to divest themselves of their wraps, seated them close to the open fire, and then took down the etchings to show them. These, however, proved a little beyond them, so she took from the table a stereoscope and some views, every one of which had been collected by her mother or herself during their various trips, and about each one she told some incident, amusing or pathetic, so that an hour had passed away almost before the girls knew it.

Fred had been requested by his sister to take his supper downtown, as she felt that the girls would feel more at their ease without his presence. When the bright-faced maid announced supper, Miss Benton took Gretta by the hand, and said, as they all entered the dining-room, "'We are seven,' and, I presume, if Wordsworth were here, he would write a poem about us."

As the five friends took their places, they simultaneously burst into an exclamation of delight. At each of their places was a bunch of flowers, with a card on which was a pretty little painting in water-colors of a young girl, with fair hair streaming over her shoulders, in full armor, receiving from an angel a sword. Underneath were the words in old English text, in scarlet and gold, "He that overcometh shall inherit all things."

The cards were exactly alike, but the flowers were different. Miriam had a glorious red rose, with buds and leaves; Gretta, garden daisies and primroses; Fannie, scarlet geraniums, a calla lily and a wild jack-in-the-pulpit; Ernestine, lilies of the valley; Winnie, ferns and mignonette. Mrs. Benton lifted caressingly to her face a bunch of English violets, and their hostess pinned on her bodice a cluster of yellow rosebuds.

"Oh, Aunt Kitty, what a hunt you must have had among the florists and markets for all these flowers!" said Winnie.

"And how well you have suited us all!" cried Miriam.

"What is this, Miss Benton?" asked Fannie, holding up the jack-in-the-pulpit.

"That is a wild-flower," replied Miss Benton, giving the blossom its name, "which was sent me from Tennessee this week; it does not bloom quite so early here. If you will examine it and compare it with your calla, you will see many points of resemblance; indeed, they are of the same family, although the splendid Egyptian calla has all the advantages of climate, water and sun, which make it the handsome thing it is. But our little American Jack, all the same, lifts its head out of its green pulpit and preaches to us of the eternal kinship of all things. Put your geraniums in your button hole, and after tea I'll put your calla and its country cousin in water for you to keep fresh till you go home."

"How did you know I was fond of lilies of the valley, Miss Benton?" asked Ernestine. "It is my mother's favorite flower, too; she says they used to grow in great clumps in the yard of her home when she was a girl, and she never sees one without thinking of her childhood."

"Of course I couldn't know that, my dear; I only thought that you would like them. Although I had never met any of you I have heard Winnifred talk about you, and her little tongue sometimes gives me queer ideas," said Miss Benton, smiling at her niece with an air of good comradeship.

"Mother, let Winnie serve the chocolate, while I attend to this end of the table. You see, girls, we only have the maid bring in the dishes from the kitchen, for we like to wait on each other," she said, helping them to chicken croquettes, cold ham, and delicious muffins, as Winnie passed around the chocolate in dainty china cups.

How they all enjoyed that supper! They were just like girls in a book, Miriam said. Everything seemed so different from ordinary occasions. Even the orange jelly tasted so much better than at other times, because of the orange baskets in which it was served. They sat at the table a long time, for both Mrs. Benton and her daughter encouraged their visitors to talk; and while they were eating their candy and nuts, they played the game of rhymes and "yes and no."

Then Miss Kitty sent them into the parlor with her mother, excusing herself and Winnie for a few moments. When they entered the parlor, they found Mrs. Benton with her silk socks in her hands, knitting as rapidly as she was talking. She was giving them an account of the old turkey gobbler that used to chase her when she was a little girl, and they were all laughing heartily.

This anecdote led to Miriam's giving an account of a goat which one of her aunt's friends had presented to her little boy, and which was the terror of the neighborhood.

"My aunt and I," said Miriam, "were making an afternoon visit at Mrs. Kincaid's, and, as it was warm and pleasant, we were invited into the yard to look at the flowers. My aunt was very enthusiastically admiring a fine Yucca which, for a wonder, was in bloom, when the goat was seen peering through a gap in the fence which divided the front from the back yard.

"Mrs. Kincaid immediately took to her heels, and I was about to follow, when Aunt Jennie said, 'Miriam, I am surprised that you should be afraid of a goat. Even if he were to come near you, you would only have to seize him by the horns; it is the easiest thing in the world to conquer a goat.'

"By this time Mrs. Kincaid was safe in the house, tapping loudly on the window, from which she was viewing the scene, for us to come in, and 'dancing crazy' (as the girls say about things), because we were still outside.

"My aunt was walking in a leisurely and dignified manner toward the house, holding her head a little higher than usual, and I was following very meekly for me—for I hate to be thought a coward—when the goat gave a sudden bound, broke another picket in the fence, and went straight toward her with his head down, and his bob tail switching.

"Well, Aunt Jennie did turn and face him, and she really did take the vicious little beast by the horns. But was he conquered? You wouldn't have thought so, had you been there; he just raised himself on his hind legs and shook himself loose. Aunt Jennie suddenly dropped her dignity, and flew, rather than ran, toward the house, the goat after her, and she just escaped him by Mrs. Kincaid's pulling her inside the door and slamming it shut.

"As for me, I went through the hole in the fence to the back yard, rushed pell-mell into the kitchen door, without stopping to knock, and dropped into the nearest chair, where I sat and laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks, to the astonishment of the kitchen girl and the washerwoman, who were enjoying a cup of tea.

"I was wicked enough to laugh afterward, for Aunt Jennie did not lecture on courage or dignity for a month after that, and I notice now that when we pass a livery stable she keeps a quiet but effective lookout for 'the horned monarch of the livery stable,' as I once heard him called."

"Well, I'm afraid of goats myself," said Miss Kitty, "and I think there ought to be a law against their being allowed inside the city limits. What with the small boy who torments the goat, and the goat which cannot distinguish between his tormentor and any other member of the human race, every passer-by is certain of being made ridiculous, if nothing more serious occurs. But to change the subject, would you young giant-killers like to hear a story that I have written for you?"

Of course they were delighted, and, the softly-shaded lamp having been adjusted, and Mrs. Benton seated so that the light fell upon her knitting, Miss Benton took her seat at the other side of the table, and read the following allegory:

GIANT PROCRASTINATION.

Stretching off far as the eye can reach, lies a vast plain, intersected by many roads of various widths, from the narrowest foot-path to those wide enough for three or four vehicles to pass abreast. Pleasant roads they seem to be, too; wild-flowers of brilliant hues grow along their sides, birds of beautiful plumage twitter their varied notes, and pretty little squirrels and rabbits dart here and there. But when the saunterer along one of these by-paths plucks the blossoms, they fall to pieces in his hands, and, on near approach, the birds circle for a few moments about the head, and then fly away and are seen no more.

These by-ways continually lead into and cross one another, but all at last meet in one broad road, and this is the road of "By and By," which leads to the castle of "Never." This castle stands at the entrance to a dark and gloomy forest, through which no path has ever been cut, and which is so dense and wild that one draws back in fear, finding it impossible not to think of it as inhabited by beasts and serpents and insects as wild and poisonous as those which infest the South American forests or the jungles of India.

At the right and left of the castle rise huge cliffs unscaled by mortal foot during the lifetime of the present owner, and seldom attempted even during the ages gone by, when his ancestors, in a more or less direct line, held high orgies, while with demoniac laughter they tortured their victims.

The present owner and occupant of the castle is a giant, so skilled in the art of metamorphosis that he is constantly deceiving and deluding his victims, each of whom he approaches in a different manner. With some he wears an air of haughty though courteous dignity, and gives them fair and sweet promises of granting their every desire as soon as his plans are perfected and he is ready. With others, he puts on a smiling, joyous look, points out to them the birds and flowers along the roadside, and tells them that to-morrow all these pleasures shall be theirs. A different face and garb for every deluded follower, who ever ends in becoming his victim; for, just at the entrance to the castle, still covered by the seemingly fair flowers, is a frightful morass, out of which the wanderer is helped only by the giant himself, and taken by him thence into the castle, from which there is no escape.

The dreadful Castle of Never! And yet, how fair it looks to those who stand just outside its gates! Its battlemented towers, decorated with flags and banners floating gayly in the air, its many windows, catching and reflecting every ray of sunlight, its majestic proportions, make it seem a dwelling much to be desired. And either because it is enchanted, or from some strange property of the surrounding atmosphere, it often appears to be raised high in the air, so that at a very great distance it shows larger, if less distinct, than when viewed near by.

It is early morning. The sun himself has not yet risen, although his approach is heralded by lovely green and rose tints on the eastern horizon. The great Giant Procrastination lies stretched upon his huge bed, dreaming uneasily, for he groans and starts many times, but still sleeps on. The inside of the far-famed castle shows not so fair as the outside. There are many things lying about on tables and chairs, or tucked away under articles of larger furniture; some of them are pretty, some elegant, but all unfinished.

The morning wind, rising as if it, too, had lain asleep during the night, shrieks and whistles as if in wrath, or moans and sighs as though in mortal anguish. And hush! What other sound is that which rises above the roar of the wind and fills one's soul with terror? Alas! it is the shrieks of despair from the prisoners in the dungeon, and one hears, mingled with their groans, the dreadful words, "Too late! Too late!"

But who are these descending the heretofore unscaled cliff? And how comes it that thus unguided they have escaped the dangers of the forest, and that, now stealing upon their sleeping foe from the unguarded rear, they are not dashed into pieces as they make the steep and terrible descent? Ah! they have an invisible Guide, who goes before and smooths every difficulty; and their feet are shod with a divine determination which leads them securely over the most dangerous places.

And yet they move with caution. Clinging now to the bushes that grow along the cliff, now stepping carefully on some jutting crag, they come one by one. Now they have reached the bottom, and stop a moment to take breath and consult as to the next movement. For behold! five little maidens, scarcely in their teens, have come to give battle to one of the strongest enemies of mankind, and to attack him in his own stronghold. Brave as they are, however, and resolutely as they have nerved themselves to the task ahead of them, they cannot repress a shudder as they gaze upon the frowning mass before them. For, never dreaming of attack in the rear, the giant's ancestors had taken no pains to make that part of the castle beautiful or to endow it with the enchantment of illusion, so all is dark and strong and terrible.

Regaining courage, the five young warriors kneel upon the rocky path and ask their invisible Guide for succor and strength. They rise encouraged and hopeful, and each assists the other to readjust her armor. Wonderful armor! light to wear, but stronger than mailed steel.

They advance to the heavy door. It is all unguarded, and even stands partly open, so that all their strength is saved to them for the combat. One by one, and noiselessly, they climb the iron stairs, and, guided by his snores, they find themselves at last in the presence of their sleeping enemy.

If they can but strike now! One blow from either of their swords, and he would lie slain before them. But alas! they hesitate for one short moment, and in that brief space of time the wind bangs a heavy shutter against the iron casement, and, at its fearful clang, the giant awakes and rises to his feet. He stares about him for a moment, stupefied, but there is no mistaking the fact that he is in the presence of an enemy; for their armor, their uplifted swords, their resolute mien, all proclaim their errand to be one of war. Then, gazing upon their diminutive forms, he laughs a horrid, blood-curdling laugh, as he gloats over the prospect that he will soon have five more victims to languish in his dungeons.

He springs forward to seize the foremost of his youthful foes, but her fear has vanished. Raising her shield for protection, she strikes with her sword, and the giant receives a fearful gash in the hand outstretched to grasp her, and starts back, howling with pain. The five girls close around him at once, but so immense of stature is he, that they soon perceive it will be impossible for them to reach a vital part unless he can be thrown.

Fast and furious they rain the blows upon him, and not in vain. He has no armor on, his usual weapons are beyond his reach, and he knows instinctively that his usual powers of metamorphosis are useless. One blow, at last, inflicts a ghastly wound in his ankle; he clutches at the bed for support, but misses it, and falls, groaning heavily, at full length on the floor, where, taken at a disadvantage, a sword is thrust into his heart, and with horrid struggles he dies.

The maiden warriors embrace each other joyfully, and, kneeling together in that moment of victory, give all the praise and glory to that invisible Power which has enabled them, weak girls as they are, to conquer.

But their work is not yet done. Taking the keys from under the pillow of the dead monster, they pass down a winding staircase, until they find themselves so far beneath the surface of the earth, that not a ray of light shines over their pathway.

One of them lights a tiny lamp which she has brought with her, and they proceed. At length they reach the foot of the stairs and find themselves in a dark, narrow passage, with many windings and turnings. Along this they proceed carefully, until they stand before the massive doors of the dungeon. Trying one key after another, they find one that turns the lock, and the door swings open. What a sight meets their sorrowful gaze! Bones—human bones—lie scattered everywhere, and, as they become more accustomed to the darkness, they distinguish human forms still living, with haggard faces, and despair written on every feature.

"Your enemy is dead!" say the maidens. "We have come to set you free, and then we are going to burn the castle, for thus has our Guide commanded us."

As they all stand once more in the glad sunlight, they set fire to the mighty structure, and see the leaping, victorious flames devour it, even to the flags and banners which had so short a time before streamed gayly from its towers.

"Thank you, Aunt Kitty," said Winnifred, as Miss Benton laid down the manuscript. "I don't see how you ever thought of all that."

"Well, Winnie, we all know that the idea is taken from the book you have recently been reading, but where no pretense is made to originality, imitation is not deception."

"But do you really think, Miss Benton," said Ernestine, raising her eyes, "that we can so completely conquer our faults?"

"Alas, no! I'm afraid we never can completely conquer them, but by striving constantly we can strike many a blow, each one of which leaves the enemy weaker, and ourselves stronger. The great pity of it all is, that we can kill only our own giants, and destroy their strongholds for ourselves; we can never do it for others, dearly as we may love them."

"Well," said Fannie, in her decided manner, "I wish that Procrastination were the only giant to fight; but I have some enemies which are still harder for me to conquer;" and she blushed slightly, as she involuntarily glanced toward Ernestine.

"It is a great gain, however," said Mrs. Benton, pausing in her knitting, "when we have learned to do that which must be done, without unnecessary delay. Procrastination, it is quite true, is the least vicious and the least malicious of all the faults; but stronger, almost, than any other, and holding more people, young and old, under its control. If this be overcome, the struggle with the others grows easier. Indeed, it is surprising how many little misdeeds are the outcome of that one fault. Untidiness, fits of temper, disobedience, prevarication, and sometimes even downright untruth, might often be avoided if things were done in time."

"But it is hard always to remember," sighed Miriam. "Ernestine, how do you keep from forgetting?"

"Oh, I forget oftener than you know," said Ernestine, flushing under her delicate skin; "but I have had mamma to think of, and have tried to please her and make her happy; then, too, I had a nurse in Louisiana who taught me to remember that there is One 'who is a very present help in time of trouble.'"

"That is the best help of all, girls, and one that you can carry with you always. I find mottoes and texts a great help, too, when I want to succeed in any one particular thing. How would it do, at your next meeting, for each one to contribute a text from the Bible, and, if possible, a quotation from one of the poets, applicable to this same wheedling fault?" said Miss Benton.

"I should like that very much," replied Ernestine.

"So would I!" "And I!" "And I!" replied Miriam, Fannie and Winnie.

Gretta only was silent, but Miss Kitty judged it best to pass her silence by without remark.

At this moment, Mr. Fred Benton entered the parlor and was introduced to the girls, and very soon they were all escorted to their homes by their friend's uncle, who proved himself as good an entertainer of these little women as was his sister.

CHAPTER VIII.
STRUGGLES.

"Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home," carolled Winnie, as she descended the stairs the next morning, feeling happy and contented, and as if the world were a pleasant place in which to live and love and to succeed in being good. She felt at peace with everybody, and had such a sense of security that she imagined her giants all conquered, and saw in rosy hues a future of beautiful and pleasant right-doing.

What was her surprise when she entered the dining-room, expecting to find the usual tempting breakfast on the table, to see not the slightest signs of it, and to find the room unoccupied except by little Ralph, who was sitting in front of the empty grate in his night-clothes; and a very cross little boy Winnie soon found him to be, for he set up a howl the moment he saw her.

"'Innie, I 'ants to be d'essed, and it's ugly izout any fire, and I 'ants my b'eakast."

"Whatever is the matter?" said Winnie. But she received no answer except the whining refrain, "I 'ants my b'eakast," until she began to feel so irritated that she would have liked to shake the child.

This, however, she did not do, simply because she did not dare. But instead of attempting to soothe him, she went into the kitchen to find out from Norah the reason for this unusual state of affairs. Instead of Norah, she found her mother heating water and making mustard plasters, with an anxious look on her face.

"What is the matter, mamma?" asked Winnie; "and where are papa and Jack?"

"They had important business at the store and couldn't wait, but will take breakfast downtown. Norah was taken very sick in the night, but she said nothing about it, and came down as usual this morning to get breakfast, and I found her in a dead faint on the kitchen floor. Your father and I got her upstairs between us, and Jack went for the doctor. He says it is nothing serious, but that Norah will have to keep still for two or three days. Help me carry these things to Norah's room, and then you will have to come downstairs and get some breakfast for us."

Winnie took the pail of water which her mother handed to her, and started upstairs, feeling a strange sense of resentment against Norah, as if she were to blame for this unpleasant condition of affairs.

When they reached Norah's room, her mother said, "Put down the pail, Winnie, and make haste downstairs and see if you can't get things into some kind of order; it's getting very late."

Winnie put the water down so hurriedly that it splashed over the floor. Then she went out, but instead of hurrying, went down clinging to the balusters as if she could not and would not make any exertion.

When she opened the dining-room door Ralph said: "I sink Norah's mean to det sick; she dust did it a-purpose, so Ralph touldn't have any b'eakast."

"Why, Ralph," said Winnie, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Of course it's no fun for Norah to be sick." But as she spoke to Ralph, her conscience reproached her, for she knew in her heart that she had had the same feeling, if not the same thought. This startled her, as if she had suddenly had a mirror held up before her mind, and she spoke to the little boy more pleasantly, telling him to come into the kitchen with her and watch her make the coffee and cook some ham and eggs for breakfast.

But although aware that her conscience was speaking to her, Winnie had not in the least succeeded in overcoming her irritable feelings. She had made plans for such a pleasant day! She had intended to practice faithfully, and get through all her little duties early in the afternoon, so that she could take Ralph through market—something that she particularly liked to do; it was always so exciting to her to see the people jostling each other, to hear them haggling over the price of something, to see the strange types and characters, and to imagine the different motives which brought these different people together. Besides, she had been saving her money to surprise her mother with a pot of English violets from the flower market, which would be sure to be particularly lovely this afternoon, for the sun shone out brightly, giving promise of an unusually warm day for March.

"How could people do their duty, if they never knew what it was going to be?" she mused, as she measured out the coffee and put it into the filter. But as she went to turn the water over it, she remembered that her mother had emptied the hot water from the kettle into the pail.

"I should think mamma might have taken the water out of the tank for Norah!" she said, half aloud, although she knew very well that the water in the tank was scarcely warm, as she proceeded to fill the kettle.

She poked the fire viciously, feeling as if here she could give her impatience some vent.

The ham, fortunately, Norah had sliced the evening before, otherwise in her present state of irritation Winnie would certainly have cut her fingers.

Now, when Winnie chose, she could be a very nice little housekeeper; but this morning, as may well be imagined, everything went wrong, as she said, never thinking that perhaps her own impatience might be at fault. She burnt the ham, the eggs did not break open nicely, she cut her finger in slicing the bread, and altogether it took her so long to get breakfast that poor little Ralph, still running about in his night-clothes, was, as he expressed it, "starved 'mos' to death."

Mrs. Burton came down before Winnie had finished setting the table, and a glance at the little girl's flushed face was sufficient to tell the observant mother the true state of affairs. As usual in such cases, however, she said nothing, but called Ralph and took him upstairs to be dressed, telling Winnie that she would be down in ten minutes for breakfast.

When they came down, Mrs. Burton said:

"This morning we will not say our verses till after breakfast, as I am sure we are all of us too hungry to receive any benefit from them now;" and she proceeded to pour the coffee. Then Winnie saw that she had forgotten the cream and jumped up to get it.

"Your coffee is very nice, Winnie," said her mother.

"Oh, mamma, I didn't think anything would be nice! I had such a time! The fire wouldn't burn, and I burnt my fingers and afterward cut them, and everything was horrid generally."

"I had a defful time gene'lly, too," said Ralph. "I was so hung'y I toudn't wait, and 'Innie 'ouldn't div me a tracker, and said I'se a bodder. Is I a bodder, mamma?"

"Not when you're a good boy, my pet. Sister doesn't always think so, either; but you see, this morning she had so much to do."

"Did Norah det sick so 'Innie have to 'ork so hard? Poor 'Innie!" And the little fellow stroked Winnie's hand, while she scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry.

Altogether it was quite an unusual breakfast. Ralph ate three eggs, and more bread and butter than he had ever been known to eat before; and Winnie felt her own impatience dying away to some extent, as her hunger diminished, although she had not realized before that she was hungry.

After breakfast Mrs. Burton gave her text, and then called upon Winnie for hers. Up to that moment Winnie's text had entirely left her mind, and she recited it with a feeling of shame as she remembered the contrast between her morning conduct and the somewhat puffed-up feeling with which she had selected it: "He that ruleth his own spirit is greater than he that taketh a city."

"Perhaps only the One above knows how hard it is for people to govern their own spirits. The temptation to yield to self is so strong that it sometimes seems as if there is nothing that will conquer it," commented Mrs. Burton.

"But mamma, everybody says, 'Do the duty that lies nearest thee.' How are we to do this, when we never know what is going to happen from one day to another? This morning I thought I was going to get my music lesson, and now how can I do that?"

"That is where we all make mistakes, Winnifred. We lay our plans, and are annoyed and vexed when something occurs to change them. We are like soldiers placed on the field of battle. Some of us would like an easy place; some would rather stay behind and guard the rear; others, in spite of danger, wish to press forward where 'glory waits them.' But we cannot choose either our own places or the attending circumstances. All we can do is to fall to 'with might and main.' God will take care of the ordinary duties, but there are some things which brook no delay. Do we not know how the Savior turned away from the chosen way to heal the sick or comfort the afflicted? But I think that my present duty is to cut my sermon short, for both you and I will have a great deal to do to-day. I will attend to things upstairs, and will be down to do the baking by the time you are through the work here."

So saying, Mrs. Burton rose from the table and left the room. Winnie still felt a sense of disappointment, but the little sermon, arising, as it did, from the text she herself had selected, had been good for her, and she went to work cheerfully and systematically, and the difficulties which an hour ago had seemed so great, all disappeared.

Ralph, too—who was so unlike most children of his age as not to be fond of doing anything that appeared in the least like work—seemed animated by the spirit of the occasion, and trotted back and forth between the kitchen and dining-room carrying a plate or a cup and saucer, and feeling that he was helping greatly.

As for Winnie, she had none of the feeling of some girls who are ashamed to be seen doing housework, for her mother had taught her, both by word and example, the folly and sinfulness of such a notion, and that it is the worker who degrades the work instead of the opposite; and as a very little girl, Winnie had learned Herbert's fine lines:

"Who sweeps a room as by God's laws,

Makes that and the action fine."

Now that she was working cheerfully, she even found a pleasure in dish-washing, as who should not, given plenty of hot water, clean towels, a pleasant kitchen with the sun shining in, and a little cherub of a brother chattering on with his cunning tongue, which finds so much difficulty in pronouncing the consonants?

So, when Mrs. Burton returned to the kitchen, everything was in fine order, and a bright fire had prepared the oven to do its share in the Saturday baking.

When noon came, Winnie really felt that she had had a pleasant morning, although it had been spent in beating eggs and grating lemons; besides, she had for once had her mother all to herself, and she sat down to the lunch she had prepared feeling quite happy.

She did not get an opportunity to leave the house all that day, except to do two or three errands in the neighborhood. She took Norah's toast and tea up to her, and spent the greater part of the afternoon in her room, trying to make amends for the morning's impatience by bathing the sick girl's head, changing her pillows, and moistening her parched lips.

CHAPTER IX.
RALPH'S BIRTHDAY.

A few days after the events narrated in the last chapter, a bright, sunshiny morning ushered in Ralph's fourth birthday anniversary, and a fine time he had receiving, in the first place, four little love taps and then four kisses from each member of the family in turn.

Norah had entirely recovered from her illness, and had baked a cake especially for him, lighted by four wax candles, which was placed in front of Ralph's plate at breakfast time. His father gave him that toy most delightful to the average boy—a mechanical engine. Jack's gift was a basket of fruit, his mother's a humming top, and Winnie's a little autograph album, in which she had copied the following verse, written by Aunt Kitty:

"Many tiny sunbeams fill the world with light,

Tiny drops of water make the ocean's might;

Tiny bits of goodness, that tiny laddies do,

Fill our homes with gladness and make our hearts glad, too."

Ralph was much pleased at having a little book all his own, with a verse in it made on purpose for him, and he had Winnie read it over and over, until presently he could say it himself.

But the crowning gift of all was sent to the house just as they were at dinner, labeled "From Grandma, Aunt Kitty and Uncle Fred." It was a handsome velocipede, just the right height to fit the little short legs. Strange to say, Ralph learned to manage it at once and rode right off on it, and when Aunt Kitty came to take him and Winnie to the park, it was with great difficulty that he could be prevailed upon to leave it behind. Finally they effected a compromise by allowing him to take his humming top, which he insisted on stopping to spin every few rods, much to the amusement of Aunt Kitty and the intense though unexpressed disgust and mortification of Winnie.

When they reached the park they sat down on one of the benches to rest awhile, and watched Ralph feed the swans with some crumbs from the cake which he had brought. After that Aunt Kitty took them to the pretty dock, and, having selected a boat, rowed them around the lake, to the great interest of some boys, who called out to each other, "Come and see a girl row a boat!"

Suddenly Ralph gave one of his tremendous howls, and Winnie grasped him just in time to keep him from pitching headlong into the water. He had dropped his top in the lake, and was trying in vain to seize it before it sank.

It was some time before he could be pacified, and it was not till his aunt had him sit beside her and take hold of one oar and help her row, that he could be comforted. The remainder of the boat ride was very pleasant, and they supposed the child had forgotten all about the loss of his top. When they went home to supper, however, and Mr. Burton asked: "Well, my little man, what have you done with your birthday?"

"I took it to the park and lost it in the lake, papa!" was the unexpected reply.

"Fortunate child!" exclaimed Aunt Kitty, catching Ralph up, and laughing. "How happy the rest of us would be if we could dispose of our yearly reminders of the lapse of time in the same way! We might fancy ourselves blessed with the gift of eternal youth if it were not for our birthdays."

But Ralph was not yet through celebrating. It was very seldom that Mrs. Burton allowed him to go out in the evening, but this was a special occasion, and as there was an opportunity for him to have a treat, she thought it only right for them to take advantage of it. There was to be a stereopticon entertainment at their Sunday-school, and they were all going. Ralph had not been told until supper was over, and even then, short as the time was until they should start out, he could hardly restrain his impatience.

They watched Ralph feed the swans.—See page 42.

Aunt Kitty took him on her lap and told him the story of Red Riding-Hood and the Fair One with the Golden Locks, and repeated "Mother Goose" jingles to him, and thus managed to keep him somewhat contented until time to start.

The walk through the lighted streets was a great pleasure to the little fellow. They went down Central Avenue, and, all the stores being lighted, it seemed to the child a different and mysterious world, more full of lights and people than the one he had been accustomed to.

"Now, Ralph," said his father, "we are going to see a great many beautiful things to-night. But this is different from most times; for generally, the more light we have, the better we can see; but these pictures can be seen better in the dark, and they put out all the lights. When that happens, some foolish boy or girl may cry, but I want my little man to keep hold of papa's hand and not say one word till he sees the beautiful pictures."

"I doesn't twy, papa!" said Ralph, indignantly. "I'se a big boy now—not a dreat big boy, but a little big boy. And I hasn't twied—oh, not for twenty-ten days, I dess."

"Very well," said papa, "be sure to remember that by and by."

When they reached the church it was still quite early, and the few people already there were laughing and chatting and having a pleasant time. This was very much to Ralph's disapproval. He did not attend church often, but when he did go, he had been talked to so much about keeping still, particularly by Winnie, that he thought it very naughty to make a noise in church, so now he said in a loud whisper:

"Papa, I sink dose people is very naughty, to talk out loud in church."

"But this isn't Sunday, Ralph," his father said; "you may talk, too, if you like."

Ralph was so surprised at this that he had nothing to say for some time.

Presently some of the girls of Winnie's Sunday-school class came and she went away with them, and Miss Benton stepped across the aisle to speak to some friends. This secession grieved Ralph very much. "I sink auntie's weal mean, to go and stay wiz dose ozzer people!" he said.

"Aunt Kitty will come back in a few moments, Ralph," said mamma.

By and by all the people stopped talking and took their seats, and Aunt Kitty came back and sat down beside Ralph. Two men entered and placed a big screen in the front part of the church. The organist began to play something slow and sweet and solemn, which made one think of things sad but not unhappy.

The lights were suddenly turned out, and Ralph had just time to draw his breath quickly, and seize his father's hand and snuggle up close to him, when a picture appeared on the screen, and his father lifted him up that he might see it better.

On the screen they saw a lonely, desolate mountain, which two persons were slowly ascending, one of them bearing an armful of wood. One represented an old man; the other was a young, slender boy. The organ was now giving forth minor strains, in queer, broken time, full of heartache.

The next picture showed Abraham binding Isaac on the altar, and the look of surprise and terror on the face of the boy was equalled only by the intense but submissive expression of sorrow on the face of the old man.

The organ was still sounding its sad tones, when the picture changed again, and this time the angel was staying Abraham's hand. And now the organ pealed forth tones of joy and gladness.

The next views thrown on the screen appeared to be scenes in Switzerland. These Ralph did not seem to be at all interested in, until they saw a representation of Lake Lucerne, showing some children rowing a boat. This reminded Ralph of the loss of his humming-top, and he said, quite loudly, "Do you sink, papa, that little boy lost his birfday, too?"

"If he did," said Aunt Kitty, "he will probably find another one to make up for its loss."

The next picture was that of Jacob's Dream; a tall ladder, reaching to the sky, with the bright-winged "angels ascending and descending on it," as the narrative so simply tells us. Jacob lay with his head on its stony pillow, a wondering but happy look on his face, and his arms outstretched as if he would fain seize the lovely vision.

The dreamy tones of Schumann's "Traumerie" stole upon the air, and changed from that, with skillful modulations, into a grand anthem, and the big chorus choir, which till now had been silent, burst into joyful but majestic strains: "The Lord reigneth; let the people tremble."

Ralph knew this picture quite well. He had seen it many times in the big family Bible, and it was always a favorite with him, and now he clapped his little hands. This was an unintentional signal, and there was such a round of applause that the whole thing was repeated.

The next picture showed Jacob wrestling with the angel; and in the following one, Jacob, kneeling, receives the desired blessing. Then came a series of comic pictures, which made everybody laugh. Then the words "Good-night" were thrown on the screen in immense letters, and it grew light in the church as suddenly as it had before grown dark, making everybody rub his eyes on account of the sudden glare.

The people all began to hurry out as if it were necessary to reach home without a moment's delay. Winnie soon joined her family, and in a short time the "Green Line" had taken them all home.

Ralph rubbed his sleepy eyes as he said his evening prayer, but was not too sleepy to thank God for his nice birthday.

CHAPTER X.
ERNESTINE.

"Mamma," asked Ernestine Alroy, "may I ask the girls to have their next meeting here and take tea with us?"

Mrs. Alroy looked at her daughter with some hesitation as she said: "Ernestine, you know I would like to please you, but have you sufficiently considered the matter? All of your friends are very comfortably situated, and it will be impossible for us to entertain them as they do you. Besides, I cannot be at home until after six, and it will make tea very late."

"I know all that, mamma, but I am sure I can make them have a pleasant time. I do not think we ought to be ashamed of being poor, when we think of the One who 'had not where to lay His head.' For your sake, poor mamma, I wish we had more money; but as for myself, I feel just as happy as if we were worth millions. I don't care a bit whether my friends have money or not, and I don't see why it should make any difference to anybody."

"My poor child!" said her mother, and she sighed as she remembered that at Ernestine's age she had never even seen apartments so poorly furnished as theirs, "you have much to learn; you will find that there are many people in the world to whom it will make a great deal of difference."

"Well, mamma, we don't care for the Madame Mucklegrands of the world, and Winnie Burton and all of her folks are as 'real folks' as any in Mrs. Whitney's book. Do let us have them!"

"Well, dear, I don't exactly like to have you accept hospitalities which we are not willing to return, and if you think you can make it pleasant for your friends, you shall do as you wish."

The next day, therefore, Ernestine told the four girls that her mother sent her compliments and would be much pleased to have them to tea on Friday evening. In the afternoon the girls all accepted, and Fannie said that if agreeable to Mrs. Alroy, her father would call for them at nine o'clock and see them home.

After school that day, as Fannie and Ernestine were walking down Court Street together, they met a little girl, dirty and uncombed, carrying a basket of soiled clothes. Two of the boys of their class, racing wildly down the street, boy-fashion, ran against the child, upset the basket, and the clothes, not being very tightly packed, fell out. There was quite a strong wind, and some of the napkins and handkerchiefs lying loose on top were caught up and sent blowing here, there and everywhere.

The boys ran on, totally indifferent, if not unconscious. The child, commencing to cry, gave chase to the wind-blown articles, and the basket rolled entirely over, and nearly every article fell out.

Fannie stood laughing, her sense of the ridiculous overcoming any pity she might have felt for the girl. Ernestine hesitated a moment. She was daintiness itself, and the sight of the soiled clothes, belonging to no one knew whom, was not an attractive one. But for three years she had been earnestly striving to follow the Golden Rule, so she righted the basket, picked up the soiled clothes, rolled them together more tightly, and replaced them in the basket by the time the child returned with the recaptured napkins. She also helped put these in, and with a few kind words sent the girl on her way far happier than she would have been if obliged to struggle with her burden alone.

Fannie had moved on some distance, much ashamed of being mixed up in such a scene to even so slight a degree, and feeling inclined to leave Ernestine entirely, for she knew that her mother would have characterized the whole affair as "plebeian," and she felt half angry with Ernestine.

Ernestine righted the basket.—See page 46.

When the latter rejoined her, she said with some irritation, "However could you touch those horrid, dirty clothes or go near that dirty child?"

"I didn't like to touch them," said Ernestine simply; "but Christ did a great many things he did not like to do."

"Well, you are a queer girl, Ernestine! I'm sure I can't make up my mind that it is my duty to be pleasant to every dirty little beggar who comes along. There might have been small-pox in those clothes!"

Ernestine smiled at that, but made no reply, and the two walked on in silence till they reached the corner where they separated.

Fannie went on, swinging her books by the strap, and thinking that dirt could not be so repulsive to Ernestine as to her; but if she could have seen Ernestine go straight to the kitchen sink the minute she reached home, before she stopped to touch anything, Fannie might have realized something of the self-restraint her friend had exercised in the matter. But few of us can be brought to believe that things we find unpleasant are often quite as unpleasant to other people.

Friday afternoon came, and five o'clock found the four girls entering a side yard in a pleasant if not an aristocratic neighborhood. They went up the stairs leading from a side hall, and were met at the top by Ernestine, who was holding open the door.

She led them into a tiny bedroom, not much larger than a closet, but scrupulously dainty and clean, from the white spread and pillows on the bed to the fresh towels hanging on the rack above the washstand.

Here she helped the girls remove their wraps, and then they went into the adjoining room, which was a pleasant surprise, particularly to Fannie. So pretty and pleasant and homelike it appeared that, at first, it almost seemed elegant, until one had time to observe that there was not an expensive article in the room. The floor was covered with a blue and white checked matting, the chairs and rockers were simply "cane," and the only piece of upholstered furniture was the lounge. But there were some engravings, plainly framed; hanging baskets at both of the windows; a window-box of lilies-of-the-valley, just beginning to bloom, and in the other window a similar box of mignonette, which filled the whole room with its delicate fragrance.

A bright fire blazed in the grate, and the four girls felt at home more quickly than they had done at either of the two places of their previous meetings, probably because Ernestine was their only hostess, her mother not yet having returned from the store.

A late magazine lay on the table, together with a copy of that charming story, "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and Mrs. Whitney's "We Girls" and "Real Folks." Winnie could not help picking them up to see what they were, and it turned out that all of the girls except Gretta had read them, so they immediately began talking about them.

"Mamma and papa and brother Jack took turns in reading 'Fauntleroy' aloud to us when it came out in the magazine," said Winnie, "and for a day or two in each month we hardly talked of anything else."

"I liked the scene of the dinner party best, when the little lord talked to the guests, but stayed close beside the pretty lady and paid her such cunning compliments," said Fannie.

"I enjoyed reading about him in the grocery store with Mr. Hobbs," said Miriam. "I can see them now; Hobbs was so funny! My sister said he was more of a child than the little hero of the story."

"I think I liked him best when he was with his grandfather," said Ernestine; "it was lovely of him to think that wicked old man was so good."

"My mother says that every child in the land, and particularly every boy, ought to read that story, if for no other reason than to learn what it is to be a real gentleman and a real lady. She says no depths of poverty could ever have made 'Dearest' and her son anything else."

"I was just about frantic," said Fannie, "when I began to be afraid he wasn't the heir after all. It seemed horrid to think that that rough woman's son should own those fine lands and the title, and I felt almost as glad when it turned out all right as if he had been one of my nearest friends."

"I wish I read more," said Gretta. "I do love my music; and if I didn't, I'd have to keep it up all the same. But I would like to read the book you are talking about."

"You may take it," said Ernestine, "and keep it just as long as you wish."

"Speaking of borrowing books," said Miriam, "reminds me that I did the most dreadful thing to-day. Miss Carter had lent me Mrs. Gaskel's 'Life of Charlotte Bronte,' and I had just returned it yesterday, feeling very grateful, for I think it is nice in Miss Carter to take an interest in so many girls. I should think she would just get to hating us, for it is the same thing year in and year out, and most of us are so trying.

"But although I love her dearly, you know how angry she gets, and she was giving Josie Thompson such a lecture about there being no punctuation in her composition, and then she read a paragraph as it was punctuated—just 'like commas and periods shaken out of a pepper-box,' she said. The subject was 'Joan of Arc,' and Josie, as usual, had rather a mixed idea of her character, and what Miss Carter read sounded something like this:

"'Joan of Arc, was a poor, girl who heard a great many, ghost stories and these turned her head and she imagined, that, it would be a great deal more fun to lead soldiers. To battle in the war. With England than to be spending her time tending sheep? on the mountains she thought she would enjoy herself better.'

"That last was so much like Josie—who, as you know, is always talking about enjoying herself—that I could hardly keep in, and when Josie made a mouth at Miss Carter the minute her back was turned, three or four of us giggled out loud, and Miss Carter stopped lecturing Josie and turned her wrath on us.

"That was yesterday, but this morning the whole affair was still fresh in my memory, and three or four of the girls in Miss Brownlow's room happening to come about the same time that I did, I began to tell them about it. I began in a high key, a great deal worse than Miss Carter ever uses, although she does pitch her voice very high when she is vexed. I said:

"'Miss Thompson, I am surprised at you; in fact, I am more than surprised. It almost passes belief that a girl should begin to study punctuation almost as soon as her school life begins, as in our schools, and after six or seven years should not be able even to use a period, to say nothing of the more complicated marks; to know nothing, absolutely nothing, of her own language.'

"Here I interrupted myself to show them the kind of mouth Josie made, and of course they all laughed, for they know how her mouth and nose go up at every little thing. Then I went on.

"Miss Carter didn't see the mouth that Josie made, and she caught us laughing, and said, 'Can it be possible that there are girls in this class, girls of good rank and standing, and of moderately good behavior, who can laugh, yes, actually laugh, at the ignorance of one of their school-mates? Something is wrong, radically wrong,'—and here I made the gesture she always makes when she says 'radically wrong,' and—what do you think? There she stood, right behind me!"

"What did she do?" asked Fannie.

"Do? She didn't do anything, and I half thought she was smiling. But I felt as if I would like to sink through the floor, I was so mortified. And only yesterday I was walking down the street with her, talking to her as if I thought her my best friend! She'll think I'm a perfect hypocrite."

"Why don't you apologize?" asked Gretta.

"I can't go and apologize to someone for making fun of her as soon as her back is turned, can I? And I really didn't intend to make fun of Miss Carter, either; it was only that the whole affair seemed amusing to me."

"She probably understands, and does not think any more about it," said Ernestine. "But now, if you'll excuse me, I'll have to go into the kitchen for a few minutes; or perhaps you'll come, too."

"Oh, we'd like to come, if we won't be in the way," said Fannie. So they all trooped into the kitchen.

What a tiny box of a place it was, to be sure! When all five of the girls were there, there was not room for anybody else. Fannie and Gretta squeezed close to each other on the box beside the window, Miriam sat on a chair in one corner, and Winnie stood in the doorway between the two rooms, watching Ernestine, and thinking how cross she had been only a week or two before because she had to do a little cooking in the morning, while Ernestine had to do it every day and go to school beside.

But Ernestine did everything so easily and pleasantly that it was a pleasure to watch her. She did her cooking on a little oil stove, and there seemed so little to be done—for Mrs. Alroy and Ernestine had prepared things the day before—that her young visitors could not feel as if it were a bit of trouble to entertain them. It was as nice as a play, too, to see her cut the potatoes in delicate, thin slices and drop them into the boiling fat, and see them come out delightfully crisp and brown.

Then the girls all followed her into the sitting-room, laughing and chattering as only girls can, while Ernestine set the table. The table linen was white and fine, and the cups and saucers were real old china, these being about the only things which Mrs. Alroy had saved from her past grandeur.

Everything was ready and on the table, except the food which was to be served hot, when Mrs. Alroy came in, looking tired and reserved. She disappeared for a few moments into the bedroom, and when she came out, seeming somewhat refreshed, they all sat down to the table.

To the surprise of the girls, Ernestine, in her simple, unaffected manner, asked a blessing on what was set before them. It seemed queer to them that if it were to be done at all, it should not be by Mrs. Alroy. But Ernestine's mother was not yet perfectly resigned to what had come upon her, and it was that, perhaps—yes, certainly—which made her burden so hard to bear; but at least she did not interfere with Ernestine in these matters.

The girls were hungry, and everything tasted delicious, from the sliced cold ham and the potatoes which they had seen Ernestine frying, to the dessert of ice-cream and cake.

When supper was over, the girls begged to be allowed to clear off the table, and Ernestine washed the dishes as they brought them out, while Winnie wiped them.

Mrs. Alroy sat down and glanced over the newspaper. Fannie watched her curiously, and privately came to the conclusion that she was the proudest woman she had ever seen. This conviction came to her with something of a shock, for she had heretofore supposed that pride and wealth and fine living belonged together. She furthermore came to the conclusion that while pride might be fine, it was not especially charming, for though Mrs. Alroy had been pleasant when the girls were presented to her, her manner had been only polite, not interested.

When the girls had finished washing and putting away the supper things, she roused herself and talked with them about their school and amusements, but as soon as Ernestine returned, excused herself and went into the little room and closed the door. Ernestine followed her, with a troubled look on her usually calm face. When she returned, she said:

"Mamma has a severe headache, and begs to be excused for awhile, but hopes to feel better before you go home."

"We were all to have a text or a verse to-night, weren't we?" asked Fannie. "The only thing I could find was our Golden Text for last Sunday, 'Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.' I spoke to papa about it, and, although he is not very religious, he said he didn't believe there was any better way of remembering our Creator than by trying to do what was right, and he was glad to see that I was thinking about such things."

"Mamma says there are very few things said in the Bible about the dangers of delay," said Winnie, "but she gave me this one from Proverbs: 'Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.'"

"I couldn't find anything in the Bible," said Miriam, "but I found a poem by Adelaide Procter which I copied, thinking you might like to hear it all, as I scarcely knew which verse to select. I will read it to you:

"Rise! for the day is passing,

And you lie dreaming on;

The others have buckled their armor,

And forth to the fight are gone.

A place in the ranks awaits you,

Each man has some part to play;

The Past and the Future are nothing,

In the face of the stern To-day.

"Rise from your dreams of the Future,—

Of gaining some hard-fought field;

Of storming some airy fortress,

Or bidding some giant yield;

Your Future has deeds of glory,

Of honor (God grant it may)!

But your arm will never be stronger,

Or the need so great as To-day.

"Rise! for the day is passing;

The sound that you scarcely hear,

Is the enemy marching to battle;

Arise! for the foe is here!

Stay not to sharpen your weapons,

Or the hour will strike at last,

When, from dreams of a coming battle,

You may wake to find it past!"

"How much better we understand things than we did three months ago!" said Winnie. "I used to dream of the grand things I was going to do when I grew up." Then she added, blushing a little as she remembered her cross Saturday morning, "I do yet, sometimes, but I don't think I neglect quite so many things as I used to."

"I never had much chance either to neglect things or to dream," said Gretta, "for papa or mamma or my sister was always reminding me that it was time to do this or that or the other. But I am beginning now to think of some of my faults. I couldn't find anything for this afternoon, except the Memory Gem we learned in the First Reader. You know I don't read a great deal myself, and we all seem to have so much to do at our house; when it isn't something else, it's practice, practice, practice! Even this little verse I don't suppose I should have remembered if I hadn't heard the children reciting it at the 'Colony':

"One thing at a time,

And that done well,

Is a very good rule,

As many can tell."

"Why, that's the very thing, Gretta! I'm surprised that none of the rest of us thought of it. How queer that the same piece of advice, in one form or another, has been given to us ever since we were little girls, and that we have just begun to realize what it all means!" said Fannie.

"What have you, Ernestine?" said Miriam.

"I took mine from Ecclesiastes," was the reply. "'When thou vowest a vow unto the Lord, defer not to pay it.'"

"I like that, too," said Gretta; "but I think Miss Benton's pretty card is helping me more than anything else."

"I think that was lovely, too," said Fannie. "I liked the story ever so much, but it will be nice for us to do as she suggested, and take a motto this week. How would it do to take the one Winnie brought? It seems the easiest for us to understand."

So they all learned it, and, at Miriam's suggestion, added the verse that Gretta had recited.

Mrs. Alroy came back into the sitting-room just as the girls had finished reading their mottoes, and, though her eyes looked heavy, as if she were suffering, she joined the little band, and told them that she thought they were adopting a very good plan to help them over the rough places of life, and perhaps also enable them to make fewer mistakes than they might otherwise do.

While she was talking to them, footsteps were heard coming up the stairs.

"That's papa, I think," said Fannie, and she went with Ernestine to the door.

Ernestine had seen Mr. Allen often, for he was one of the trustees of their school, but of course Mrs. Alroy had never met him, so the girls led him through the narrow hall into the room beyond.

Mrs. Alroy met him at the door and extended her hand, as Fannie said, "My papa, Mrs. Alroy."

Mr. Allen seated himself, at Mrs. Alroy's invitation, while the girls went to get on their wraps. As they talked of the weather and the usual subjects discussed by strangers, Mr. Allen looked at the lady in rather a puzzled manner, as if wondering where he had seen her before. Finally he said:

"Excuse me, Mrs. Alroy, but may I ask what was your maiden name?"

She told him, but rather coldly, as if she considered the question impertinent.

He read her thought well enough, but unhesitatingly continued:

"The Van Ortons of New York?"

"Of New York, yes."

"I thought so; it must be one of your brothers whom you so strongly resemble. I could not think whom you were like, the day of the celebration over at the school-house, but that, I see, was what puzzled me. I know your brother and his family quite well. I have had business relations with him for years, which have been very pleasant ones."

"I am glad to meet someone who has seen my brother recently. I have seen no member of my family for years; it has been impossible for me to go home, and my circumstances have been such that I have managed to prevent their visiting me, for I had no desire to have them do so. Should you have any communication with him, I ask as a favor that my name may not be mentioned."

"Your wishes, of course, will be respected, madam," the gentleman replied courteously.

The girls appeared at this moment, ready for the walk home, and Mr. Allen rose, adding:

"Permit me to thank you for the pleasure you have given my daughter, and to express the wish that you will allow her to make a return soon." Then they took their departure.

Ernestine went into the little kitchen to prepare things for breakfast, and when she came back she was shocked to find her mother sobbing violently. It frightened her, too, for though her mother was never very cheerful, the girl seldom saw her shed tears.

"Mother dear, what is it?" she said. "Have I been selfish? Was the evening too much for you?"

"Selfish? No, dear," was the reply. "I am the selfish one, and I am grateful to know that you have such perfect faith and hope that all is well. Otherwise your young life would have been darkened long ago by my constant sorrow and regret. Poor child! It is a hard life for one so young."

"But, mother, some day you will be happy again."

"I hope so, dear," replied Mrs. Alroy. But she thought to herself that there was nothing in this world that could make life endurable to her, unless she could forget. And that, to her proud, sensitive nature, seemed impossible.

CHAPTER XI.
EASTER-TIDE.

"Well," said Mrs. Allen to her husband, after they had gone upstairs, "I hope you're satisfied and have had enough of Fannie's visiting around at tenement houses. Democratic ideas are all right enough, theoretically, but I think it is impossible for people to dwell long in poverty without losing refinement."

"Some kinds of poverty, yes; and some kinds of people, yes. That comfort and luxury are refining in their influence goes without saying; but just as there are some people whom all the wealth in the world could never raise above vulgarity, so there are others whom poverty could never degrade. And the lady and her little girl whom Fannie has visited to-night are of this type. They are the kind of people who will have the refinements of life even at the expense of some of its comforts."

"It seems to me that is queer talk. How can people have refinements without comforts?"

"Had you been at Mrs. Alroy's to-night, I think you would understand how that could be. And as for the rest," Mr. Allen added dryly, "Mrs. Alroy is one of the Van Ortons of New York."

"The Van Ortons of New York!" and Mrs. Allen dropped into her chair in astonishment, for the Van Ortons were people whom she was glad to visit. "How do you know?"

"Her resemblance to her brother puzzled me, and, wondering where I could have met her, I asked her maiden name."

"Why, I must call upon her soon."

"I think you'd better not—"

"Who's the aristocrat now, I wonder!"

"—because," he added, as if he had not heard the interruption, "she would consider it an intrusion. Her pride has been made as hard and cold as ice by her misfortunes, and I'm afraid nothing will ever melt it."

This was another new idea to Mrs. Allen. It seemed as if new things, starting with the little folks, were destined to be contagious. That a woman who lived in three small rooms and who supported herself and her daughter by selling goods across a counter, should resent a visit from a person so well known as herself, was somewhat startling to the lady.

"Well," she said impatiently, "what are you and your philanthropy going to do about it?"

"I think it is a case which my philanthropy, as you choose to call it, cannot reach. I know that her people would gladly have her come home, and there is no reason why they should be ashamed of either her or her daughter; but she manages to keep them in complete ignorance of her circumstances, and also, I strongly suspect, of her whereabouts."

"Why don't you write to them?"

"She has forbidden it, and in such a way as to make me feel that it would be a breach of honor to disregard her wishes. No, nothing can be done at present. But she is as frail as a reed, and her body, in spite of her will power, will break down under the pressure, and then——"

"Well?"

"Then she will die—that is all."

It seems hard, at first thought, to bring the sorrows of older people—and sorrows, too, for which, as the words of Mr. Allen would indicate the above to be, there seems no earthly cure—into a book for girls; but perhaps it is, after all, a truer kindness to let them find out, while there is yet time, that life is a thing of earnest and real import, and that the impossible ideas of a romantic world where a few sorrows come simply as contrast, and then vanish forever, leaving the heroes and heroines surrounded by an everlasting halo of happiness and prosperity—which so many of the lighter novels teach—are more injurious than any statistics will ever show. They give views of life which, if followed out, as in the case of Constance Van Orton, are apt to end in sorrow and despair.

But the saddest life must have some joy in it, and Mrs. Alroy probably had many happy hours, when she enjoyed the sunshine, or, in more sober moods, the gentle patter of the rain on the roof, her books (to which the poorest of those who live in our large cities can have access through the public libraries), and, above all, the companionship of her daughter, who was really that most remarkable of characters, a child good, and even pious, without priggishness or the slightest taint of affectation.

And when all is thought and felt and suffered, above earth's joys and woes and hopes and dark despair is God, the eternal Good, and

What to us is darkness, to Him is light,

And the end He knoweth."

And so the days rolled on and brought the anniversary of Christ's suffering and death and resurrection. The Burton family kept Easter with great rejoicing. They exchanged presents of pots of flowers, ferns and Easter lilies, mignonette and roses, which made the house fragrant and beautiful. The children received from their parents and friends at a distance Easter cards; and colored eggs, in which Ralph delighted, were not forgotten.

Mrs. Burton and Winnie, also, on the day previous, did their share toward decorating the church they attended. There was always a big pyramid of bouquets on the pulpit stand, which were taken down after service and distributed to the children of the Sunday-school. It was a great treat to the children to go to church on this day and join in the responsive service and hear the joyful anthems. This Easter Day was no exception to previous ones, in point of joy and thanksgiving.

There were some little extra surprises at the Burton home, among them being a panel of Easter lilies and maidenhair fern, painted in oil for Mrs. Burton by her sister Kitty; and from the same source Winnie received a smaller one of lilies-of-the-valley and wild violets, with the motto below: "Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls." In the afternoon they held a service of their own in the sitting-room. Mrs. Burton and Aunt Kitty sang Abt's duet, "Easter Day," and they had two or three fine quartettes.

Norah had not been forgotten, either, in the distribution of the flowers, or in an invitation to join the family circle in the afternoon. She was anxious to do something in return, and so had prepared another surprise which greeted them at tea-time. On each plate lay an egg, which, when examined, was found to be a wooden candy-box, full of home-made candies. All were pleased, even to grandma and Mr. Burton, and Norah's face shone with delight when she saw that her gifts were appreciated.

It had been a long day for Ralph, however, and Winnie and Jack stayed at home with him while the other members of the family went to evening service. The child was tired and restless, yet too much excited to be sleepy, and was very unwilling to go to bed when the usual hour arrived. Winnie was quite weary, too, but she dared not allow herself to be impatient on a day like this, so she told him Bible stories and sang to him, and at last the heavy eyelids closed, and she was at liberty to go downstairs with her book.

This time it was "Pilgrim's Progress," which she was reading for about the dozenth time. She dropped, with a sense of luxury, into the same big chair in which we have seen her on a former occasion. Jack also had an interesting book, and they read on in perfect silence for half an hour, when suddenly they heard a crash, and then Ralph's voice in a frightened cry.

Dropping their books, they ran upstairs. Jack turned up the gas, and they found that poor little Ralph had rolled out of bed, and was lying stretched on the floor, but far more frightened than hurt. He said he had had bad dreams, and they could not quiet him nor induce him to go back to bed. At last Jack wrapped him up in a shawl, and Winnie sat down in the big chair and took the frightened child in her arms.

Jack settled himself again with his book and forgot all about them both, until his father and mother came home and found them asleep. Mrs. Burton's face showed disapproval until Jack explained the circumstances, and she could then enjoy the pretty picture they made, without feeling a regret that it was the result of disobedience.

Jack took Ralph in his arms and once more carried him, still sleeping soundly, upstairs. They did not waken Winnie until it was time for them all to go to bed, when she was gently roused by her mother. She looked around in bewilderment, and it was some time before she could realize what had happened.

CHAPTER XII.
A VISIT TO THE ZOO.

The days were growing longer and pleasanter. The trees were all dressed in green now, and the maples in front of the Burton home bent their green boughs and shook their leaves at the invitation of every little zephyr.

The evening star shone over the western hills, followed closely by the slender new moon. The sun sank to rest behind those same hills, some nights gorgeously attended by crimson and gold and purple clouds; on other evenings, dropping out of sight suddenly, as if in a hurry to get to China, as Winnie was fond of telling Ralph.

Winnie often sat with Ralph on the front steps these days, and showed him the bright star and tried to explain to him that it was a big world, perhaps full of people; or she would put on her roller skates and skate up and down the flagged pavement, while he rode his velocipede.

Winnie thought she had never known a spring so beautiful as this one. She felt as if she could stay out of doors forever, and found it even harder to keep her resolution of conquering self-indulgence and sticking to her duties now than when she liked so much to sit by a bright fire and read.

She had her pretty card and her motto in the looking-glass in her room, but she found it so hard to remember—or to want to remember, perhaps, which every one knows is quite a different thing—that she pinned a little piece of stiff paper with the word "Now" written on it, inside her dress. On the whole, however, she kept pretty well to her resolution of having a time for everything and doing everything in its time.

But she had never before felt such a desire to be out of doors, and she imagined she heard fairies beckoning to her from the woods and hills. So one day, when Aunt Kitty came over and invited Ralph and herself and the other four girls of her little band to go to the Zoological Garden the next Saturday, the girl's delight was unbounded, and she was in a fever lest something should happen to prevent their going.

She delivered her message to the other girls. Miriam and Fannie at once said they thought they could go, but Ernestine did not feel sure she could arrange her Saturday duties so that no extra burden would fall on her mother, while Gretta told them she would have to ask her father to excuse her from the extra practice on Saturday, as they were to take their lunches and stay all day.

Fortunately Gretta found her father in very good humor. She had been making excellent progress with her music, and he was very willing she should have a holiday. Ernestine, also, had arranged with one of the neighbors in the building to take care of her little children on the succeeding Saturday, in return for her help in doing some extra household work.

Saturday turned out to be a warm, pleasant day, and in their eagerness the girls arrived at the Burtons' a little ahead of time, and had to wait till Miss Benton came, which she did soon, looking very happy. As for Ralph, his eyes were as bright as stars, and he was the very picture of joy and good humor.

They walked up to Elm Street, and from there took the car to the Mt. Bellevue inclined railway. When they entered the car of the latter, all stood at the front end of it and looked out of the window, and had the strange sensation, which no familiarity therewith seems quite to deaden, of being lifted suddenly into another region, and of seeing the great city sinking down, down, until one wonders where it is going. Then, all at once, the car stopped with its usual jerk, and there they were, at the top of the hill.

There were very few people about the Bellevue House. They took a walk around the grounds and through the building, and stood looking at the city, covered with its workaday smoke from the many manufactories, till it almost seemed as if it were seen through a cloud.

"How strange it is," said Miriam, as they entered the street-car at the top of the hill, "to see the houses just as close together here, and to have it seem like a city of itself, and yet so different from the business part of Cincinnati below that it is hard to imagine the two are any part of each other!"

"There is something strange about such things," said Miss Benton. "It is just like people's lives. Their daily business, which brings them bread and butter, and which is really the largest and most important part of existence, seems to sink into insignificance or to be forgotten altogether when social relations are taken up. But, after all, I like to live in the city itself, where there is something of the past lingering about. Everything seems so new here."

"I don't know," said Ernestine. "I think I would like to live up here; the air seems so much purer. But I would want a bigger yard than these, where I might have a garden."

"It's cleaner, too, up here," said practical Gretta, who was neatness itself. "I visit my aunt on Vine Street Hill, and things always looks so much nicer and newer at her house than the same ones at ours. And it isn't because we don't try, for we do twice the amount of work; my mother and sister are always going about with a duster." And Gretta, who had made a long speech for her, finished with a sigh, at which they all laughed.

"Gretta would like a house where everything had a glass cover," said Miriam. "As for me, I like things jolly and comfortable, and if they get grimy and sooty, and nobody's to blame, what's the use of making one's self unhappy about it? I'm afraid I'm a good deal like Josie Thompson, for I do like to enjoy myself."

"Well, no two of us are alike, and I don't think it was intended that we should be," said Miss Benton. "That is what makes the charm of people's houses—that they should all partake of the individuality of their owners. When I enter even a little girl's room, I like to see some signs of her ownership there, and not have it all as her mother or older sister or the maid arranged it. I like to see something that looks as if she had an object in life, if it is nothing more than a charm string of buttons, (which, by the way, has gone out of fashion, I believe,) or a scrapbook."

"Well, then, Aunt Kitty," said Winnifred, smiling at her own thought, "it must be a treat for you to go into Uncle Fred's room; for, if I were to see such a room at the North Pole, I would think of him."

"Well," said Miss Benton, with a smile, "I might enjoy it better if it were in some other house. I think, in this case, it must be that familiarity breeds contempt. The fact is, girls, my brother's room is more of an old curiosity shop than a modern sleeping-room. He has always had a sort of magpie-habit of storing things away, and is continually having some new hobby; and as his hobbies are often changed, and each hobby is apt to take the form of making some sort of collection, he has queer things lying about. But from the time he was quite a little boy, mother always said, 'Oh, let him have that,' or 'do the other, and he'll be satisfied at home.'"

"How many canes and walking-sticks has he, Aunt Kitty?"

"Eight, I think, and each one has a history; and two or three of them a mystery, which he refuses to divulge. But here we are at the end of our journey, and Fannie hasn't had an opportunity to open her mouth."

"It's probably very good for my tongue to get a rest; it works quite steadily as a usual thing—at least so my father says. But if Ralph hadn't been all eyes, this would have been dull for him."

"I isn't all eyes!" said Ralph, indignantly.

They now approached the entrance to the Zoological Garden, and the girls once more took out their pocket books; but Miss Benton was ahead of them again, and had settled for the party before there was time to demur.

The first thing they spied were the mounds of the prairie dogs, and they stood watching these a long time. It was such fun to see the little animals running in and out of their holes and to hear their funny bark, which Miriam said was "the best part of them, and probably very much better than their bite."

Our little party was fortunate enough to be at the cages of the carnivora just at feeding time. The great lions lay basking in the sun and looking so innocent and amiable that it was almost impossible to imagine they could be at all dangerous, when suddenly the man who fed them appeared with the raw meat. Then their roars were fairly appalling, and made the whole crowd jump, while Ralph clung tight to the hand of Aunt Kitty, who said:

"I was just thinking how nice it would be to pat that quiet, majestic fellow on the head, as I would my Angora cat; but I think I'll wait till he's had his dinner."

"Oh, Aunt Kitty," said Ralph, "I 'ouldn't let you; he'd eat you up!"

It was an exciting but rather terrible pleasure to see the wild creatures quarreling and growling and fighting over their dinners, and was also a most effective object lesson on greediness.

Like other visitors, although Miss Kitty laughed at them for it, our little party followed the keeper around from one cage to another as he fed the various animals.

"I like the bears best," said Fannie. "They look like Eskimos when they stand on their hind legs, and they stare up at us and the other people as if we were here just for them to look at."

"There is a something within me that, in spite of bears and all their attractions, tells me it must be dinner time," said Miss Benton, taking out her watch. "Yes, it is one o'clock; suppose we get our baskets."

Ralph, in particular, manifested great approval of this part of the programme, and, having selected a nice grassy spot, they disposed of themselves as comfortably as possible, each with her basket at her side.

As they opened the baskets, passing the thin sandwiches and pickles, Winnie made a suggestion.

"Aunt Kitty, let's play 'I have a thought.'"

"Very well," replied the lady; and, after a short explanation of the game, and a little time to think, she announced the fact that she had a thought.

"Why is it like the sky?" asked Winnie.

"Because it is round."

"Why is it like a bear?" asked Miriam, her thoughts still on the bear pit.

"Because—oh, Miriam, that is a hard one!—because it is sometimes white."

"Why is it like me?" said Ralph.

"Because everybody likes it when it is good." And Ralph wondered why they all laughed.

"Why is it like the grass?" asked Ernestine.

"Because it is greenest in the spring."

Then the questions poured upon Miss Benton rapidly, as the girls began to see how the game was played.

"Why is it like music?" asked Gretta.

"Because it suggests pleasant thoughts."

"Why is it like a novel?"

"It is often highly flavored."

"Why is it like an egg?"

"Because it is an article of food."

"Why is it like a cream-puff?"

"Because the best part is inside."

"Why is it like cheese?" said Fannie, putting a piece in her mouth.

"Because it comes on with the dessert."

"Why is it like a book?"

"Because the best part is usually between the covers."

"Why is it like a ring?"

"Because people like to have a finger in it."

At which there was a general shout, and they all said: "A pie, of course!"

"But what kind of a pie, Miss Benton?" asked Miriam.

"That you must find out, too," was the laughing answer; and the questions went on.

"It can't be lemon or custard or pumpkin," said Fannie, "because we know it has two covers."

"Why is it like a flower?"

"Because it has various colors."

"And is greenest in the spring," said Winnie, musingly. "Oh, it is an apple pie! And Miss Benton acknowledged that she had guessed correctly.

Then Ernestine and Gretta consulted, and took a thought together. Their thought was a geography lesson, and of course the resemblances were most absurd, and it required all the ingenuity the two girls possessed to answer the questions.

They were all so occupied with the game and their dinner that no one noticed Miss Benton had not yet opened her basket, and great was their surprise and delight when she passed around to each of them a grocer's thin platter filled with strawberries, for they were still very scarce, as it was early in the season.

After dinner, Miss Benton took out a book and said she was going to read for a while, so the girls walked around, taking Ralph with them, and greatly enjoying the admiration he excited by his pretty dress, his beauty and his cunning speeches. They too, however, soon found themselves somewhat tired, so they went back to Miss Benton, and, sitting down for a rest, amused themselves by hunting for four-leaved clovers. In this Winnie and Miriam proved themselves the lucky ones. Fannie had not the slightest success, till finally she gave a little cry and held up a clover.

But Miss Benton's quick eyes noticed a twinkle in Fannie's, and saying, "Oh, Fannie, I'm afraid you're a little cheat!" she reached over and adroitly separated one of the leaves from another, leaving only a common clover leaf.

"Well," said Fannie, laughing at being discovered so soon, "if I don't have good luck, I'm not going to let everyone know it. My father tells me to make up my mind that lots of things will happen to me in this world which I'll best conquer by grinning and bearing them. And that's what I'm going to do."

"A very good plan, my dear," said Miss Benton, "for even if the grin is a sickly one, it's better than a frown or a whine."

"I guess I don't do that way," said Gretta, whose tongue and conscience both seemed to be awaking. "I'm afraid I go away and pout."

"The worst of habits," said Miss Benton, with intentional decision. "That is the habit which is most disagreeable to everyone around, most full of unhappiness to the one who indulges in it, and the most difficult to break. I am afraid that ill-temper is as powerful a giant as procrastination, because it, too, assumes so many forms; there are pouting and whining, storming and scolding, and the various other manifestations which we all, more or less, indulge in. I do not think many people cling to the powerful Giant Hate, but it is 'the little foxes that spoil the vines,' and little fits of temper, long indulged in, might at last lead even to that. But, girls, I didn't inveigle you out here this lovely day to lecture you. So come, let's be moving on."

They next went to the aviary. Here, although they enjoyed looking at the birds, they became more interested in a party of children, boys and girls, each one looking like the others, so far as clothes were concerned. Of course they must be from some charitable institution, but the girls did not know which one. Afterward, when our little company had gone to the monkey house and found a number of the same uniformed children, Miss Benton said to one of them, "What school is this, my dear?"

The child looked at her a moment in surprise, and then replied: "Why, this is the monkey school, I think."

"Where is the teacher?" asked Ralph, who mistook both question and answer, as the child herself had done.

Miriam and Fannie were delighted at this, and, going up pretty close to one of the cages, Fannie, who had yellow bangs, said, pointing to a great monkey which was watching them in a very observant manner:

"I think this must be the teacher."

Just as she made the remark, the monkey stretched out his long arms, grabbed her bangs, and pulled out several hairs, which he smelled, and then threw down with an air of disgust.

Fannie was somewhat startled at first, but, recovering herself, she said the monkey must have thought her hair was wisps of hay.

Miss Benton did not seem very fond of the "monkey school," as they dubbed it for the remainder of the afternoon, and she proposed going to the pony track. This gave general satisfaction. Here, too, they found the uniformed children, all of them having a lovely time. Miss Benton found out, by conversing with one of the attendants, that they were from one of the city orphan asylums, and that the whole lovely day was a gift to them from one of its patrons—admission into the garden and a ride for each child on one of the ponies.

Ralph was not in the least frightened.

They stood watching the orphan children for awhile, as they rode around the track, and Miss Benton asked if her guests would not like a ride, too. Fannie, Winnie and Miriam said that they would, and each selected a pony; Fannie, who had attended a riding-school, riding very gracefully. Ralph thought he would like a ride, too, so the riding-master brought his smallest pony, and two of the little orphan boys came up and begged permission to lead it around the track.

Miss Benton consented, and, Ralph having been lifted into the saddle, they started off, a boy on each side of him. But the little pony started to run, and one of the boys was soon left behind; the other, who had hold of the bridle, kept up manfully for a time, but before the pony had gone round the track, he, too, was left behind. Ralph, however, held on to the bridle himself, and, not in the least frightened, kept his seat in the saddle as if it had been his velocipede. And the by-standers seemed to think it as cunning as did his partial aunt and the rest of her party. However, in spite of the courage he had shown, Ralph was quite willing to get off.

They remained at the track a little longer, watching the other children riding, and feeling glad that, if children were left alone in the world, there were people noble and good and with means enough to gather the little waifs together, and that they, too, had happy holidays.

CHAPTER XIII.
DREAMS AND REALITIES.

The following Friday Gretta and Winnifred were dismissed at recess, the Friday afternoon privilege of those who had had perfect marks for the week. As they passed out through the yard together, Gretta said:

"I'm going to church to practice my organ lesson. Come go with me, Win."

Winnifred hesitated. "If I had spoken to mamma about it this morning—"

"Well, let's go and ask her now."

"No, she won't be at home. She was going out to Walnut Hills to make several calls."

"Then I don't see what's to keep you from going with me. No one will know whether you are with me or at school."

Winnie knew very well that she had no right to be away without anyone at home knowing where she was, but she hesitated—and was lost. The temptation was too great; and beside, she reasoned, "What difference can it possibly make whether I am at school or at the church? If I had not had good marks I couldn't have gone home, anyway."

So the two girls passed on up the street together. Winnifred soon forgot her scruples, and laughed and chattered away as usual. She had been reading Grimm's story of the boy who could not understand what it was to shiver. She had thought it very amusing, and now she narrated it at length to Gretta as they went along, so that they reached the church before Gretta had stopped laughing at the absurd climax.

They went up the flight of steep stone steps and tried the side door that led to the choir gallery, but it was locked, and Gretta said, "We'll have to go the back way; come on, Win." So they descended the stairs again and went through the narrow side yard at the right of the church.

At the back were two rooms which at this time were occupied by the janitor and his wife. Gretta knocked, and when the door was opened by a smiling woman, walked in with an I-have-a-right-to manner, simply saying, "I've come to practice." Winnifred followed somewhat bashfully, but recovered her sense of being herself when the door of the little living-room closed upon them. The two girls crossed a narrow passage and opened a door leading to a stairway. It was very dark here, but Gretta had traveled up and down these stairs so many times that she went swiftly now, while Winnifred, unaccustomed to them, groped her way along through the darkness very slowly.

When she reached the top Gretta opened another door which led into the church itself, always filled with people when Winnifred had seen it before, but now empty and mysterious, with the light dimmed and deepened and transformed as it made its way through the stained-glass windows. She breathed a little heavily as she glanced up at the pulpit on the left, and almost felt as if she would hear a voice rise from the empty air and chide them for their boldness in entering so sacred a place on workaday business. But Gretta, entirely accustomed to independent errands connected with musical matters, passed on up the narrow side aisle, Winnifred following slowly.

Then came another narrow staircase leading to the choir gallery, which faced the pulpit. When they reached the top they found the shades all down and the place quite dark except for a long, narrow beam of light which streamed through a crevice in one of the blinds. Winnifred stopped on the threshold with something like fear, which was yet pleasing because of the sense of mystery and romance which was blended with it in her imaginative young mind. Gretta, however, stepped in at once and went quickly toward the back of the gallery. Here she suddenly pulled up a shade, and Winnifred saw numbers of music books piled up on one of the long benches.

Gretta opened the organ and sat down. She reached the pedals with some difficulty, being obliged to stretch her legs somewhat in order to do so; but this, like everything else with her, was a part of the musical education which was the chief business of her life and of all the lives nearest to her. She began to play a voluntary, softly, slowly and reverently, yet clearly, and with wonderful appreciation for a child just entering her teens.

Winnifred climbed into the darkest corner she could find and gave herself up to enjoyment of the music and all the unusual surroundings. Forgetting all else, she began to weave herself and Gretta into a little story of a world separate and apart from the world she had always known: a world filled with visionary forms and faces, and in which there was no sound but that of music.

"Over there in that pew just under the stained-glass window," she thought, "is a little girl who cannot see, but who has never missed her eyesight, because she does not need it. She lives only in this world, where there is nothing but sweet sounds. She will grow up some day and go out into the other world where Gretta and I lived yesterday, but she will be a poet like Milton, whose picture, when he was such a beautiful boy, I saw yesterday; but she will not be sad like him, because she knows only the world of poetry and music.

"Over in that other pew," Winnie's dreams ran on, "is that poor, little, blind beggar girl I saw on the street yesterday afternoon. She isn't hungry now, for this is the fairyland of music where people do not need to eat. The music has gone straight to her heart—and see! she creeps softly over to the opposite pew—how did she know that the other little blind girl was there?—she creeps softly to the other pew, and they clasp hands and feel as happy as if they had looked into each other's eyes.

"And who is that sweet-faced girl in the pew just in front of the pulpit? She is beautiful. She looks like Nydia, the blind girl in 'The Last Days of Pompeii,' but she can't be Nydia, for Nydia lived and died hundreds of years ago. But she listens to the music just as Nydia might do if she were here now. It is not so sad to be blind in a world of music. And yet—how would I know where they were sitting if I were blind, too?"

And Winnie closed her eyes to try how it would seem not to be able to see. The music floated out upon the air; it grew softer and softer and sounded farther and farther away, and at last Winnie ceased to hear it, for the darkness and the gentle sounds had so soothed her senses that she went straight from day-dreamland to slumberland.

Gretta all unconsciously played on until she had finished her allotted task, forgetting the existence of Winnifred as completely as the latter had forgotten hers. But by and by she had finished the last bar, and jumped up from her seat with a feeling of satisfaction. She looked around in surprise for a moment when she realized that Winnifred had gone to sleep. The next thing the latter knew Gretta was shouting into her ear: "Wake up! Wake up, Winnie! I'm all through my practice and ready to go home. Let's hurry! It must be late."

They gathered up their school books, the sense of haste taking away all the feeling of mystery and romance. When they looked at the clock in the little room downstairs on their way out, Winnifred was dismayed and realized suddenly that she ought to have been at home an hour ago. She had a very uncomfortable walk home, particularly after she had parted from Gretta, but, as it happened, her mother had not yet returned and her absence had been unnoticed.

She told her mother about it in the evening—of how sweetly Gretta had played, and how she had imagined a world made on purpose for blind people.

Mrs. Burton only said, "I am glad you had such a nice afternoon, dear. It is one you will always remember. You were fortunate that nothing happened to spoil the pleasure of it. I am glad I was not at home, however, for I fear I would have been very uneasy about you."

CHAPTER XIV.
ARBOR DAY.

In nearly every household of the big city the children were astir early, all wearing an air of excitement, from the six-year-old in the primary school to the "big brother" or sister in the intermediate, for there was at last something new under the sun—the celebration of "Arbor Day" for the first time in their city and State.

It was a day to be devoted to the trees and their planting. Every school in the city had had a plot of ground set aside for its use, and every school had had at least one tree planted, beside those in memory of the teachers who had passed away to the unknown land.

There was no set time for departure and no special gathering place, so that at almost any hour after nine o'clock on that lovely May morning groups of children might have been seen wending their way toward the eastern hills. Those in the vicinity of Eden Park walked, a few drove over with their parents or friends, but the great majority filled the street cars to overflowing, laughing and chattering and enjoying a holiday as only school children can.

Forming a portion of the last class were the pupils of the "First Intermediate," that old landmark which has guided so many embryo citizens of our great Republic through the intricate paths of fractions, decimals, and so on, to the crowning difficulty of cube root; through grammar and history and geography, before bidding them "Godspeed" as they entered the high-school or took up the story of their lives in some other direction.

Among these last, lunch baskets in hand, were the five young warriors, but with their armor off and as great an air of being on pleasure bent as though they had never thought of anything more serious. Miriam as usual had the floor, and the entire car-load of girls and boys, nearly all of them her classmates, were laughing at her remarks.

There was a change of cars at Fountain Square and again at the foot of the Mt. Adams incline, but the five girls managed to keep from being separated. Arrived at the top of the hill, they stopped to breathe in the fresh air and admire the beautiful landscape—the Kentucky hills far away in the distance, with the beautiful Ohio flowing placidly at their feet; Cincinnati, in its hill-encircled cup, making, with Covington and Newport and the various smaller villages, part of one great whole, linked by the bridges across the Ohio and the Licking.

"This reminds me," said Ernestine, who was the historian of the little company, "of the name first chosen for our city—Losantiville, the town opposite the mouth of the Licking; 'ville,' town; 'anti,' opposite; 'os,' mouth; 'L,' initial of Licking."

"Dreadful!" said Miriam. "Imagine this great city designated as a town across the way from that little stream! It would be like the immense woman I saw the other day. I know she weighed over two hundred. There was a little man walking beside her, and he called her 'Birdie!' Indeed he did, and she called him 'Horatio!'"

"Our city started about here," said Ernestine, after the girls had stopped laughing, "or just at the foot of the hill, and grew first along the river. Later on it spread northward, and Fourth Street was one of its aristocratic streets."

"There comes Josie Thompson," said Fannie. "She's evidently bent on having a good time, and she's gotten up regardless. See that chain around her neck; plated, I'm sure."

"Don't look so sober, Ernestine," said Miriam. "There wouldn't be any use in living if you could not make fun of people once in a while."

"But perhaps Josie has never been taught any better at home," said Winnifred, suddenly thinking of the giants.

"She has eyes, hasn't she?" said Gretta. "But it seems to me she can't have ears, or else she couldn't help hearing that dress she has on. I know that's what my father would say."

Just then Josie came up to them. "Hello, girls! Going to have a good time? I tell you I am! Glad to have one day with no lessons to learn!" And she passed on with her friends, leaving the girls, even Ernestine, convulsed.

"Let's go on to the park," said Ernestine.

Accordingly they gathered up their baskets and other belongings. It was but a short walk, and they soon reached the spot where many of their schoolmates had already assembled.

At twelve o'clock the schools had a few simple exercises. The children sang, "My Country, 'Tis of Thee," one of the girls of their grade recited "Woodman, Spare that Tree," and Fannie's father made a brief address. He talked to them of the part the forests play in helping to prevent drouths and disastrous floods. He told of the old Italian poet who called the trees "my brothers," and said that everyone, whether poet or not, should have especial tenderness and affection for these beautiful and useful bits of nature which grow up around us, relieving our eyes from the glare of day, shading us from the noonday sun, and giving us pleasure in many ways, so that their useless and wanton destruction becomes a sin against mankind.

After the conclusion of this little talk (for it was that rather than a set speech), the children gathered up their lunch baskets and boxes, each party sought the spot that pleased it best, and soon the hillside was dotted with groups of boys and girls engaged in disposing of sandwiches, pickles, pies, cakes, fruit, and so on, with great enjoyment and good appetites.

The afternoon was passed most pleasantly by Winnifred and her own special friends, reinforced by many of the girls and boys of her class. Games of all sorts were indulged in with unflagging energy and good spirits for two or three hours.

About four o'clock Fannie's parents came for her in a carriage. Soon after Winnifred's mother arrived on the scene with little Ralph, and they were shown the trees which had just been planted and told about all the events of the day. By this time nearly every one was making preparations to leave, and by five o'clock the park was almost deserted and the happy day had become only a memory. But the seeds of thought planted there fell not altogether on stony ground, and were destined to bear fruit at some future day.

Indeed, the very next morning Ralph insisted on having an Arbor Day of his own, and he put in the ground a branch of willow, which took root and thrived, growing so rapidly that in a few years it was taller than himself; and each spring, when it put forth its delicate gray-green foliage, it recalled to Winnifred that most delightful Arbor Day.

CHAPTER XV.
GRETCHEN'S KAFFEEKLATCH.

Another year of Gretta's life had rolled around and brought with it her thirteenth birthday. The little club of "warriors" had not been without its influence upon her behavior, and she had become so ready to enter upon her duties, so cheerful in performing them, and so much less resentful in accepting the reproof which was perhaps too frequent in that busy and overworked household, that her elder sister—whom she had so complained of when the subject of forming their club was first mentioned—had decided that Gretta must have a little birthday party, and asked her whom she wished to invite.

Gretta was greatly delighted, for she had long been wishing to have a meeting of the club at her home, but had hardly known how to broach the subject. She immediately gave her sister the list, and while the latter was somewhat surprised that it should be so small, it was something of a relief to find what she had thought would be quite an undertaking so greatly simplified. It was decided that the girls should be invited to come at four o'clock and that supper should be served at half past five.

Promptly at the hour named Winnifred and Miriam appeared, followed soon after by Fannie, and then by Ernestine. The door was opened by the smiling-faced, German maid-of-all-work, and the girls were met at the foot of the stairs by Gretta, who took them up to the library on the second floor. "Here we will have no one to bother us," said Gretta. "My mother is out of the city on a visit to my uncle, and my sister has a music pupil in the parlor, so we'll have the library all to ourselves."

"How jolly!" said Miriam, looking around. "Oh, here is a big reclining-chair! We'll call it the president's chair, and Winnifred shall occupy it, because she was the first one to think of this club."

"Yes! yes!" they all insisted, so Winnifred climbed into the big chair, and the other girls ranged themselves in various attitudes around her.

"Do you know," said Miriam, with a half laugh and a half sigh, "I don't find fighting such easy work as I thought I would. I like to dress up my 'little observations,' as my brother calls them, just as much as I ever did, and I almost got into a temper this morning because my hair pulled when I began to comb it out."

"And I have been wishing we were richer," said Ernestine, whose great ambition it was to be contented with all that came to her. "You know we had such a hot spell last week, and mamma ought to go away this summer. She is getting thinner and thinner, and she has those awful headaches more and more often lately."

"I don't see why everybody can't have the things they want," said Fannie, feeling guilty to think she ever had a cross minute.

"I said that to mamma last week," said Ernestine, "when I felt uneasy about her, and she said it all comes from something in ourselves. That didn't make it any easier for me; nothing did, until I thought of the One who had not where to lay His head. Then I felt ashamed."

For a minute the girls were silent. Then Winnie said, "Well, I, for one, don't think I have quite killed that ugly old Hate. I can't bear to stop doing what I like, to please other people. I was reading 'Grandfather's Chair' last night, and I just hated to stop and tell Ralph his story before he went to bed. You know he always expects a story from some one of us, and last night nobody had the time but me."

"I'll tell you what upsets me more than anything else," said their little hostess; "that is, to have to jump up from the piano to answer the bell. And there's never a day that I don't have to do it; sometimes three or four times."

"What is your bugaboo, Fannie?" said Miriam; "or don't you have any?"

"Don't I? I believe I have more than any of you," was the answer. "But the thing that grieves me most is that I can't wear prettier and more expensive dresses to school. You know, lots of the girls who haven't half as much money as we dress a great deal better. Mamma would not care so much, but papa won't hear of such a thing."

"What awful troubles we all do have!" said Miriam, laughing.

"Miss Embry would say you shouldn't use 'awful,'" said Winnie from the depths of the big chair.

"There, you've hit it exactly!" said Miriam. "There is my bugaboo in a nut shell, and it really is an awful one. You know I like to make things sound strong, so I use all the strong-sounding words I can find; and I suppose I do exaggerate. Although I am reproved on all sides, it hasn't the slightest effect on me, except to make me wish that all the people who reprove me, or remind me of someone who does reprove,"—here she made big eyes at Winnie—"were hard of hearing when I am about. No, no; my motto is:

"'Tameness and slowness can't stay with me;

They and I will never agree.'"

"And yet," said Ernestine, "there are a great many very interesting things told in very simple language and without getting away from the white truth."

"Well," said Miriam, "to tell the white truth myself just this once. I don't know whether I want to conquer this or not. I don't believe it is really much relation to the Giant Untruth. I think it's only a little dwarfish imp, a Brownie, who simply 'growed,' like Topsy, and to me is just about as interesting."

"And yet even you couldn't call Topsy beautiful," said Ernestine readily.

"Hardly," laughed Miriam. "But now we've all owned up, let's parade rest, as we say in our broom drills;" and she threw herself back on the sofa, where she sat as if indeed resting from a hard-fought battle.

The five formed a group of American girls good to look upon in their sweet springtime. Ernestine, with serious gray eyes, fair, slender, and tall for her fifteen years, sat erect but graceful in a straight, high-backed chair, her very pose denoting a peaceful courage. Fannie, with skin soft and rosy and eyes of a rare violet hue, occupied a low seat, her arms resting on the sofa against which she was leaning. Miriam, with dark, sparkling eyes and long, thick hair, looking brimful of life in spite of her present lazy attitude, sat just behind Fannie. Next came Winnie, small even for her twelve years, brown-eyed and dainty, looking fond of luxury, as she undoubtedly was and always would be, and yet good and high-minded. Last Gretta herself, a true German, with blue eyes and thick, light braids, a trim and compact little maiden. She sat near a table, her chin in her hand, with its flexible, square-tipped fingers—the fingers of the born and made pianist—for Gretta had "begun," as her mates used to tell, at the age of four.

It was a pleasant room in which they sat; it had many books, German and English and a few in other languages, and where no book-cases rested, the walls were hung with pictures of musicians—Mozart and Bach and Mendelssohn and many others as companions; and on a pedestal stood a bust of Beethoven, whom—so Gretta told the girls as they looked around—her father considered the greatest of them all.

Just then Winnie glanced up at the clock and saw that it was fifteen minutes past five. She made a motion to the girls, at which they all jumped up, and, joining hands, formed a circle around Gretta. Before she had had time to do anything but look astonished, Miriam stopped behind her, and, holding something over her head, said, "Heavy, heavy hangs over your head. What shall the owner do to redeem it?"

Before Gretta had a chance to answer, Miriam had dropped into her lap a box of pretty note-paper, and replied to her own question by saying, "The owner shall redeem it by writing to the giver this summer a letter for each week they are separated."

Then the girls circled about again, and this time Winnifred stopped behind Gretta, saying:

"Open your mouth and shut your eyes,

And I'll give you something to make you wise."

Gretta did as she was bidden, and Winnie popped a big marshmallow into her mouth, depositing the remainder of the box in her lap.

They circled about her for the third time, and Fannie stopped behind her, saying, as Miriam had done, "Heavy, heavy hangs over your head. What shall the owner do to redeem it?" and continued, "Read every word of it and enjoy it," and placed in Gretta's hand a copy of "Little Lord Fauntleroy."

Yet again they circled about her, singing:

"A rosy wreath I twine for thee,

Of Flora's richest treasures;

Take, oh, take, this rosy, rosy crown,

Flora's richest treasures,

Flora's richest treasures,"—

and Ernestine placed a crown of flowers on Gretta's brow.

Gretta was quite overcome with pleasure and surprise, for the girls had so skillfully hidden their little gifts that she had not even caught a glimpse of them.

Just then the door opened, and the hostess' sister appeared at the door, saying, "Tea is ready, Gretta." Before they did anything else, however, Gretta had to exhibit her presents. They were duly admired, and then Miss Josephine said, "Come on, now; I'll head the procession. Keep step."

Through the open door came the sound of a lively march, which even Gretta had never heard before.

"That is a new march which father composed in honor of your birthday. He calls it 'Gretchen's March.'"

Winnifred popped a big marshmallow into her mouth.—See page 72.

They all felt very important as they marched down the stairs, headed by Miss Berger, who led them out into the long parlor and twice around it, while her father at the piano, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, kept on playing, and then out into the dining-room.

The table was set for five only, and the girls, directed by Miss Josephine, took their seats, with Gretta at the head, to the inspiring strains of the lively march.

It proved a most enjoyable little feast. Miss Berger left the room as soon as they were all seated, and then the same smiling-faced maid who had opened the door for them, also departed, and gave them an opportunity to look about.

At Gretta's place was a set of cunning china cups and saucers, which had been sent her from Germany when she was quite a little child. The cups were just about the size of after-dinner coffees, and the smiling Mina had insisted on calling the little party "Gretchen's Kaffeeklatch." Miss Berger had been so amused that she fell in with the idea, and had decided that they really should have coffee and some of Mina's coffee-cake on the bill of fare.

As Gretta filled the little cups, and the coffee and its delicious adjunct were passed around, five tongues chattered as fast as those of their elders might have done on a similar occasion.

When the coffee-cake and sandwiches and chicken salad had been disposed of, Gretta touched the bell at her place, and Mina appeared. After clearing the table, she brought in a great cake with thirteen little candles on it burning away merrily, and a great bowl of lemonade. Miss Josephine came in and cut the cake and served the lemonade, and was as entertaining and companionable as any of them could have desired.

They sat at the table a long time, then they went into the parlor and were introduced to Gretta's father. They shook hands with him timidly, for they had been so impressed by his strictness with Gretta in regard to her musical studies that they were a little afraid of him. Though they felt vaguely conscious that he was looking at them quizzically, he threw off the yoke of business entirely and entered into their games like a boy.

Among the other enjoyable things they played "Magic Music." It was really the game of "Hunt the Slipper," and when the music was soft they were "cold," and when it was loud they were "hot." Mr. Berger played for them, and never before had these girls played this game to such music.

The four girls walked home together in the Late twilight, declaring to each other that they had never had such a delightful time; and Fannie, who had once spoken so contemptuously of Gretta as a "music teacher's daughter," was loudest in her praise.

CHAPTER XVI.
THE BOAT-RIDE.

A few evenings after the meeting at Gretta's, Uncle Fred came in, and, pulling Winnie's ears according to his custom, said:

"I think it's my turn to treat, Winnifred; at least Kitty says it is. She and I were out boating yesterday, and she suggests that I take you and the other Joans for a row Friday evening."

"Oh, Uncle Fred," cried Winnie, "that will be grand! I'll tell the girls about it to-morrow. Who all are to be invited?"

"'You-all,' as our Southern friends say, and your Aunt Kitty; us seven, and no more, as the poet expresses it."

The girls accepted with eagerness. But on Thursday Ernestine did not come to school. Winnie went around Friday noon to learn the reason of such an unusual occurrence, and found that Mrs. Alroy was sick in bed, and although she had protested against her daughter's staying at home, Ernestine could not be prevailed upon to leave her.

The other girls were, of course, very sorry not to have her go, but soon forgot their disappointment in the excitement of anticipation. At a quarter past six, the hour agreed upon, Fannie was ringing Mrs. Burton's door bell, while Gretta and Miriam were just entering the gate. Winnie and her uncle and aunt were quite ready, so they all started out. After a short ride in the "Green Line," they were transferred to the Covington and Newport cars on their way to the river. None of the girls had been in that neighborhood often enough to be familiar with it, and everything they saw had the interest of novelty for them. When they reached the bridge, Mr. Fred helped them out of the car and they went on down the bank of the river. They stood there for awhile watching the many boats, large and small, the people going and coming, none of whom seemed to be in the same hurry as those farther up in the city, and most of whom were men sauntering leisurely along with their hands in their pockets.

Mr. Fred, who had left the girls for a few minutes, now came back, and, on his giving the command, they followed him to a pretty little dock where there were several row-boats. In one of these the five girls were soon seated, Winnie in the bow, Gretta and Fannie in the stern, while Miriam and Miss Kitty—who could both row—sat together where each could handle an oar, declaring that they meant to help provide some of the power. Uncle Fred took his place in the seat of "the crack oarsman," as he said, the smiling boatman on the wharf pushed them off, and soon they found themselves afloat. Fannie held the rudder and handled it very skillfully, although Mr. Fred kept a sharp lookout himself, for the river at this point was full of craft of all descriptions, from the large steamboats whose journey continues through the beautiful Ohio down through "The Father of Waters;" the ferry boats crossing between Ohio and Kentucky; little steam launches and row-boats, just starting out for pleasure; and fishing-boats returning laden from the day's work.

At first Miss Kitty and Miriam splashed about a little, but soon they became accustomed to each other and pulled such a steady, even stroke that Mr. Fred was obliged to stop laughing at them, and even acknowledged that they were helping to make the boat go.

All along the shores of the river were numbers of shanty boats, and as they approached the mouth of the Licking they saw more of these. Winnie, especially, was much interested in them, and enjoyed her seat in the bow as giving a good opportunity to catch a glimpse of some of their inmates—little boys with bare feet, girls with bright-colored dresses, many barking dogs, and an occasional cat, all of whom, in her eyes, were invested with a peculiar fascination.

But soon they entered the mouth of the Licking, and, gradually leaving all these sights and sounds behind them, passed into an enchanted country, the domain of Nature herself. Miss Kitty started up softly, "My country, 'tis of thee," and the girls joined in, Miriam's contralto adding richness to the voices as they rose and fell on the still air. Miss Kitty and Miriam had already drawn their oars up into the boat, and Mr. Fred let his trail idly in the water as he listened.

When they had finished the last stanza, Winnie said, "Aunt Kitty, won't you and Uncle Fred sing 'Juanita' for us? The moon is just rising behind those trees, and this is the very time for that duet."

"What a romantic little thing it is!" said Fred, teasingly; but he joined his sister in the pretty duet, which has been sung on the water so many times as almost to be considered a boating song. After this they took to their oars again, and, pulling hard against the stream, advanced silently but rapidly.

Presently Mr. Fred, with a strong pull on his left oar, turned the boat, in spite of Fannie's hold on the rudder, and it shot suddenly in toward the right bank, where was a little beach in a sheltered cove under an immense willow tree. Here Mr. Fred jumped out, and, after making the boat fast to the tree, assisted the other members of the party to disembark.

"Follow me!" he commanded, starting up the bank, which here sloped gradually to the water's edge.

The little company soon reached the top of the bank. The moon, nearly full, had just risen, and by its light, struggling with that of the dying day, they saw a little path leading up the green hillside. Along this they went, single file, wondering where Mr. Fred and Miss Kitty were taking them, when suddenly they were startled by the bark of a dog, and in a second a great mastiff jumped up almost to Mr. Fred's shoulders, and nearly knocked him down by the force of the spring.

Winnie was struck dumb with fear, and the other girls screamed, but Mr. Fred said, in a tone which quite reassured them:

"Down, down, Jasper! Don't let your joy make you forget your manners."

Jasper wagged his tail as if to say, "All right, sir," and trotted along the path, with Mr. Fred's hand on his head.

The path wound about through the trees, and when they reached the top of the hill they saw a large white house, and coming towards them a tall young man, who called out cheerily:

"We've been looking for you for the last half hour. Come right along. Nellie and Rob can hardly contain themselves, they have been so afraid you wouldn't come."

He led the way around the house, and soon had ushered the new-comers into a large, square parlor with long windows opening on a broad veranda.

"Nellie, Rob," he said, "here are the 'Warrior Maidens,' of whom you have heard so much."

The two children, Nellie about fourteen, and Rob a few years younger, bowed bashfully, and then looked appealingly at their elder brother, as they sat down on the two chairs farthest removed from those occupied by their guests. The moon was now above the tree tops, and shone into the room brightly through the long windows.

They passed unto an enchanted country.—See page 75.

"A glorious night for a game of hide-and-seek," said the older brother suggestively, in answer to an unspoken appeal of the younger ones.

"And this would be a grand place for it," said Miss Kitty. "I used to think a game of I-spy on a moonlight night the finest thing in the world. Suppose we try it now?"

"Yes! yes!" they all exclaimed; and, headed by their young hosts, rushed out of doors, and for half an hour made the hills echo with their shouts of merriment.

Such places as there were in which to hide!—a dark corner in the grape arbor, a nook in the vine-covered summer-house, a deep-shadowed projection from the stable or house or veranda: such chances to "make home" around the house, which stood in the center of the yard! Miss Kitty generally came in first, but once, after long searching, she was found in the hollow of a tree into which she had crawled, and from which, being caught in her own trap, she had to be pulled out by the united efforts of her brother and niece.

Then Miss Kitty declared that it was high time they should start for home. But when they went into the house to get their wraps, they found the smiling mother of their hosts waiting for them with a great bowl of strawberries, picked, she said, just before the sun went down, and which they must really try. It was not a difficult task to persuade the guests to do this, and after they had all done full justice to the berries and the accompanying cake and rich, sweet milk, they set forth to embark for home, escorted to the river by the entire family of their new friends.

The row home was enjoyed even more, if that were possible, than the one thither. The moon was now high in the sky, and hill and tree and rock and dimpling wave were beautified by its enchanting glamour.

They all felt either too tired, or too happy, or both perhaps, to talk, and the trip was made almost in silence, although Miss Kitty stopped rowing once, and quoted softly:

"And the cares that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents like the Arab,

And as silently steal away."

CHAPTER XVII.
SAD NEWS.

The next morning Winnie wakened early and lay for some time thinking over the pleasure of the evening before and the events of the past six months. It seemed to her as if a long time had elapsed since the evening on which she began to look upon life as something of a battle-field. She felt older, and yet light-hearted, as the gentle air of late May, stealing in through the open window, lightly stirred the thin curtains and brushed her face "like the breeze from an angel's wing," she thought.

"How happy we all have been!" she said aloud. "And Ernestine—I wish she had been with us last night—is the happiest of all, because she is the best."

Then she dozed off again, and did not awake until she heard little Ralph calling at her door: "Hurry up, 'Innie! B'eakast is 'most weady!"

She sprang out of bed in haste then, and was in the dining-room in time to take her seat with the rest.

"'He maketh the storm a calm, and the waves thereof are still,'" she quoted when it came her turn to give her selection. She had chosen this one for its gentle beauty.

How pleasant it all was! How full of life and joy everything seemed, even to the carnations in the center of the table, with their spicy odor!

She performed her Saturday morning duties cheerfully, and after lunch asked permission to take her books and go to Ernestine's to look over the lessons for Monday, for the end of the year—their last year in the Intermediate—was rapidly approaching, and, their course being almost completed, they would soon begin the heavy review in preparation for the high-school examination.

Permission was readily granted, and Winnifred started off with a light heart. When she reached Ernestine's home, a gentleman came down the steps and passed out of the door just as she was about to enter the hall, so, somewhat surprised, she went up the stairs more slowly than usual and knocked softly. It was opened by a strange lady, who, in answer to Winnifred's inquiry for Ernestine, said: "Ernestine is with her mother, who is so ill that the doctor says she must either have a trained nurse or go to the hospital."

"Oh, I must go right home and tell mamma!" said Winnie, and she went away without another word.

When she reached home, she found her mother in the sitting-room doing the week's mending. On hearing her daughter's sad news she hurriedly changed her dress and set out at once for Mrs. Alroy's.

She was gone an hour—an age, it seemed to Winnifred, unsuccessfully struggling to keep her mind on her lessons. When Mrs. Burton returned, her face was very grave, and she drew Winnie toward her with a warm embrace as she said:

"Mrs. Alroy has decided to have a nurse; she says she has saved a little money for just such an emergency and prefers to be at home where she can have Ernestine with her. She asked me to send for Mr. Allen."

"Fannie's father?" said Winnifred, surprised.

"Yes, and I want you to go there now and leave a note for him." And seating herself at her desk, Mrs. Burton wrote a short note while Winnie was getting on her hat.

Winnie felt very sober—and, it must be confessed, also somewhat important—as she hurried away to deliver the note. She found Mr. Allen at home, and, having sent up the note by the servant who answered the bell, she asked for Fannie, for she longed to talk the matter over with one of her mates. But Fannie, from her room at the head of the stairs, had heard Winnifred's voice, and now came running down to meet her.

"What is it, Win?" she said.

"Oh, Fannie," was the reply, "I'm afraid something awful is going to happen at Ernestine's house! Her mother is very, very sick. I went there this morning just as the doctor was coming away, and he said she must either go to the hospital or have a trained nurse. Mamma went over right away, and now Mrs. Alroy has sent for your father."

"For papa! Isn't that strange? Come up to my room, Winnie, and stay awhile, can't you?"

"I don't know," said Winnie, hesitatingly. "Mamma didn't say for me to hurry—"

"Well, come on then," said Fannie, leading the way up the softly carpeted stairs.

Winnie followed with scarcely a glance around. Although Fannie's father was much wealthier than her own, and his house finer in every way, her heart was too full for much interest in fine ornamentation; and besides, child though she was, she instinctively felt that culture and true refinement are at home anywhere.

But it was the first time she had ever been in Fannie's own room, and this she found interesting in spite of the emotions which had troubled her heart during the day. It certainly was a charming nook, with its pink-curtained bed half hidden behind a large four-fold screen with the Seasons painted in oil upon its panels; the pretty white dressing-table, draped to match the bed, and filled with the dainty accessories of a girl's toilet; a low, well-filled book case and desk combined; the pretty matting and rugs; and the many pictures and other ornaments here and there.

The girls sat down on a little willow seat, large enough for two, and Winnie had to begin all over again and tell what she knew about Mrs. Alroy's illness. In the meantime they heard Mr. Allen descend the stairs and go out of the street door before Fannie had time to call to him.

"I wonder if papa has gone to Mrs. Alroy's now," said she. "Whatever can she want of him? Perhaps she is going to have him make her will."

"But why should she do that?" said Winnie. "She can't have much to leave to anybody; and, if she had, Ernestine would be the only one to get it, wouldn't she? But what would Ernestine do if her mother should die? Who would take care of her? You know she has always said she would teach when she had finished school, and it will be years before she does that. Do you know, if the worst should happen, I'd love to have her stay with us, and I almost believe mamma would be willing."

"I think that would be a good deal for your family to do," was the answer, "but maybe papa would help."

"I don't believe Ernestine would be helped by anyone unless she did something in return. But how long I am staying! I must go right away."

"Oh, stay just a minute longer," said Fannie. "I want to show you my hanging garden;" and she threw up the long window and stepped out to a little balcony, almost filled with flowers in pots and boxes, and baskets full of vines drooping over all.

"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Winnie.

"Yes, isn't it? I care more for this than anything else I have," Fannie replied, breaking off a bunch of heliotrope and pinning it to her friend's dress.

"Oh, thank you!" said Winnie. "But now I must go."

"Yes, I suppose you must," said Fannie, reluctantly. "I'll put on my hat and go a ways with you."

They went down the stairs and out into the street together, talking alternately—as people do under such circumstances—of trivial things and of that which filled their hearts.

When Winnifred reached home, she found her mother seated at the open window of the sitting-room, darning a pair of stockings—a homely enough occupation, but to Winnie's eyes her mother had never looked so dear or so beautiful, and she went and put her arms about her neck. Her mother returned the embrace, holding her close for a moment, and then she said gently:

"Have you your lessons for Monday, dear?"

"Oh, mamma," said Winnie, "it does not seem to me as if I can ever study again!"

"Is there any nearer duty, Winnie?"

"I don't know—I suppose not. But, mamma, I can't put my mind on my lessons, when Ernestine's mother is so sick."

"Can you help Ernestine any by neglecting your own duties, dear? You do not recognize Giant Despair when he comes in the guise of love and sympathy for your friends, but he it is who comes at these times. You know in Whose hands are the issues of life and death, of health and sickness. You cannot help Ernestine's future by worrying over her present; but you may mar a portion of your own by neglecting your present."

Winnie could not help knowing that her mother was right. She took out her books, and was soon so hard at work that her disturbed emotions were quieted, and by supper time, though still full of sympathy for her friend, she was quite herself again, and ready to play the accompaniment to the new piece her brother was learning. And when she went to bed, it was to sleep peacefully, rather than to lie awake fighting unseen terrors, as Mrs. Burton well knew would have been the case with her high-strung child had she been allowed to brood over the events of the day.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.

The next day at breakfast Mrs. Burton announced her intention of going to see Mrs. Alroy instead of attending church, and said that if she were not home to dinner they might know she had thought it necessary to remain.

"Mayn't I go with you, mamma?" asked Winnifred.

"I think it would not be best for either Ernestine or yourself, Winnie, and certainly not for Mrs. Alroy."

Winnie at once saw that her mother was right, and instead of demurring, she went and gathered some beautiful clusters of lilacs for Ernestine, and cut the one white rose in bloom on her window-sill to send to Mrs. Alroy.

Mrs. Burton set off, taking a basket of fruit and the flowers, but she sighed as she turned the corner leading to Mrs. Alroy's, for she felt that the fruit would never refresh the world-weary woman for whom it was intended.

When she reached her destination she glanced apprehensively up to the second-story windows, for, although she said nothing about it to Winnie, she had on the previous day given up all hope of Mrs. Alroy's recovery. But the sorrowful banner which she had dreaded to see was not there, and she breathed more freely as she passed up the stairs.

In answer to her low knock the door was opened by Ernestine, who smiled as Mrs. Burton took her hand, a sad little smile of welcome which went to her visitor's heart.

"Mamma is resting quite easily now, but she passed a painful night. I will tell the nurse you are here. How beautiful the flowers and fruit are!" she said, as Mrs. Burton handed the basket to her.

"Yes, dear; the lilacs are for you—you know their odor is too strong for a sick-room—but Winnie sent this rose from her own little monthly to your mother."

Ernestine's lips quivered, as she took the rose without speaking, and went into the little bedroom, closing the door gently behind her.

Mrs. Burton found a vase, which she filled with water to put the lilacs in, and sat down to await the nurse's coming. She had not long to wait. The nurse, entering, closed the door behind her as softly as Ernestine had done, and motioned Mrs. Burton to follow her into the little kitchen.

"There is not the slightest hope," said she, in answer to Mrs. Burton's anxious inquiry. "The doctor says it may be a matter of hours only, although she may live for some days yet. It is neuralgia of the heart and she has been suffering exceedingly. However, she is resting easier now—which is not a good sign, you know—and wants to see you. She has asked me to send her daughter on some little errand, because she wants to see you alone."

They entered Mrs. Alroy's room together, and Ernestine, at a sign from the nurse, followed her out of the room. Mrs. Alroy took Mrs. Burton's outstretched hand, and for a moment neither spoke. Then the former said quietly:

"Please sit down, Mrs. Burton, for I have much to say to you. And I cannot speak long at a time, so you will have to be patient with me. You are not in a hurry?"

"My dear Mrs. Alroy, I have the day at your disposal. Do not hesitate to command me."

"You know something of my past life—so I found out yesterday. I need not touch upon it further. It is past now and I no longer regret it. But it is of the future I wish to speak. Not my own—that lies beyond our knowing—but of my daughter's—"

The sick woman put her hand over her eyes a moment, and Mrs. Burton walked to the window to fight back the tears which were fast rising to her eyes. Mrs. Alroy was the first to regain control of herself, and as Mrs. Burton resumed her seat, she went on:

"I had a long talk with Mr. Allen yesterday. He knows my family and I have placed my affairs in his hands. I have no doubt that Ernestine will be taken care of, but it is of her immediate future that I wish to speak. I would not have her go among strangers at once, and I am about to ask a great favor of you. The child loves you next to myself; your daughter is her dearest friend—"

"Winnifred feels it an honor to be thought so. Nothing would please both of us, all of us, better than to have Ernestine make her home with us for as long a time as she may desire."

"You give me courage to die. You could almost give me courage to live—but not quite. Yes, that is what I wish to ask of you, but only for the remainder of the school year. Preparing for the high-school examination will occupy my little girl's mind and help her to bear the separation, and after that—in the shadow of death pride vanishes, and I have requested Mr. Allen to write to my brother. They will settle everything else." She sank back on her pillows and closed her eyes wearily.

Mrs. Burton could not immediately command her voice, but laid her hand gently on that of the sick woman. The latter, without opening her eyes, continued:

"I shall not last long; this pain has too constantly been hovering about my heart; it cannot be driven back again; it must soon strike its last blow. But I do not fear it; it will be sharp but quick. Nor do I wish to live. Even my little daughter's wonderful love for me can no longer hold me. Besides, I know that from a material point of view she will only profit by my departure. She does not know that, and I am all she has—and I have not had the courage to tell her. This hard task I must ask you to do for me. I have only a hope—to you that hope is certainty. Your views are different; you can soften the blow as I cannot do. You will stay here awhile?"

"Anything I can do for you is too little."

"I have been loquacious, but I had long restrained myself. What time is it?"

"Half past eleven."

"Ernestine will soon be here, and I will tell her to make a cup of tea for you."

"Oh, no—"

"Yes, it will give her occupation and relieve the strain. There she is now."

Ernestine came in with soft footsteps. "How do you feel now, mamma?" she asked gently.

"Quite easy, dear. I think I shall sleep for a little while. Mrs. Burton will stay to lunch, and you may make a cup of tea for her and yourself. The nurse will stay with me now; you can call her."

The nurse came, and Mrs. Burton and Ernestine left the room together.

After the sad little lunch Mrs. Burton, summoning up all her courage, spoke.

"Ernestine," she said, "your mother has asked me to tell you something which she would gladly spare you knowledge of, but which you must know. She is going on a long journey, from which she can no more return to you. But you will one day go to her."

Ernestine's great eyes dilated wildly. "You mean that my mother is going—"

"My dear, my dear! Your mother walks in the valley of the shadow of death, yet she fears no evil. You—and I and all who love you and her—are enveloped in its gloom, but if she fears not passing to the Unknown, shall we fear for her or for ourselves?"

"I cannot do without my mother, Mrs. Burton! I cannot! I cannot! She is all I have—all I want!" and the girl burst into a tempest of tears.

Mrs. Burton gathered her up in her arms and let her weep undisturbed for some minutes. Then she said gently:

"Your mother wants to go. If she could live longer, she would seldom be free from pain. Besides, it is God's will."

"Oh, my mother! my mother!" And Ernestine dropped upon her knees.

Mrs. Burton went out and left her, knowing that the stricken child's hope was in a Comforter greater than herself.

When Ernestine went in later, pale but quiet, her mother turned toward her with a smile.

"Kiss me, my daughter, my baby!" she said, "and be at peace, as I am."

The windows of the little bedroom faced the west, and toward evening Mrs. Alroy asked the nurse to draw back the curtains. "It has been a stormy day," she said, "but the sun is setting clear. I think I will go to sleep."

And she closed her tired eyes, and "fell on sleep" without being touched by the dreaded pain.

When they knew that it was indeed all over, they led Ernestine away, and she allowed them to put on her hat and went submissively home with Mrs. Burton.

When she returned to her own home again, the little room had been transformed into a bower of flowers, and Mrs. Alroy slept under their fragrant covering, beautiful and serene, with a smile on her lips. Ernestine was met on the threshold by a tall, handsome man, who put his arms about her and said how glad he was to see his little niece. He had come at once in response to Mr. Allen's telegram.

All was quiet and beautiful. A dozen or so friends gathered to listen to the sweet words of farewell to the dead and of benediction to the living; and then Mr. Van Orten took his sister home with him, that she might lie beside her kindred in the little old village on the banks of the Hudson.

CHAPTER XIX.
A BUSY MONTH.

Mr. van Orten left his niece behind him reluctantly, but Mr. Allen had convinced him that his sister had decided wisely, and that nothing could be better for Ernestine during the coming month than the calm and cheerful atmosphere of Mrs. Burton's home. Ernestine's own cot had been brought and placed in Winnie's room, and the two girls were tucked in every night by the same motherly hands. Little Ralph took Ernestine at once into his affections, made her smile at his quaint fancies and cunning little tongue, and his father and brother treated her as if she had always been one of them.

The end of the school year was rapidly approaching, and there was a great deal of work to be done. Ernestine and Winnie were both anxious to do honor to their school and to the teachers who had worked with them hard and patiently, so every minute was occupied in some way, and Ernestine had no time for unhealthy grieving.

On Saturday afternoons Fannie and Miriam and Gretta came to Mrs. Burton's, and they all went over the week's work together. Sometimes Mr. Allen and Fannie came and took Winnifred and Ernestine for a drive through the beautiful suburbs, and one evening they had another row on the river with Uncle Fred and Aunt Kitty.

And so the weeks wore away and brought the bright June day when they all walked together to the high-school to take their examination seats. Their hearts beat high with hope and courage, and swelled with self-importance not altogether to be made light of; for it had been their aim for many months to gain this last fight of their school year on the very field on which they would plant their banners of occupation if they won. And win they felt sure they would, for this was but the supreme test to prove the force and earnestness of what had gone before.

"On, on to victory!" laughed Miriam each morning, waving her hands high above her head. And "On, on to victory!" laughed the four other girls, echoing her cry.

How they worked that week, their young heads bent over their papers, while their young eyes carefully perused those wonderful "printed questions"! The five, so different in manner, but so alike in aim and purpose—Ernestine, calm, deliberate, direct; Fannie, thoughtful but rapid; Gretta, neat, painstaking, and a little anxious; Miriam, dashing ahead impulsively, scratching out a word here or inserting one there, doing twice to thinking once, but thinking that once well; and Winnie, absorbed, thorough and confident—were noted with interest by the stranger teachers watching them, for they had learned to work with a definite aim which showed itself in their very attitudes.

They took the questions home with them, and each day the five might be seen at the home of one or the other, again going over the work, replying one at a time and sometimes all at once to the oft-repeated query, "How did you answer this?" or "Did you prove that?"

Sometimes the group was joined by one or more of their other classmates, and once Josie Thompson, wearing her brightest dress and biggest pin, called to them as she passed: "Isn't this a horrid old examination? I know I won't pass, and I don't care if I don't. My mother says if I fail she'll take me out of school, and I'll be glad of it. I can't see any fun in digging every minute, and what's the use of all this high-school stuff anyhow! I can have a better time without it."

And on the last day she waved her hands to them across the street and shouted: "Good-by, girls! I know it's all up with me!"

"Poor Josie!" said Ernestine, after they had gone home; "trying so hard to have a good time, and missing it after all."

"Yes," said Mrs. Burton, laying her hand gently on the girl's head, "like the dog in the fable, she is losing the substance to grasp at the shadow."

"Tell me about the dog in the table, Ernie," said Ralph, pulling at Ernestine's dress to attract her attention.

"I don't think I know, you little dear!" she said, laughing gently at his mistake. "We must ask your mamma to tell us both."

"Then 'Innie must hear, too!" said the child, running to the door to call his sister.

It was what Miriam called a "delicious" evening, and after tea she and Fannie and Gretta came strolling over to talk about the events of the week and reassure each other that "all was well." Ralph looked upon each of them as his own particular friend and in a sense his charge, and so he now proceeded to enlighten them on the subject of the dog in the fable as follows:

"There was a dog and a table," he said, "but I don't know what the table was for, because he didn't eat on a table, you know, 'cause he was on'y a dog; but he stealed a bone, and he was wunning away wid it over some watah, and saw his shadow looking like anudder dog wid a bone, an' he was so greedy dat he dropped his bone to get de bone of de odder dog in de ribber, and so he lost his own bone and didn't get any odder, and Josie Thompson didn't get any bone eider."

"Oh, Ralph," said Winnie, "you tell everything you know, besides much that you don't!"

How the girls laughed when Winnie explained! And all the more as laughter came easy to them, with hearts light from the consciousness of a well-spent year which had brought its reward.

CHAPTER XX.
A TRIP TO MAMMOTH CAVE.

One evening, shortly after the examination, Fannie said to her father: "Papa, I want to invite the club for a last meeting before Ernestine leaves us. I wish I could have something in the way of a treat different from anything we have had."

"I don't know about that. Your mother is so busy getting ready for the summer, and we are going away so soon, that I hardly see how we can arrange it."

Fannie looked at her father in blank dismay. But he went on unmoved:

"In fact, Fannie, I have been thinking that these meetings, as you call them, are becoming somewhat monotonous." (Fannie's eyes opened wide.) "No, I don't think we can have it at all."

This was too much, and Fannie's speechless indignation found voice: "Papa Allen, I didn't think this of you!" Then, seeing the well-known twinkle in his eyes, she perched herself on his knee and said, "Now, papa, what are you up to?"

"Well, as the immortal Peter Pindar says, as reported by McGuffey, 'I love to please good children,' and as you have all been 'kind and civil,' I have concluded to give you what I call a grand treat. So prepare for a shock."

"Go ahead, papa. I'm not afraid of it at all; what I was afraid of was—none."

"Well, what do you say to my taking all of you, the whole company of warriors, to Mammoth Cave?"

Fannie sprang from his knee and fairly danced around the room for joy. Then she quieted herself and said, "When, papa?"

"Just before the Fourth, I think. Your mother and I will go, and possibly Ernestine's uncle, who will be here by that time; and I thought we might invite 'Miss Kitty,' of whom I have heard so much."

So it came about that on a warm afternoon in July, a party of eight, escorted to the boat by several friends, ascended the narrow staircase of the steamboat, and made themselves comfortable on deck until the "All aboard!" was heard, when the escort hurried down the stairs to the wharf.

When the boat had floated entirely out of sight of the waving handkerchiefs of their friends, the party, taking their hand luggage, went into the cabin to find their staterooms and deposit their belongings. They had four staterooms in all. Fannie and Miriam occupied one communicating with that of Fannie's parents; and Ernestine, Gretta, Winnie and her Aunt Kitty had another similar suite. This duty over, they went on deck to enjoy the sweet, fresh air from the river and the beautiful scenery along its banks.

Just after the short landing which had been made at Lawrenceburg, supper was called, and they were all ready to respond. The colored waiters were delighted to find such a party of young girls, and served them with the utmost alacrity, anticipating every want in a delightful manner.

After supper they sat on deck till long after dark. Mr. Allen and Mr. Van Orten were exchanging reminiscences of their college days; and later, joined by Mrs. Allen, of summers passed at beautiful Lake George and in the White Mountains. To all of this the remainder of the party listened with absorbing interest. However, the air, which had first given them so good an appetite for supper, now made them sleepy, so that by ten o'clock the girls had all climbed into their narrow berths and were soon sound asleep.

They had breakfast on the boat, so were ready to continue their journey by rail without interruption. After a pleasant ride through a picturesque country they reached Cave City, where they were transferred to a tram—an engine and one coach—which took them first up and then down hill over a road cut right through the woods, so that in some places the trees almost interlaced over the top of the coach. It was most delightful to all the party, and would have been only too short had it not been for what was to follow. It formed a fit introduction to the sublime and wonderful results of Nature's long and patient work which they were to see. Therefore, in spite of the novelty and beauty, they were glad to reach the hotel, a long, rambling, wooden building, so unlike anything the girls had ever before seen that the short stay within its quaint rooms, with their bare floors and whitewashed walls, was in itself an experience long to be remembered.

After a night's refreshing sleep they were ready to start out bright and early for the first day's adventures. With many girlish giggles they arrayed themselves in the costumes provided by the Cave management—the short woolen skirts and loose blouses carrying with them a delightfully free and unconventional feeling—and then, at the sound of the gong, set forth with their guide; Mr. and Mrs. Allen in the lead, close behind them Miss Kitty and Miriam, next Fannie and Gretta, then Ernestine with one hand locked in that of her uncle and the other tightly holding Winnie's fingers, while the interesting and friendly dog, "Brigham,"—so called, the guide explained, because he was no longer young—divided his attentions between them, but seemed most inclined to make friends with Miss Kitty, who was accused of having a piece of meat in her pocket as the only way to account for her mysterious fascination for his dogship.

They had a short but beautiful walk through the fern-decorated woods, down a steep path, over a little bridge, till they found themselves on a stone platform directly in front of an enormous opening in the hill, a natural arch overhung with trees, rocks, ferns and wild-flowers—a sight never to be forgotten, so wonderfully beautiful and grand was it—and the party stepped back to admire it.

When they went forward again in order to enter, they saw that what was an arch above was a gaping chasm below, which looked ready to swallow them, and down which there seemed no way to go except to fall headlong. Their guide watched their dismay with amusement, but presently Miriam discovered a narrow flight of steps cut out of the solid rock. Down these they went, shaded by the trees, under the sparkling cascade, beneath the black, overhanging rock, winding their way along to where the last bit of daylight is swallowed up, and then, with various kinds of sensations, watched the guide unlock the iron gate through which they were to pass on their way to the mysterious region of the nether world. As they took their lamps and the gate closed behind them with a clang, Miriam confided to Miss Kitty that she felt little shivers running up and down her back.

As the darkness became more intense, Winnie slipped away from Ernestine to her Aunt Kitty, whose hand she seized with a breath of relief, as if feeling safer there; and Gretta and Fannie clung closely together.

As they advanced, the sense of mystery increased, and for a minute the girls huddled together in a bunch. Brigham, however, sniffed once more—a little contemptuously, according to Miss Kitty—and then ran ahead on side trips of his own, returning to the party from time to time as if to reassure them that everything was all right and they might place implicit confidence in his knowledge of the Cave and his friendship for them.

Their first stop was made in the Rotunda in order to examine the saltpeter vats, in which Ernestine, in keeping with her liking for history, was much interested when she heard that the saltpeter made here was taken to Philadelphia to be used in the manufacture of gunpowder during the war of 1812.

Presently they entered Methodist Hall—so named, as they were assured by their guide, "because it's a heap too dry for the Baptis'." In this place was the natural pulpit from which—so tradition says—Booth once delivered Hamlet's soliloquy.

Next they came to Gothic Avenue, where their way lay along piles of stone erected by admirers of famous men, States, and so on. There was one little pile which seemed to have been neglected, and Miss Kitty asked whose it was. On being told that it was the Old Maid's Monument, she exclaimed: "I shall find nothing nearer my heart!" and, picking up a stone, carefully balanced it on the top of the pile. But in spite of her care, it rolled off. "That's a shore sign, Miss, that you ain't gwine to be a ole maid."

"Can it be!" she said, as the elders of the company laughingly congratulated her. "Once more I feel a breath of hope."

By and by they reached Register Hall, which has been aptly described as a huge autograph album, for on its ceiling, smoked by burning candles, can be found names and addresses from all parts of the world, while address cards are placed in numberless nooks and crevices. Here Gretta sat in the arm-chair in which, so it is said, Jenny Lind once sat and sang.

The next thing which pleased all of them, and particularly Fannie, was the water clock—a tick-tock sound made by the dropping of a little stream of water into a pool below—and they all laughed at William when he said, "But it ain't a eight-day clock, because it runs down every twenty-four hours."

When they saw the Giant's Coffin they looked upon it with awe—for it was a gruesome sight enough—until Mr. Allen said in a loud aside to Mr. Van Orten:

"This is the coffin in which the Warrior Maidens deposit the bodies of their victims."

Mrs. Allen smiled faintly, but Miss Kitty—more at Mr. Van Orten's puzzled expression than at the speech itself—laughed outright. Winnie and Ernestine had not heard, and Gretta hardly knew whether to laugh or be offended, until Fannie and Miriam, catching the joke, re-echoed Miss Kitty's laugh.

From a crevice behind the Giant's Coffin they went slipping and sliding down an incline, and then up and down, till they came to a small, round opening in what seemed to be a solid wall. "Stay here," said the guide; and he disappeared through the hole with his lights. Then he called to them, and, peering through the aperture, they found it to be a natural window opening into a great, beautiful chamber—Gorin's Dome, considered by many, said the guide, to be the finest room in the Cave, with its immense extent, measuring two hundred feet from floor to ceiling, and covering an entire acre of space.

From here they went to the pits, and, standing on the Bridge of Sighs, a lowered ball of flame showed them that they were directly suspended over the deepest, known as the Bottomless Pit. Winnie and Gretta caught their breath quickly, and Ernestine's hand tightened on her uncle's arm; indeed, the whole party was glad to get away from that dangerous spot.

The next place visited, however, made up to them for any amount of hard travel or moment of terror. Having retraced their steps till they came to the original passage, they went on for some distance until told by their guide to rest for a moment on a convenient stone seat, and wait there until he called to them. He then took away all of their lamps and disappeared. For a moment they felt the darkness something frightful, but before it had lasted long enough to be painful, they saw a vision overhead of numberless stars shining down upon them from a cloudless dome.

That which for one moment in the darkness had almost provoked a cry of terror from more than one of the party, became a cry of delight; and then Mrs. Allen wondered aloud how they could see the stars so far below the surface of the earth. But even as she spoke, the scene changed. They no longer saw a clear sky, but the stars disappeared behind heavy clouds, and then they were again in that indescribably awful darkness. But gradually a soft light was seen, and they heard the bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle as they wake in the early dawn. "Beautiful! Beautiful!" they said, and were almost sorry when they found out that these sounds were produced by their guide, who turned out to be something of a ventriloquist, and that the stars and rosy dawn are but optical illusions called forth by skillful manipulation of the light thrown on the crystals which sparkle in the dome with its coating of black oxide of manganese.

From here they wended their way back, followed by Brigham, who had waited for them on the road to the Star Chamber, feeling that they had experienced and seen enough for one day.

They rested all that day and the next, doing nothing that required more exertion than short walks through the woods or promenades along the wide galleries which surrounded both stories of the hotel. Here they swung hammocks, and rested in the open air between their little walks.

But on the third day all the members of the party again set out for the Cave, starting in the morning, for they were warned that going and returning it would be a sixteen-mile walk. Presently they found that the road they had taken on the previous day diverged, and soon they were going through the Valley of Humility leading into Fat Man's Misery, a place but eighteen inches wide, five feet high, and changing direction eight times. Through the one hundred and five yards of this place they twisted and crawled, until they reached Great Relief. Here they stopped to congratulate Mrs. Allen, the stoutest of the party, and Mr. Van Orten, the tallest, on having successfully passed this ordeal.

On again, now ascending a flight of stairs to a higher gallery, now descending to one below, always surprised at finding the immense columns piercing through from the highest galleries down to the very lowest of the five levels of the Cave. They passed through Bacon Chamber—which Winnie did not think at all "romantic"—and through various winding passages, to River Hall, where all the waters of the Cave collect, and where they gazed with awe on the deep lakes. Then they came to the Dead Sea, surrounded on all sides by massive cliffs, from which they descended by means of a stairway to the banks of the River Styx, which the party crossed by a natural bridge to Lake Lethe; then along the Great Walk, with its fine, yellow sand, to Echo River. Here they found a boat waiting for them, and, embarking, were paddled along over the clear water—thirty feet deep—singing, whistling, and shouting to waken the echoes from the rocky walls on either side, until it seemed—so Miss Kitty said—as if "Echo had been transferred from her former mountain home, with all her nymphs."

But no, it was not the Mountain Echo, but her unknown sister who dwelt in these underground regions, as their guide proved to them by striking the long vault with his cane; for it had its own keynote, which excited harmonies of wonderful depth and sweetness, each sound being prolonged many seconds.

Here, too, they saw the eyeless fish, and Gretta even went the length of pitying them, until Miss Kitty told her that, as they were not "fish with little lanterns on their tails,"—which she had once heard given as an explanation of some phosphorescent phenomenon on an ocean trip—and so could not see in those dark waters even if they had eyes, she need not waste her pity.

Soon they reached Washington Hall, and perceived a waiter, who had been following them at a distance, emerge from the gloom, bringing with him a great basket of lunch. This was a pleasant surprise, and they partook heartily of the generous repast, unmoved for the time by their gnome-like surroundings in the semi-darkness of this great chamber, so dimly lighted by the various lanterns and torches.

Beyond this place they found the crystalline gardens, where the crystals take the form of flowers and vines, and even grapes—as in Mary's Vineyard—and later they came upon a snowstorm in a chamber so thickly covered with snowy crystals that they were made to fall like flakes by a loud concussion of the air.

And so they proceeded on their journey and came to the Corkscrew. After a brief consultation, they decided to take this short cut out of the Cave, instead of going over what is now somewhat familiar ground. So up they climbed, partly by means of the three ladders, now through cracks, again over huge boulders scattered here and there in wild confusion, now twisting up through round holes—five hundred feet of climbing, although they were assured by their guide that the vertical distance was only one hundred and fifty feet.

At last they emerged on the edge of a cliff just over the main cave, and, as they stopped to take breath, wondered for a moment if they were in another Star Chamber, for the stars were shining bright above them! But no; this time it was no illusion, for though they had left the bright sunlight behind them when they made the descent into the lantern-lighted darkness, they had been all day in the cave, and were indeed glad that they had saved the mile and a half walk by their ascent through the Corkscrew.

Altogether it was a trip long to be remembered; the more so that, at its close, when they were all back in "dear, old, smoky Cincinnati," as Miss Kitty fondly called it, came the first parting of the ways for the Warrior Maidens. Not the ordinary summer parting, but one which entirely changed the parallel grooves in which their lives had been running, at least for one of them, for Ernestine was to go home with her uncle to New York. The whole Burton family had become so attached to her that they would gladly have kept her with them as a much-loved member of their circle, necessary not only to their happiness but to their comfort, and Ralph expressed his opinion that Ernie's uncle was a bad, bad man.

But, while in compliance with his sister's wish, expressed to Mr. Allen on that day on which Mrs. Alroy had sent for him, he had waited for the end of the school year before coming for his niece, he was now only too impatient to take to her kindred the lovely child—the last living link between their family and the sister whom he and his brothers had so loved and so mourned.

And so, one bright morning in July, the little company, each wearing her badge of warriorhood, went to the station to see their dear friend start on her journey. There were tearful faces on the outside of the car, and a pale but earnest and loving face hidden behind a handkerchief on the inside, as the train slowly moved out of the station.

CHAPTER XXI.
AN EXCHANGE OF LETTERS.

Ernestine to Winnifred.

New York, Sept. 12.

Dearest Winnifred:

It seems a long time since I left you standing in the station, the afternoon I said good-by to the city which had been my home. I can never forget you nor the dear schoolmates who made my life there so pleasant, nor the friends who took me to their hearts in my great sorrow.

I was happy and contented in my little home, so happy with my precious mother's care and companionship, that nothing can ever come into my life to bring greater happiness, or greater desire to do and be good, and our little society helped me.

And yet, dear Winnie, I would not have my mother back to suffer. How much she must have suffered in her isolation from her people, I never knew until I came among them. Never could orphan have found more lovely relatives. I inclose in this my letter to the club, to be read at your next meeting. With my heart full of gratitude to your mother and all the rest, I am,

Your loving friend,

Ernestine.

Ernestine to the Warrior Maidens.

Dear Girls:

When you read this you will all be together at Miriam's and I know you will wish, as I do, that I could be with you. I am here at my grandmother's home, and a beautiful place it is, with its large rooms and fine, old-fashioned furniture. It is in a very quiet neighborhood, which will seem strange to you when I say that it is but a few minutes' walk from Broadway, with its crowds of people, who always seem in a hurry.

When Uncle Morris and I first reached New York, we went straight to his home. His wife received me very kindly, and my cousins (one a young lady, another a girl about my own age, and two boys younger,) were kind, too, and they all wanted me to stay with them. But my grandparents said they must have me, and I was glad to come, for I felt strange with so many new cousins, and was afraid I would find it hard to fall into their ways.

I have such a beautiful room, all my own. It has east windows which open over a little court, where the first thing I see when I throw back my shutters in the morning, is a fountain sparkling in the sun, with rainbows in its spray, and birds flying about and bathing in the pool.

At first there was some talk of sending me to a school to prepare for Vassar, but my grandmother said she had just found me and could not give me up, and my grandfather—with tears in his eyes, which nearly broke my heart, for I knew what he was thinking of—said the same thing; so I am to have teachers right here at home, and have already commenced music and French.

I am sure I shall be very happy; but, for all that, I imagine you all seated at your desks at school, or chatting with each other over your lunch, and that makes me feel very lonely. But I mean to make the best of my opportunities, and shall keep in mind our watchword, "Now," which means much more to me than when we first chose it.

I hope we will all meet again sometime, and that you will always think of me with love, as

Your loving

Ernestine.

Gretta to Ernestine.

Dear Friend:

We all miss you very much, and it seems hard to wait for the "sometime" to come when we shall see you again.

You remember the idea of "fighting giants" seemed silly to me at first, but I can see now that it did me a great deal of good, especially about my school work. I never stood so well in any other examination as in the last one for the high-school; and I never blamed myself, but always my "music." Now I see, though, that two things may be well done as well as one, if only we go about it in the right way.

Good-by,

Gretta.

Miriam to Ernestine.

Dearest Ernestine:

How we did miss you the first day of school, particularly when your name was read as having the highest per cent. in the whole city! And after the classes were formed, every teacher inquired for you, and all looked disappointed when they found that you had moved away.

Our little Winnifred was only five behind you, and not one of us stood less than ninety. We went back to see Miss Brownlow one day last week, and she said she was proud of us. She asked for you and sent her love.

We are struggling with x, y, z, and in Latin have reached "uterque, utraque, utrumque," which sounds about as sensible as onery, twoery, etc. I feel sorry for those people who must have found it no laughing matter to put a different ending to every word for every case, gender and number, and I must say that for myself I like plain English.

I saw Josie Thompson the other day, and I laughed to myself when I thought of her trying to fight her way through such things as these. She said she was "enjoying herself gorgeously!"

We mean to keep up with the record of last year if we can, especially the record of good times.

With lots of love,

Miriam.

Fannie to Ernestine.

My Dear, Dear Ernestine:

How strange it seems that your uncle and my father are friends, and have almost always been friends, and that just as you and I began to know each other you should have to go so far away! But papa says he means to take me with him to New York during the holidays, and then I will see you again.

It seems strange to think that we really go to the high-school, and it makes me feel quite grown-up and as if I ought to be dignified; but Winnie is the same demure little puss and looks very small and childish among so many big girls, some of whom actually wear long dresses.

Miriam is as lively as ever, and keeps us all laughing at lunch time. You know it isn't what she says so much as the way she says it that is so very funny.

But it is time for me to get my algebra lesson, so I will close now.

Au revoir,

Fannie.

Winnie to Ernestine.

Dear Ernestine:

We had the first meeting for this year at Miriam's last Friday evening, and the first thing we did was to go up to Miriam's room and read your letter. I read it out loud first, but that wasn't enough, and it passed from hand to hand, each one reading it for herself.

We had such a nice little meeting, and while we didn't talk quite so much as we did a year ago about fighting giants, I think we all felt that those we had been able to fight had made it easier for us to see and do our duties as they came to us.

After we had read your letter and our business meeting was over, we went down into Miriam's yard and had a regular frolic. It was a bright moonlight night, and we had games and told stories and old riddles and tried to make up new ones—but didn't succeed very well—and by and by Miriam's brother came out with an enormous watermelon on a great, big tray. It was a warm night—you know how warm it is sometimes here in September—and I don't know which we enjoyed most, eating the cool, refreshing fruit or snapping the seeds at each other.

We all miss you very much. Ralph still asks when you are coming back, and no one's paper dolls please him so much as yours did. Sometimes I feel very lonely without you, but Aunt Kitty says she is sure you will come to visit us some time, and that we are only twenty-four hours apart, which does not seem so very far, does it? So I shall look forward

Till we meet,

Winnie.

THE END.

Transcriber's Note

The following modifications have been made:

page
original text
modified text

Page 6:
She began with her greatest bugbear. United States History;
She began with her greatest bugbear, United States History;

Page 35:
their uplifted swords, their resolute mein,
their uplifted swords, their resolute mien,

Page 44:
"you may talk, too, if you like"
"you may talk, too, if you like."

Page 46:
She also helped put these in. and with a few kind words
She also helped put these in, and with a few kind words

Page 77:
"A glorious night for a game of hide-and seek,"
"A glorious night for a game of hide-and-seek,"

Page 85:
Little Ralph took Ernestine at once into his afleetions,
Little Ralph took Ernestine at once into his affections,