"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.
"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
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.
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.
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."